The sight wrought transformation. In a moment, as it seemed to me, the throng round me melted away. The street grew desolate, the houses on either side swallowed their eager occupants; Kortes alone, with his prisoner, knew nothing of the fresh event, only Phroso and Francesca stood their ground. Demetri was slinking hastily away. The old priest was making for his home. The shutters of dead Vlacho’s inn came down, and girls bustled to and fro, preparing food. I stood unwatched, unheeded, apparently forgotten; festival, tumult, trial, condemnation seemed passed like visions; the flag that flew from the gunboat brought back modern days, the prose of life, and ended the wild poetic drama that we had played and a second One-eyed Alexander might worthily have sung. How had the Governor come before his time, and why? ‘Denny!’ I cried aloud in inspiration and hope, and I ran as though the foul fiends whom Demetri had heard were behind me. Down the steep street and on to the jetty I ran. As I arrived there the gunboat also reached it, and, a moment later, Denny was shaking my hand till it felt like falling off, while from the deck of the boat Hogvardt and Watkins were waving wild congratulations. Denny had jumped straight from deck to jetty; but now a gangway was thrust out, and I passed with him on to the deck, and presented myself, with a low bow, to a gentleman who stood there. He was a tall full-bodied man, apparently somewhat under fifty years old; his face was heavy and broad, in complexion dark and sallow; he wore a short black beard; his lips were full, his eyes acute and small. I did not like the look of him much; but he meant law and order and civilisation and an end to the wild ways of Neopalia. For this, as Denny whispered to me, was no less a man than the Governor himself, Mouraki Pasha. I bowed again yet lower; for I stood before a man of whom report had much to tell--something good, much bad, all interesting. He spoke to me in low, slow, suave tones, employing the Greek language, which he spoke fluently, although as a foreigner. For Mouraki was by birth an Armenian. ‘You must have much to tell me, Lord Wheatley,’ he said with a smile. ‘But first I must assure you with what pleasure I find you alive and unhurt. Be confident that you shall not want redress for the wrongs which these turbulent rascals have inflicted on you. I know these men of Neopalia: they are hard men; but they also know me, and that I, in my turn, can be a hard man if need be.’ His looks did not belie his words, as his sharp eye travelled with an ominous glance over the little town by the harbour. ‘But you will wish to speak with your friends first,’ he went on courteously. ‘May I ask your attention in half-an-hour’s time from now?’ I bowed obedience. The great man turned away, and Denny caught me by the arm, crying, ‘Now, old man, tell us all about it.’ ‘Wait a bit,’ said I rather indignantly. ‘Just you tell me all about it.’