'I cannot let you have any more,' she said, apologetically. 'Water is very scarce here because we must rely on the rain to fill our cisterns, and when summer comes, the level drops very quickly.'

'The people here must suffer greatly then…'

Sappho gave her the quick smile which conferred such charm on her rather austere face.

'Less than you think. They are not over fond of washing and, as for drinking, we have plenty of wine. It would not occur to anyone to drink water. Hurry, now. I will wait outside. By the way, do you speak any tongue besides your own?'

'Yes. I speak English, German, Italian, Spanish, and I was taught ancient Greek…'

Sappho grimaced. Evidently, she would have been far better pleased by even the roughest Greek dialect. She thought for a moment and then said:

'It would still be best for you to say as little as possible, but if you must speak, speak Italian. These islands long belonged to Venice and it is a language which is still understood. And don't forget to use the familiar form to everyone – we are not very formal here.'

Marianne washed quickly, achieving miracles with the small amount of water allotted to her. She even managed to wash her hair and having dried it as best she could, plaited it, still damp, and wound it round her head. She felt amazingly better. The sunburn on her face and arms was no longer sore, thanks to the fisherman's oil, and by the time she had put on the pleated tunic, she felt almost as fresh as if she had just come out of her own elegant bath in Paris. At last, she pulled open the heavy wooden door of her temporary lodging and found Sappho waiting for her, seated on the coping of a well. She had a lyre in her hand and the girls whom Marianne had seen that morning were grouped about her.

Seeing Marianne, Sappho rose and pointed to a place between two of the girls, who did not even glance at her. Then the white procession moved off towards the edge of the plateau, the whole extent of which now became visible to Marianne.

To the east, it fell away in a gentle slope towards the sea, dotted with vines and plantations of tomatoes; to the west it rose to a ridge, on top of which stood a big solidly-constructed white building which, but for the protruding belfry, might have been a fortress. Behind this building, the sun was going down. As for the place where Marianne had spent the day, it was in actual fact a small half-ruined chapel, on whose ochre-coloured dome was a curious thing like a lightning conductor which might once have been a cross. All around it were the crumbling porticoes of an old Byzantine villa, with the well at its heart.

Singing another of its strange archaic hymns, the procession made its way to a high point overlooking the blue expanse of the sea. Here the grey dust was replaced by a block of lava carved into the semblance of a throne. Sappho stepped up to it majestically, clutching her lyre to her breast with her folded arms, while the girls knelt at her feet. All turned to face the setting sun, endeavouring to imitate the ecstatic look which illumined their mistress's face. Marianne might have found it all rather absurd if she had not realized that all this was nothing but a front and that there was something else, infinitely powerful and respectable, concealed behind this continuous masquerade to which all the women were committed.

'They think us mad,' Sappho had said, and she was certainly doing her utmost to convey that impression. She had remained for a moment in thought, her head resting on her hands, and then, striking a few chords on her lyre, she began to sing in a strong voice some kind of long hymn to the sun. As music it was not bad, but Marianne very soon came to the conclusion that it was by far too long and boring to be worth the trouble of trying to translate the words.

In a little while some of her companions got up and began to dance. The dance was a slow, ceremonial one and yet oddly suggestive, as though the strong young bodies revealed by the folds of linen in the movements of the dance were being offered up to the dying sun.

Before very long this strange concert acquired an even stranger counterpoint. Three black figures in tall headdresses appeared on the steep slope leading up to the white fortress-like building on the ridge, three very angry figures, shouting and waving their fists at the dancers. Marianne gathered that the building must be a monastery and that her companions' choreographic exercises were not to the liking of the holy men who lived there. Remembering the monk in Yorgo's boat and his evident disapproval of herself, she could not be surprised, but felt some alarm when the three protesters started to throw stones. Happily, the distance was considerable and their aim singularly bad.

At all events, neither Sappho nor her followers seemed to take much notice. Nor did they show any sign when one of the monks ran down the road and accosted two passing Turkish soldiers, a pair of janissaries in felt hats and red boots. He gesticulated furiously towards the women but the Turks scarcely bothered even to look round. After one bored glance at the dancers, they shrugged their shoulders and went on their way northwards.

