ou've seen."

"Oh, I give it up. It's not the time of day for riddles."

"The lady who dined at the next table to us at the Optimum," said I.

Denny jumped back in amazement, with a long, low whistle.

"What, the one who was with Constantine?" he cried.

"Yes," said I. "The one who was with Constantine."

They were all three round me now; and, thinking that it would be better
that they should know what I knew, and four lives instead of one stand
between a ruffian and the impunity he hoped for, I raised my voice and
went on in an emphatic tone:

"Yes. She's there, and she's his wife."

A moment's astonished silence greeted my announcement. It was broken by
none of our party. But there came from the battlemented roof above us a
low, long, mournful moan that made its way straight to my heart, armed
with its dart of outraged pride and trust betrayed. It was not thus,
boldly and abruptly, that I should have told my news. But I did not know
that Euphrosyne was still above us, hidden by the battlements; nor had I
known that she understood English. We all looked up. The moan was not
repeated. Presently we heard slow steps retreating with a faltering
tread across the roof; and we also went into the house in silence and
sorrow. For a thing like that gets hold of a man; and when he has heard
it, it's hard for him to sit down and be merry till the fellow that
caused it has paid his reckoning--as I swore then and there that
Constantine Stefanopoulos should pay his.

CHAPTER VI.

THE POEM OF ONE-EYED ALEXANDER.

There is a matter on my conscience which I can't excuse, but may as well
confess. To deceive a maiden is a very sore thing--so sore that it had
made us all hot against Constantine; but it may be doubted by a cool
mind whether it is worse, nay, whether it is as bad, as to contrive the
murder of a lawful wife. Poets have paid more attention to the
first--maybe they know more about it; the law finds greater employment
on the whole in respect to the latter. For me, I admit that it was not
till I found myself stretched on a mattress in the kitchen, with the
idea of getting a few hours' sleep, that it struck me that Constantine's
wife deserved a share of my concern and care. Her grievance against him
was at least as great as Euphrosyne's; her peril was far greater. For
Euphrosyne was his object, Francesca (for that appeared from Vlacho's
mode of address to be her name) was an obstacle that prevented his
attaini