I stopped, ashamed. That is what a real man is like, I thought, envying Zorba's sorrow. A man with warm blood and solid bones, who lets real tears run down his cheeks when he is suffering; and when he is happy he does not spoil the freshness of his joy by running it through the fine sieve of metaphysics.

Three or four days went by in this way. Zorba worked steadily, not stopping to eat, or drink, or rest. He was laying the foundations.

One evening I mentioned that Dame Bouboulina was still in bed, that the doctor had not come and that she was continually calling for him in her delirium.

He clenched his fists.

"All right," he answered.

The next morning at dawn he went to the village and almost immediately afterwards returned to the hut.

"Did you see her?" I asked. "How is she?"

"Nothing wrong with her," he answered, "she's going to die."

And he strode off to his work.

That evening, without eating, he took his thick stick and went out.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "To the village?"

"No. I'm going for a walk. I'll soon be back."

He strode towards the village with fast determined steps.

I was tired and went to bed. My mind again set itself to passing the whole world in review; memories came, and sorrows; my thoughts flitted around the most remote ideas but came back and settled on Zorba.

If he ever runs across Manolakas while he's out, I thought, that Cretan giant will hurl himself on him in a savage fury. They say that for these last few days he has been staying indoors. He is ashamed to show himself in the village and keeps saying that if he catches Zorba he will "tear him to bits with his teeth, like a sardine." One of the workmen said he had seen him in the middle of the night prowling about the hut fully armed. If they meet tonight there will be murder.

I leaped up, dressed and hurried down the road to the village. The calm, humid night air smelled of wild violets. After a time I saw Zorba walking slowly, as if very tired, towards the village. From time to time he stopped, stared at the stars, listened; then he started off again, a little faster, and I could hear his stick on the stones.

He was approaching the widow's garden. The air was full of the scent of lemon blossom and honeysuckle. At that moment, from the orange trees in the garden, the nightingale began to pour out its heart-rending song in notes as clear as spring water. It sang and sang in the darkness with breath-taking beauty. Zorba stopped, gasping at the sweetness of the song.

Suddenly the reeds of the hedge moved; their sharp leaves clashed like blades of steel.

"You, there!" shouted a loud and furious voice. "You doting old fool! So I've found you at last!"

My blood ran cold. I recognized the voice.

Zorba stepped forward, raised his stick and stopped. I could see every one of his movements by the light of the stars.

A huge man leaped out from the reed hedge.

"Who is it?" cried Zorba, craning his neck.

"Me, Manolakas."

"Go your way! Beat it!"

"Why did you disgrace me?"

"I didn't disgrace you, Manolakas! Beat it, I say. You're a big, strong fellow, yes, but luck was against you… and luck is blind, didn't you know that?"

"Luck or no luck, blind or not," said Manolakas, and I heard his teeth grinding, "I'm going to wipe out the disgrace. And tonight, too. Got a knife?"

"No," answered Zorba. "Just a stick."

"Go and fetch your knife. I'll wait here. Go on!"

Zorba did not move.

"Afraid?" hissed Manolakas, in a sneer. "Go on, I tell you!"

"And what would I do with a knife?" asked Zorba, who was beginning to get excited. "What would I do with it? What happened at the church? I seem to remember you had a knife then, and I didn't… but I came out on top, didn't I?"

Manolakas roared in fury.

"Trying to get a rise out of me as well, eh? You've picked the wrong moment to sneer; don't forget I'm armed and you're not! Fetch your knife, you lousy Macedonian, then we'll see who's best."

Zorba raised his arm, threw away his stick; I heard it fall among the reeds.

"Throw your knife away!" he cried.

I had gone up to them on tiptoe, and in the light of the stars I could just see the glitter of the knife as it too fell among the reeds.

Zorba spat upon his hands.

"Come on!" he shouted, making a preliminary leap into the air.

But before they had time to come to grips I ran in between them.

"Stop!" I cried. "Here, Manolakas! And you, Zorba! Come here! Shame on you!"

The two adversaries came slowly towards me. I took each by the right hand.

"Shake hands!" I said. "You are both good, stout fellows, you must patch up this quarrel."

"He's dishonored me!" said Manolakas, trying to withdraw his hand.

"No one can dishonor you as easily as that," I said. "The whole village knows you're a brave man. Forget what happened at the church the other day. It was an unlucky hour! What's happened is over and done with! And don't forget, Zorba is a foreigner, a Macedonian, and it's the greatest disgrace we Cretans can bring on ourselves to raise a hand against a guest in our country… Come now, give him your hand, that's real gallantry-and come to the hut, Manolakas. We'll drink together and roast a yard of sausage to seal our friendship!"

I took Manolakas by the waist and led him a little apart.

"The poor fellow's old, remember," I whispered. "A strong, young fellow like you shouldn't attack a man of his age."

Manolakas softened a little.

"All right," he said. "Just to please you."

He stepped towards Zorba and held out his huge hand.

"Come, friend Zorba," he said. "It's all over and forgotten; give me your hand."

"You chewed my ear," said Zorba, "much good may it do you! Here's my hand!"

They shook hands forcefully, more and more vigorously, looking each other in the eyes. I was afraid they were going to start fighting again.

"You've got a strong grip, Manolakas," said Zorba. "You're a stout fellow and pretty tough!"

"You've a strong hand, too; see if you can grip me tighter still."

"That's enough!" I cried. "Let's go and seal our friendship with a drink!"

On the way back to the beach I walked in between them, Zorba on my right and Manolakas on my left.

"There'll be a very good harvest this year…" I said, to change the subject. "There's been a lot of rain."

Neither of them answered. They were still tight about the chest. My hope lay in the wine. We reached the hut.

"Welcome to our humble home," I said. "Zorba, roast the sausage and find something to drink."

Manolakas sat down on a stone in front of the hut. Zorba took a handful of twigs, roasted the sausage and filled three glasses.

"Good health!" I said, raising my glass. "Good health, Manolakas! Good health, Zorba! Clink glasses!"

They clinked glasses, and Manolakas spilled a few drops on the ground.

"May my blood run like this wine," he said in a solemn voice, "if ever I raise my hand against you, Zorba."

"May my blood, too, run like this wine," said Zorba, following suit and pouring a few spots on the ground, "if I haven't already forgotten the way you chewed my ear!"