“There will be a boat from Rhodes in about a month or six weeks.  The officer will come then to take the tribute; perhaps the governor will come.  But till then nobody will visit the island, unless it be a few fishermen from Cyprus.”

“Fishermen?  Where do they land?  At the harbor?”

“No.  My people do not like them, though the governor threatens to send troops if we do not let them land.  So they come to a little creek at the opposite end of the island, on the other side of the mountain.  Ah, what are you thinking of?”

As Euphrosyne perceived, her words had put a new idea in my mind.  If I could reach that creek and find the fishermen and persuade them to help me, or to carry me and my party off, that hanging might happen to the right man, after all.

“You’re thinking you can reach them?” she cried.

“You don’t seem sure that you want me to,” I observed.

“Oh, how can I tell what I want?  If I help you, I am betraying the island.  If I do not—­”

“You’ll have a death or two at your door, and you’ll marry the biggest scoundrel in Europe,” said I.

She hung her head, and plucked fretfully at the embroidery on the neck of her dress.

“But, anyhow, you couldn’t reach them,” she said.  “You are close prisoners here.”

That, again, seemed true, so true that it put me in a very bad temper.  Therefore I rose, and, leaving her without much ceremony, strolled into the kitchen.  Here I found Watkins dressing the cow’s head, Hogvardt surrounded by knives, and Denny lying on a rug on the floor with a small book, which he seemed to be reading.  He looked up with a smile that he. considered knowing.

“Well, what does the captive queen say?” he asked with levity.

“She proposes to marry Constantine,” I answered, and added quickly to Hogvardt:  “What’s the game with those knives, Hog?”

“Well, my lord,” said Hogvardt, surveying his dozen murderous instruments, “I thought there was no harm in putting an edge on them, in case we should find a use for them;” and he fell to grinding one with great energy.

“I say, Charlie, I wonder what this yarn’s about?  I can’t construe half of it.  It’s in Greek, and it’s something about Neopalia, and there’s a lot about a Stefanopoulos.”

“Is there?  Let’s see;” and taking the book I sat down to look at it.  It was a slim old book, bound in calfskin.  The Greek was written in an antique style; it was verse.  I turned to the title-page.  “Hullo, this is rather interesting,” I exclaimed.  “It’s about the death of old Stefanopoulos—­the man they sing that song about, you know.”