"Sir," he said, "I've taken a bottle of orange water up to your place as a present."

He stopped for a second. He was waiting for me to ask him who had sent it, but I did not do so.

"Don't you want to know who sent it, sir?" he chuckled. "It's for you to put in your hair, she said, to make you smell good."

"Get along! Quick! And keep your mouth shut!"

He laughed, spitting on his hands once more.

"Right away!" he cried again. "Christ is reborn!"

And he dísappeared.

22

BENEATH THE POPLAR TREES the paschal dance was at its height. It was led by a tall, handsome, dark youth of about twenty, whose cheeks were covered with a thick down which had never known a razor. In the opening of his shirt his chest made a splash of dark color-it was covered with curly hair. His head was thrown back, his feet beating against the earth like wings; from time to time he cast a glance at some 'girl, and the whites of his eyes gleamed steadily, disturbingly from a visage blackened by the sun.

I was enchanted and at the same time frightened. I was returning from Dame Hortense's house; I had called a woman in to look after her. This relieved me, and I had come to watch the Cretans dance. So I went up to uncle Anagnosti and sat down on a bench next to him.

"Who is that young man leading the dance?" I asked.

Uncle Anagnosti laughed:

"He's like the archangel who bears your soul away, the rascal," he said with admiration. "It's Sifakas, the shepherd. All the year round he keeps his flock on the mountains, then comes down at Easter to see people and to dance."

He sighed.

"Ah, if only I had his youth!" he muttered. "If I had his youth, by God! I'd take Constantinople by storm!"

The young man shook his head and gave a cry, bleating inhumanly, like a rutting ram.

"Play, play, Fanurio!" he shouted. "Play until Charon himself is dead."

Every minute death was dying and being reborn, just like life. For thousands of years young girls and boys have danced beneath the tender foliage of the trees in spring-beneath the poplars, firs, oaks, planes and slender palms-and they will go on dancing for thousands more years, their faces consumed with desire. Faces change, crumble, return to earth; but others rise to take their place. There is only one dancer, but he has a thousand masks. He is always twenty. He is immortal.

The young man raised his hand to stroke his moustache, but he had none.

"Play!" he cried again. "Play, Fanurio, or I shall burst!"

The lyre player shook his hand, the lyre responded, the bells began to tinkle in rhythm and the young man took one leap, striking his feet together three times on the air, as high as a man stands, and with his boots caught the white kerchief from round the head of his neighbor, Manolakas, the constable.

"Bravo, Sifakas!" they cried, and the young girls trembled and lowered their eyes.

But the young man was silent and not looking at anyone at all. Wild and yet self-disciplined, he rested his left hand, palm outwards on his slim and powerful thighs, as he danced with his eyes fixed timidly on the ground. The dance ceased abruptly as the old verger, Androulio, came rushing into the square, his arms raised to heaven.

"The widow! The widow!" he shouted breathlessly.

Manolakas, the constable, was the first to run to him, breaking off the dance. From the square you could see the church, which was still adorned with myrtle and laurel branches. The dancers stopped, the blood coursing through their heads, and the old men rose from their seats. Fanurio put the lyre down on his lap, took the April rose from behind his ear and smelled it.

"Where, Androulio?" they cried, boiling with rage. "Where is she?"

"In the church; the wretch has just gone in; she was carrying an armful of lemon blossom!"

"Come on! At her!" cried the constable, rushing ahead.

At that moment the widow appeared on the doorstep of the church, a black kerchief over her head. She crossed herself.

"Wretch! Slut! Murderess!" the voices cried. "And she's got the cheek to show herself here! After her! She's disgraced the village!"

Some followed the constable who was running towards the church, others, from above, threw stones at her. One stone hit her on the shoulder; she screamed, covered her face with her hands, and rushed forward. But the young men had already reached the church door and Manolakas had pulled out his knife.

The widow drew back uttering little cries of terror, bent herself double to protect her face and ran back stumbling to shelter in the church. But on the threshold was planted old Mavrandoni. With a hand on each side of the door he blocked the way.

The widow jumped to the left and clung to the big cypress tree in the courtyard. A stone whistled through the air, hit her head and tore off her kerchief. Her hair came undone and tumbled down over her shoulders.

"In Christ's name! In Christ's name!" the widow screamed, clinging tightly to the cypress tree.

Standing in a row on the squàre the young girls of the village were biting their white kerchiefs, eagerly watching the scene. The old women, leaning on the walls, were yelping: "Kill her! Kill her!"

Two young men threw themselves at her, caught her. Her black blouse was torn open and her breasts gleamed, white as marble. The blood was running from the top of her head down her forehead, cheeks and neck.

"In Christ's name! In Christ's name!" she panted.

The flowing blood and the gleaming breasts had excited the young men. Knives appeared from their belts.

"Stop!" shouted Mavrandoni. "She's mine!"

Mavrandoni, still standing on the threshold of the church, raised his hand. They all stopped.

"Manolakas," he said in a deep voice, "your cousin's blood is crying out to you. Give him peace."

I leaped from the wall on which I had climbed and ran towards the church; my foot hit a stone and I fell to the ground.

Just at that moment Sifakas was passing. He bent down, picked me up by the scruff of the neck like a cat and put me on my feet.

"This is no place for the likes of you!" he saíd. "Clear off!"

"Have you no feeling for her, Sifakas?" I asked. "Have pity on her!"

The savage mountaineer laughed in my face.

"D'you take me for a woman? Asking me to have pity! I'm a man!"

And in a second he was in the churchyard.

I followed him closely but was out of breath. They were all round the widow now. There was a heavy silence. You could hear only the victim's strangled breathing.

Manolakas crossed himself, stepped forward, raised the knife; the old women, up on the walls, yelped with joy. The young girls pulled down their kerchiefs and hid their faces.

The widow raised her eyes, saw the knife above her, and bellowed like a heifer. She collapsed at the foot of the cypress and her head sank between her shoulders. Her hair covered the ground, her throbbing neck glistened in the half-light.

"I call on God's justice!" cried old Mavrandoni, and he also crossed himself.

But just at that second a loud voice was heard behind us:

"Lower your knife, you murderer!"

Everyone turned round in stupefaction. Manolakas raised his head: Zorba was standing before him, swinging his arms with rage. He shouted:

"Aren't you ashamed? Fine lot of men you are! A whole village to kill a single woman! Take care or you'll disgrace the whole of Crete!"

"Mind your own business, Zorba! And keep your nose out of ours!" roared Mavrandoni.

Then he turned to his nephew.

"Manolakas," he said, "in the name of Christ and the Holy Virgin, strike!"

Manolakas leaped up. He seized the widow, threw her to the ground, placed his knee on her stomach and raised his knife. But in a flash Zorba had seized his arm and, with his big handkerchief wrapped round his hand, strained to pull the knife from the constable's hand.