“No, no, Mr. Roylands, we are not pagans, in spite of the presence of the gods,” he said, with a smile. “All my people belong to the Orthodox Church, and we have a priest, a sacred building, and everything necessary for such religion.” “Are you also of the Greek Church?” “No, I am no renegade,” replied Justinian haughtily; “but, at the same time, I am not what you would call a Christian.” “But I trust your religious principles are not those of Caliphronas?” “No; I believe in working for the good of others, as you can see. Morally speaking, I am what you call an agnostic, though truly I believe in a supreme power. I erect my altar to τὸν ἄγναστον Θεόν, Mr. Roylands, and strive to propitiate him by helping my fellow-creatures.” The conversation now becoming rather delicate in its trenching on religious beliefs, Maurice turned it dexterously by remarking on the number of mulberry trees. “Those are for the silkworms,” explained Justinian, striking the trunk of one of these trees with his staff; “we export a great number of cocoons, and do a large trade with the mainland. We also weave silks for ourselves; the factory is to the right.” There were a great number of people in the streets, all in a similar dress to their own—that is, the men, for the women were mostly arrayed in the graceful Greek dress of the Cretans, which consisted of full white trousers reaching to the ankle, brightly colored tunics, embroidered jackets, gaudy handkerchiefs twisted round the head, and long white veils, though the latter were but assumed for festive occasions. Both men and women were very fine-looking, with oval faces, olive skins, somewhat pointed chins, and aquiline noses, and their gait was remarkably graceful, with the stately bearing of a free race. The adults all saluted Justinian respectfully, and he acknowledged their greetings with haughty condescension, although he unbent somewhat towards the children, who crowded round him with cries of “Kalli imera Kyrion!” “You are as populous as a hive of bees,” said Maurice, as they walked down to the lake; “soon the island will be too small.” “Not for many years I hope and trust,” answered Justinian, casting a look round at the now sunny sides of the mountain, which encircled them like a cup. “There is plenty of room yet; for my colony, in spite of its forty years, is only yet in its infancy. Lots of room yonder for dwellings; the soil is fertile, and affords plenty of food, and as to necessaries from the outside world, we export olives, cocoons, silks, wine, and dittany, receiving in return what we require from more advanced civilization.” “Dittany! what is that?” “I am afraid you don’t know your Virgil, Mr. Roylands. Dittany is an herb of rare medicinal power, which is found in Crete, and also in Melnos. It is excellent for illness of all kinds, especially fevers, and is as valued now as it was in the days of Pliny. Plenty of it up in the mountain yonder, as the goats are very fond of it.”