"Has it come," he said, "even as Nicholas told us it might?" and he went to meet Maria. "God bless your journey, my daughter!" he said, "and what need you of us?" Maria glanced round a little nervously. "I want to speak to Father Priketes, my father," she said. "You speak to him." "Have you corn, father?" she said. A curious hush had fallen on the others, and Maria's words were audible to them all. At her question they rose to their feet and came a little nearer, and a buzzing whisper rose and died away again. "Corn for the needy or corn for the Turk?" asked Priketes, while round there was a silence that could have been cut with a knife. "Black corn for the Turk. Let there be no famine, and have fifteen hundred men ready to carry it when the signal comes, and that will be soon. Not far will they have to go. It will be needed here, at Kalavryta." Maria slipped down from her mule and spoke low to Priketes. "And oh, father, there is something more, but I cannot remember the words I was to use; but I know what it means, for Mitsos, the nephew of Nicholas, told me." Father Priketes smiled. "Say it then, my daughter." "It is this: if you have guns stored in readiness southward, get them back. It will not happen just as Nicholas expected. You will want all your men and arms here." "It is well. What will the signal be?" "I know not; but in a few days Mitsos will come from Patras. Oh, you will know him when you see him--as tall as a pillar, and a face like a spring morning or a wind on the hill--and to see him does a body good. He knows and will tell you." "I will expect Mitsos, then," said Priketes. "You will stay here to-night; there shall be made ready for you the great guest-room--for you are an honored guest--the room where the daughter of an emperor once lodged." Maria hesitated. "I could get back to some village to-night," she said. "I ought not to delay longer than I need." "And shame our hospitality?" said Priketes. "Besides, you are a conspirator now, my daughter, and you must use the circumspection of one. What manner of return would you make at dead of night to where you slept before, with no cause to give? To-morrow you shall go back, and say how pleased your novice brother was to see you--and the lie be laid to the account of the Turk, who fill our mouths perforce with these things--and how you had honor of the monks. Give your mule to the lad, my daughter. It shall be well cared for."