By this time, moreover, Sappho had finished her song. The sun had disappeared below the ridge, and it would soon be dark. The women formed up as before, in silence, and retraced their steps towards the old villa, with the poetess and the flute-players in the lead, looking more exalted than ever.

Marianne, walking in their midst, sought in vain for answers to the questions that filled her mind. She was so deep in her thoughts that she did not see a clump of mastic growing in the path, and tripped over it. She would have fallen if the girl next to her had not put out a strong hand to steady her – a hand so strong, in fact, that Marianne found herself looking at its owner with rather more attention.

She was a tall, lithe-limbed creature who carried herself proudly, and the face below the mass of black curls gathered on her neck was fine-featured and keen. Like most of her companions, she was tall and well-built, not in the least fragile, yet not without a certain gracefulness. Her dark eyes smiled briefly as they met Marianne's, and she held her for a moment before letting her go; then she resumed her steady walk as though nothing had occurred. But she left yet another question-mark in Marianne's mind: Sappho must make her girls train like young Spartans, because the body of the girl who had supported her had felt as hard as marble.

The procession broke up when it reached the villa. One by one, the girls passed in front of Sappho and went through the gate, but when it came to Marianne's turn, the poetess took her hand and led her to the chapel.

'It will be best if you do not mix with the others tonight. Stay here and I will bring you your supper in a little while.'

Marianne obeyed meekly and closed the painted wooden door behind her. Inside, it was almost dark and there was a strong smell of fish which had not been there when she went out. She tried to discover where it came from and thought that she had found it when she saw a small flat fish gleaming on the floor beside the bed. She picked it up, automatically, and was still staring uncomprehendingly at it and wondering how it could have come there when Sappho reappeared, carrying on her head a basket containing food and an oil-lamp which she took out and placed on the table, lighting it at once.

When she saw what Marianne was holding, she frowned, and took the fish from her.

'I shall have to scold Yorgo,' she said, and the lightness of her tone rang a little false. 'He will leave his baskets in here when he comes back with his catch, because it is nearer than the kitchen.'

Marianne smiled. 'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'I was only wondering how the fish came here.'

'In a perfectly natural way, you see… it couldn't be more natural. Now you may eat.'

She had been setting the table swiftly, with a helping of roast kid, some tomatoes, bread, cheese and the inevitable grapes, but now her hands seemed to linger a little over the bowls and other everyday things she had arranged, as if she were putting off the moment when she would have to say what she had come to say. Suddenly she seemed to make up her mind.

'Don't go to sleep after you have eaten,' she said. 'I will come for you when it is quite dark.'

'What for?'

'Ask no questions. Not now. Later, you will understand much that must have seemed to you strange, even insensate. You need know only that I do nothing without a good reason, and it has cost me much thought, all day, before I made up my mind what I should do about you.'

Marianne's throat felt suddenly dry. The woman's voice held a veiled but horrid menace. It occurred to her that perhaps she was really dealing with a lunatic who, like all those in that condition, refused to recognize her own madness. Nevertheless, she refused to show her fear and merely said quietly:

'Ah!… And you have decided?'

'Yes, I have decided… to trust you. But woe to you if you are deceiving me! The whole of the Mediterranean will not be big enough to save you from our vengeance. Eat now, and wait for me. Oh, I nearly forgot…'

She took a bundle of black material from her basket and tossed it on to the bed.

'Put this on. Darkness is a fine concealment if you know how to melt into it properly.'

This Sappho was a strange creature, Marianne thought. She was still wearing her absurd classical garb but she was a very different person now from the one she had been hitherto. It was as though she had suddenly decided to throw off a mask and reveal her real face, and that face had something implacable about it that could be disquieting. Yet she had said that she had chosen to trust her, although there had been such a menacing note in her voice as she said it that it was almost as though she regretted her decision, or as though her attitude were not of her own choosing, to say the least, and she was merely bowing to circumstances.