The Parganiotes at first could believe neither in the infamy of their protectors nor in their own misfortune; but both were soon confirmed by a proclamation of the Lord High Commissioner, informing them that the pacha’s army was marching to take possession of the territory which, by May 10th, must be abandoned for ever.

The fields were then in full bearing.  In the midst of plains ripening for a rich harvest were 80,000 square feet of olive trees, alone estimated at two hundred thousand guineas.  The sun shone in cloudless azure, the air was balmy with the scent of orange trees, of pomegranates and citrons.  But the lovely country might have been inhabited by phantoms; only hands raised to heaven and brows bent to the dust met one’s eye.  Even the very dust belonged no more to the wretched inhabitants; they were forbidden to take a fruit or a flower, the priests might not remove either relics or sacred images.  Church, ornaments, torches, tapers, pyxes, had by this treaty all become Mahommedan property.  The English had sold everything, even to the Host!  Two days more, and all must be left.  Each was silently marking the door of the dwelling destined so soon to shelter an enemy, with a red cross, when suddenly a terrible cry echoed from street to street, for the Turks had been perceived on the heights overlooking the town.  Terrified and despairing, the whole population hastened to fall prostrate before the Virgin of Parga, the ancient guardian of their citadel.  A mysterious voice, proceeding from the sanctuary, reminded them that the English had, in their iniquitous treaty, forgotten to include the ashes of those whom a happier fate had spared the sight of the ruin of Parga.  Instantly they rushed to the graveyards, tore open the tombs, and collected the bones and putrefying corpses.  The beautiful olive trees were felled, an enormous funeral pyre arose, and in the general excitement the orders of the English chief were defied.  With naked daggers in their hands, standing in the crimson light of the flames which were consuming the bones of their ancestors, the people of Parga vowed to slay their wives and children, and to kill themselves to the last man, if the infidels dared to set foot in the town before the appointed hour.  Xenocles, the last of the Greek poets, inspired by this sublime manifestation of despair, even as Jeremiah by the fall of Jerusalem, improvised a hymn which expresses all the grief of the exiles, and which the exiles interrupted by their tears and sobs.

A messenger, crossing the sea in all haste, informed the Lord High Commissioner of the terrible threat of the Parganiotes.  He started at once, accompanied by General Sir Frederic Adams, and landed at Parga by the light of the funeral pyre.  He was received with ill-concealed indignation, and with assurances that the sacrifice would be at once consummated unless Ali’s troops were held back.  The general endeavoured to console and to reassure the unhappy