“Ahead!” he said, “Ahead!  Look, a village!”

(Why the devil didn’t they bury the man?  Why?

And that fool Giorgio and the others were pulling up and beginning to chatter.  After all she might look back.)

Through the trees now they could see houses.  He quickened his pace and jerked Amanda’s horse forward. . . .

But the village was a still one.  Not a dog barked.

Here was an incredible village without even a dog!

And then, then they saw some more people lying about.  A woman lay in a doorway.  Near her was something muddy that might have been a child, beyond were six men all spread out very neatly in a row with their faces to the sky.

“Cheetah!” cried Amanda, with her voice going up.  “They’ve been killed.  Some one has killed them.”

Benham halted beside her and stared stupidly.  “It’s a band,” he said.  “It’s—­propaganda.  Greeks or Turks or Bulgarians.”

“But their feet and hands are fastened!  And—­ . . .  What have they been doing to them? . . .”

“I want to kill,” cried Benham.  “Oh!  I want to kill people.  Come on, Amanda!  It blisters one’s eyes.  Come away.  Come away!  Come!”

Her face was white and her eyes terror-stricken.  She obeyed him mechanically.  She gave one last look at those bodies. . . .

Down the deep-rutted soil of the village street they clattered.  They came to houses that had been set on fire. . . .

“What is that hanging from a tree?” cried Amanda.  “Oh, oh!”

“Come on. . . .”

Behind them rode the others scared and hurrying.

The sunlight had become the light of hell.  There was no air but horror.  Across Benham’s skies these fly-blown trophies of devilry dangled mockingly in the place of God.  He had no thought but to get away.

Presently they encountered a detachment of Turkish soldiers, very greasy and ragged, with worn-out boots and yellow faces, toiling up the stony road belatedly to the village.  Amanda and Benham riding one behind the other in a stricken silence passed this labouring column without a gesture, but presently they heard the commander stopping and questioning Giorgio. . . .

Then Giorgio and the others came clattering to overtake them.

Giorgio was too full to wait for questions.  He talked eagerly to Benham’s silence.

It must have happened yesterday, he explained.  They were Bulgarians—­traitors.  They had been converted to the Patriarchists by the Greeks—­by a Greek band, that is to say.  They had betrayed one of their own people.  Now a Bulgarian band had descended upon them.  Bulgarian bands it seemed were always particularly rough on Bulgarian-speaking Patriarchists. . . .

9

That night they slept in a dirty little room in a peasant’s house in Resnia, and in the middle of the night Amanda woke up with a start and heard Benham talking.  He seemed to be sitting up as he talked.  But he was not talking to her and his voice sounded strange.