From Panitza to Grythium it was reckoned two days of twelve hours, or three of eight, but Mitsos, who set off about ten at night, got there within thirty hours of the time he started, thus arriving well before daybreak on the second morning; and at sundown that day, looking over the valley of Sparta from the hills leading up to the pass into the plain of Tripoli, he timed himself to be there two hours before sunrise, thus allowing plenty of time for Yanni and himself to get out of the town before the folk were awake. But for the present, as the moon was up, he pushed forward along the road, reserving his halt for the two dark hours after midnight. He had eaten but little that day, and his eyelids felt like the eyes of dolls, laden with weights that would drag them down; but knowing that if he slept he would gravely risk an over-sleeping, he paced up and down by the edge of the field where he had tethered Demetri's pony, eating a crust of bread, which he washed down with some rather sour wine he had got at Gythium. Now and then he would pause for a moment, but he felt physically incapable of keeping awake except by moving, and fearing to fall down and sleep if he stopped, he began tramping up and down without cessation. Luckily he had a pouch of tobacco and his pipe and tinder-box, and he smoked continuously.
But it was better to be moving than waiting, and when he judged that his pony--of which, like all wise men, he was more careful than of himself--had had sufficient rest, he set out again. He had wrapped his capote close round him, for the night was cold, and he was just beginning to feel that if he hoped to keep awake, he had better get down and trot by the pony's side, when the beast stumbled on a heap of stones, and in trying to recover itself stumbled again, and pitched forward right onto its knees, throwing Mitsos off.
Mitsos was unhurt and picked himself up quickly, but the poor brute was cut to the bone, and stood trembling with pain and terror as Mitsos examined it. For one moment the boy broke down.
"Oh, Holy Virgin!" he cried. "But what shall I do?" But the next moment he steadied himself, and paused to think. It was still four hours before daybreak, but by that time he and Yanni would have to be out of the town, and Tripoli was still a two-hours' ride distant. To get there in time with the pony was hopelessly out of the question, and to get there on his own legs seemed out of the question too, for he was as weary as a young man need ever hope to feel. But if there was a choice it lay there. Meanwhile, what to do with the beast? To leave it there, all cut, bleeding, and in pain, through the night, only to die on those bare hills, was a cruel thing, and Mitsos decided quickly. He led it very gently off the road among the trees, and with a strange feeling of tenderness, for that it had carried him gallantly, and done all it could do for him and Yanni, and had met death in the doing, kissed the white star on its down-dropped head. Then drawing his pistol, he put it to its ear, and, turning his eyes away, fired. The poor beast dropped like a log, and Mitsos, with a sob in his throat, looked not behind, but went back through the trees, and throwing away his coat, which only encumbered him, set his teeth and went jog-trotting to Tripoli.