CHAPTER XXVII

A PROMISE OF HELP

"I wonder if that Greek will come to her senses and supplant me?" mused Ferende. "If she keeps on at her present rate Kostakes will soon get over his infatuation. Lord! But she's growing ugly, with that sallow complexion and those big black marks under her eyes. She never saw the day she was half as beautiful as I am."

Going to Panayota's room, she took down the key that was hanging outside the door and went in. Locking the door on the inside she stood for a moment looking at the girl, who sat on the side of the bed, her face buried in her hands. Panayota glanced up when Ferende first entered and then took no further notice of her visitor. She knew that this was the favorite, although Ferende, consulting her dignity, had had little to say to her.

"Panayota," very sweetly, "I am your friend. I, too, am a Greek, and was brought up in the Greek religion, but the Turks killed my father and mother and took me away when I was very young. I cannot help being what I am, but if I were in your place, I would let them kill me before they should turn me into a Turk. And you a priest's daughter, too!"

A sudden wild hope thrilled Panayota's bosom. She sprang to her feet and ran toward Ferende with arms outstretched.

"The Holy Virgin bless you! So you have come to set me free?"

Now Ferende could not do this, however much she would have liked. Could Ayesha and Souleima once fix upon her the blame of having disobeyed a command of their common husband, no subsequent wiles could save her from complete degradation.

"O, I dare not set you free now," she faltered, somewhat embarrassed by the suddenness of the demand, "but--"

"Then save me, Holy Virgin!" cried Panayota, the bright gleam of hope dying within her, leaving her soul darker than before. "There is no other help for me. Aren't you ashamed, coming here to mock me? What else do I want except to get out of this place. You say you are a Greek, and I believe you are. But what could I expect from you? You are worse than a Turk, for their women believe at least that they are honestly married. But you--you are a common thing."

Ferende winced under this torrent of abuse, but there was a certain point which she wished to make sure.

"You talk very bravely now, my lady," she replied. "Many Greek girls have talked like that before. It's easy for a girl to remain Christian as long as she can save her honor, but after that is gone the Christians are more cruel than the Turks. Then the only way to remain respectable is to turn Turk."

"I swear to you by the soul of my father, whom Kostakes murdered, that I will die before I will yield!" cried Panayota.

Ferende with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of joy. Simulating sorrow, she laid her hand on Panayota's shoulder and murmured:

"Did Kostakes kill your father? Forgive me, Panayota, for speaking so harshly, but you were very hard on me. Now we can sympathize with each other, indeed. Both my parents were murdered by the Turks. I must go now, but remember I am your friend. Hold out against Kostakes and I will find some way to help you."

She turned to leave the room, but Panayota caught her by the sleeve.

"Help me to escape from here," she sobbed. "I beg of you in the name of your Christian mother, and I will pray the Virgin every night to bless you."

Ferende locked the door behind her and hung up the key.

"Kostakes will have a sorry time with her," she soliloquized, and she went down stairs humming a popular Greek song.

Finding Ayesha and Souleima still in the court, exchanging gallant confidences, she strolled up to them with the insolent air of a queen.

"Get up, you women," she said, "and prepare dinner."

Poor Ayesha and Souleima looked inquiringly into each other's eyes. Thus was Ferende wont to act after some special mark of Kostakes' favor had inflated her confidence. They arose slowly. The favorite jerked away the rug and spread it in the shade of the mulberry tree. Sitting upon it, she removed her gold embroidered slippers and crossed her stockinged feet beneath her. As the two older wives glanced at her, their hearts sank within them. She certainly did not have the appearance of a deposed queen. Her eyes, recently treated with belladonna, had a melting, lustrous look. The little dash of henna under the lower fringe of lashes added a touch of abandon. Her trousers of magenta silk, and her sleeveless purple jacket embroidered with gold thread, were immaculate, save for a loose hair or two, or a speck of dust, which she removed with dainty finger tips. Twisted carelessly about her waist, with the knotted ends hanging loosely at one side, was a broad sash with yellow and magenta stripes. Passing her hand beneath this, she extracted a silver cigarette case. Putting a brown cigarette no larger in diameter than a slate pencil, into her mouth, she called out lazily between her closed teeth:

"Ayesha, bring a match and light my cigarette," and Ayesha, with a muttered Moslem imprecation, obeyed.