Was it not his own great-grandfather who had fought at the siege of Missolonghi?[1] Was it not he who had suggested the famous message to the Turks: "If you want our town, come and take it!" though it was the sender who got the credit for it? Was not he one of the leaders of the last heroic sortie, on the never-to-be-forgotten tenth of April? And did not Botzari say of him, "Without my right hand, I can do something, without Zamana, nothing"? All this was most gratifying when Pavlo was at school; especially when new boys arrived, for the old ones had heard the story pretty often. And of course it was always a proud moment when the history master came to the siege of Missolonghi, and rolled out the names of Botzari,[2] Palama, Tricoupi, Pappalouka, Razikotsika, Kapsali, Zamana, to be able to whisper very audibly, "That was my great-grandfather!" But it was less interesting at home, when he could never cry in peace over a barked knee, or howl if there were a splinter to be dug out which had gone in deeply, or feel very sad when a visit to the dentist was projected, without being always told:-- "Shame! Shame! And you a Zamana!" And the fact remained, whether it was that the blood had weakened by the time it had come down to Pavlo, or whether some of his other grandfathers or grandmothers had been built in a less heroic mould, that when he had to go up into a dark attic to look for a book for his uncle, or to face an aggressive band of schoolboys waiting with stones in their hands round a street corner, he did not feel at all as a Zamana should; oh, but not at all! There had been a great many Zamanas, but they had all died, some at home and some abroad, and only two were left now; a middle-aged doctor, and a little boy. The doctor was Pavlo's uncle, and he lived in a gloomy house in Solon Street, in Athens, and when he was at home he was always very busy writing, and had to be called again and again when dinner or supper was ready. "I have come; I have come!" he would answer impatiently, but he never came till the pilaf[3] was all sodden, or the "keftedes"[4] had stuck to the dish in little rounds of cold fat. The little boy was Pavlo, and he lived with his uncle.