«What can I tell 'you?» Louki shook his head in a little flurry of snowflakes. «What do I know of Panayis? What does anyone know of Panayis? That he has the luck of the devil, the courage of a madman and that sooner the lion will lie down with the lamb, the starving wolf spare the flock, than Panayis breathe the same air as the Germans? We all know that, and we know nothing of Panayis. All I know is that I thank God I am no German, with Panayis on the island. He strikes by stealth, by night, by knife and in the back.» Louki crossed himself. «His hands are full of blood.»

Mallory shivered involuntarily. The dark, sombre figure of Panayis, the memory of the expressionless face, the hooded eyes, were beginning to fascinate him.

«There's more to him- than that, surely,» Mallory argued. «After all, you are both Navaronians—»

«Yes, yes, that is so.»

«This is a small island, you've lived together all your lives—»

«Ah, but that is where the Major is wrong!» Mallory's promotion in rank was entirely Louki's own idea: despite Mallory's protests and explanations he seemed determined to stick to it. «I, Louki, was for many years in foreign lands, helping Monsieur Viachos. Monsieur Viachos,» Louki said with pride, — «is a very important Government official.»

«I know,» Mallory nodded. «A consul. I've met him. He is a very fine man.»

«You have met him! Monsieur Vlachos?» There was no mistaking the gladness, the delight in Louki's voice. «That is good! That is wonderful! Later you must tell me more. He is a great man. Did I ever tell you—»

«We were speaking about Panayis,» Mallory reminded him gently.

«Ah, yes, Panayis. As I was saying, I was away for a long time. When I came back, Panayis was gone. His father had died, his mother had married again and Panayis had gone to live with his stepfather and two little stepsisters in Crete. His stepfather, half-fisherman, halffarmer, was killed in fighting the Germans near, Candia — this was in the beginning. Panayis took over the boat of his father, helped many of the Allies to escape until he was caught by the Germans, strung up by his wrists in the village square — where his family lived — not far from Casteli. He was flogged till the white of his ribs, of his backbone, was there for all to see, and left for dead. Then they burnt the village and Panayis's family — disappeared. You understand, Major?»

«I understand,» Mallory said grimly. «But Panayis—»

«He should have died. But he is tough, that one, tougher than a knot in an old carob tree. Friends cut him down during the night, took him away into the hifis till he was well again. And then he arrived back in Navarone, God knows how. I think he came from island to island in a small rowing-boat. He never says why he came back — I think it gives him greater pleasure to kill on his own native island. I do not know, Major. All I know is that food and sleep, the sunshine, women and wine — all these are nothing and less than nothing to the dark one.» Again Louki crossed himself. «He obeys me, for I am the steward of the Vlachos family, but even I am afraid of him. To kill, to keep on killing, then kill again — that is the very breath of his being.» Louki stopped momentarily, sniffed the air like a hound seeking some fugitive scent, then kicked the snow off his boots and struck off up the hill at a tangent. The little man's unhesitating sureness of direction was uncanny.

«How far to go now, Louki?»

«Two hundred yards, Major. No more.» Louki blew some snow off his heavy, dark moustache and swore. «I shall not be sorry to arrive.»

«Nor I.» Mallory thought of the miserable, draughty shelter in the dripping rocks almost with affection. It was becoming steadily colder as they climbed out of the valley, and the wind was rising, climbing up the register with a steady, moaning whine: they had to lean into it now, push hard against it, to make any progress. Suddenly both men stopped, listened, looked at each other, heads bent against the driving snow. Around them there was only the white emptiness and the silence: there was no sign of what had caused the sudden sound.

«You heard something, too?» Mallory murmured.

«It is only I.» Mallory spun round as the deep voice boomed out behind him and the bulky, white-smocked figure loomed out of the snow. «A milk wagon on a cobbled street is as nothing compared to yourself and your friend here. But the snow muffled your voices and I could not be sure.»

Mallory looked at him curiously. «How come you're here, Andrea?»

«Wood,» Andrea explained. «I was looking for firewood. I was high up on Kostos at sunset when the snow lifted for a moment. I could have sworn I saw an old hut in a gully not far from here — it was dark and square against the snow. So I left—»

«You are right,» Louki interrupted. «The hut of old Leri, the mad one. Leri was a goatherd. We all warned him, but Len would listen and speak to no man, only to his goats. He died in his hut, in a landslide.»

«It is an ill wind…» Andrea murmured. «Old Leri will keep us warm to-night.» He checked abruptly as the gully opened up at his feet, then dropped quickly to the bottom, surefooted as a mountain sheep. He whistled twice, a double high-pitched note, listened intently into the snow for the answering whistle, walked swiftly up the gully. Casey Brown, gun lowered, met them at the entrance to the cave and held back the canvas screen to let them pass inside.

The smoking tallow candle, guttering heavily to one side in the icy draught, filled every corner of the cave with dark and flickering shadows from its erratic flame. The candle itself was almost gone, the dripping wick bending over tiredly till it touched the rock, and Louki, snow-suit cast aside, was lighting another stump of candle from the dying flame. For a moment, both candles flared up together, and Mallory saw Louki clearly for the first time — a small, compact figure in a dark-blue jacket black-braided at the seams and flamboyantly frogged at the breast, the jacket tightly bound to his body by the crimson tsanta or cummerbund, and, above, the swarthy, smiling face, the magnificent moustache that he flaunted like a banner. A Laughing Cavalier of a man, a miniature d'Artagnan splendidly behung with weapons. And then Mallory's gaze travelled up to the lined, liquid eyes, eyes dark and sad and permanent ly tired, and his shock, a slow, uncomprehending shock, had barely time to register before the stub of the candle had flared up and died and Louki had sunk back into the shadows.

Stevens was stretched in a sleeping-bag, his breathing harsh and shallow and quick. He had been awake when they had arrived but had refused all food and drink, and turned away and drifted off into an uneasy jerky sleep. He seemed to be suffering no pain at all now: a bad sign, Mallory thought bleakly, the worst possible. He wished Miller would return… .

Casey Brown washed down the last few crumbs of bread with a mouthful of wine, rose stiffly to his feet, pulled the screen aside and peered out mournfully at the falling snow. He shuddered, let the canvas fall, lifted up his transmitter and shrugged into the shoulder straps, gathered up a coil of nope, a torch and a groundsheet. Mallory looked at his watch: it was fifteen minutes to midnight. The routine call from Cairo was ahnost due.

«Going to have another go, Casey? I wouldn't send a dog out on a night like this.»

«Neither would I,» Brown said morosely. «But I think I'd better, sir. Reception is far better at night and I'm going to climb uphill a bit to get a clearance from that damned mountain there; I'd be spotted right away if I tried to do that in daylight.»

«Right you are, Casey. You know best.» Mallory looked at him curiously. «What's all the extra gear for?»

«Putting the set under the groundsheet, then getting below it myself with the torch,» Brown explained. «And I'm pegging the rope here, going to pay it out on my way up. I'd like to be able to get back some time.»