"I know not," said Suleima. "I was taken by the Turks ten years ago, or it may be twelve. Take me away, father, out of this horrible town." The two were standing close together in the deserted street. From above came the wails of women, for the Greeks had forced their way through the door in the main street into Abdul Achmet's house, and from the square roared the mob. Andréa looked at her in silence for a moment, his brows knitted into a frown, his brain one mill-race of thought, suggesting a possibility beyond the bounds of possibility. At length he spoke to her again, wondering at himself. "I will save you, my daughter," he said; and as the words passed his lips his heart throbbed almost to bursting. "Quick! come with me! Ah, wait a moment!" And he thrust her back gently into the doorway out of which she had come, while a mob of his countrymen poured by the opening into the main street. When they had passed he turned to her again. "Come with me now," he said, making her take his arm, "and come as quickly as you can. Pray to God without ceasing that we get out safe. I am too bloody to pray." Once more before they reached the main street they had to hide in the doorway where Father Andréa had sat, and, waiting there, he suddenly turned and took her hands, and with his soul in his eyes looked at her in dumb, agonized appeal. Suleima met his gaze directly and returned the pressure of his hands. [Illustration: "WOULD YOU SLAY ME, FATHER' SHE CRIED AGAIN"] "You will save me, father?" she said again. "I will save you," he replied; "in the name of God, I will save you! Come again on; the mob has gone by." They hurried on towards the western gate, he half carrying her, in time to get out before another band of men streamed down from the mountains round. Father Andréa took her to his hut and bade her wait there for him while he went and got a pony, for she was in no state to walk. All thought was drowned in one possibility, and without speaking to her again he placed her very gently on the beast, and, taking the rope-rein in his hand, led it along onto the road to Argos and Nauplia. The camp was absolutely empty, and there were none to stop or question this strange pair, and they plodded across the plain and stopped not, neither spoke, till Tripoli had sunk behind the first range of the low hills which lay spread round Mount Parthenius. There he led the pony off the path and left her in a shady hollow, while he went on to the village of Doliana, half a mile away, to get food and drink for her. Her time, he knew, must be very near at hand, and his one thought was to get her safe to Nauplia. Only once on that ride had Suleima spoken, and that when they struck the road. "We are going to Nauplia?" she asked, with a sudden upspringing of hope in her heart. "To Nauplia, my daughter," said Andréa. "Speak no more till we talk together." "But father, father," she cried, "tell me one thing. Where is Mitsos? Oh, take me to Mitsos."