From Kalyvia their road topped the watershed of the mountain, and thereafter descended in leaps and strides, almost due west, down to the plain which skirts the bay of Kalamata. They got to Platsa, where they were to sleep that night, an hour before dark, and for the sake of appearances drove their mules to the market-place, and made a display of selling their cargo of oranges. The khan where they put up consisted of two rooms, one occupied by the owner and his family, the other being the café of the village. They sat up smoking and talking till it emptied, and then made themselves beds of their blankets and saddle-bags. The village was inclined to inquisitiveness, but Mitsos told them that they had come from Sparta with oranges and were going home to Tsimova--a possible, and even a plausible, explanation of their presence; and with that the village must be content. They descended next day onto the coast and into the warm fresh air of the Greek lowlands in winter, and Mitsos called the hierarchy of Heaven to witness that only the shrewdest pinch of cold would drive him again into foul khans while there were trees to sleep under and good grass beds for the limbs. If rooms untenanted by the grosser vermin were supposed to be beyond the reach of orange-sellers, he would have no room at all, but only God's out-door inn. Mid-day brought them to Prastion, and to the delivery of the second message. They had no trouble in finding the recipient, for he was the mayor of the village, and was known to be in his vineyard hoeing vines. Yanni waited with the mules in the street, while Mitsos went to seek him. He looked up as the lad came striding towards him across the hollowed vine-beds. "You are Zaravenos?" asked he. Zaravenos assented slowly and suspiciously, as if he would sooner have been some one else. "Are you grinding corn?" The man put down his mattock and looked round suddenly to see that there was no one within hearing. "Yes, yes," he said, quickly. "But of what corn do you speak--corn for the hungry, or corn for the Turk?" "Black corn for the Turk." "Praise the Virgin. But is the time come? Tell me who sent you; was it Nicholas, whom I know well?" Mitsos thought of Petrobey's injunctions. "Nicholas? Who is Nicholas?" he said. "But this I have to tell you: if you have not begun, begin, and grind quickly. That is all." The man looked at him again. "Surely you are Mitsos," he said. "Nicholas told me about a mountain of a Mitsos, whom perhaps he would send to us. Why do you not tell me? I have no better friend than Nicholas. He was here a month ago. Where is he now? Is he safe?" But Mitsos shook his head. "I do not know whom you mean," he said, though his heartstrings thrummed within him.