CHAPTER III
THE STORY OF A BRIGAND
The wind, which had taken them straight across the bay, still blew freshening from the same quarter, and was dead against them. They would have to make two long tacks to get home—the first, right across to the island in the middle of the bay; the second, back again to the head of it and as soon as they were well off on the outward tack, Mitsos went to the stern of the boat and sat down by Nicholas.
"It is time for the stories, is it not?" he said.
"Yes, we will have the stories now."
Nicholas paused a moment.
"Mitsos," he said, "I am going to tell you about a part of my life of which have never spoken to you before, for, until now, I have only told you boys' stories to amuse a boy. But now I am going to tell you a story for a man. This all happened before you were born, to twenty years ago, when I was a brigand."
Mitsos stared.
"A brigand, Uncle Nicholas? You?"
"Brigand, outlaw, klepht, whatever you like to call it. A man with a price set on his head—it is there now for you to take if you like—a man without any home but the mountains. Yet one may do worse than live in the mountains, Mitsos, and drink to the 'good bullet,' praying one might be killed rather than fall alive into
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