The Moon Beneath Her Feet: A Tale of Lepanto

Of the Great Naval Battle of Lepanto, A Turk, and the Prayers of a Christian Maiden

By Laureys a Castro - https://www.bonhams.com/auctions/11468/lot/135/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=37718118.

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This is another short story which I wrote in high school, based on an essay/short story prompt in a 12th grade English class on Catholic heroes, taken through Our Lady of Victory. I’ve edited it to be closer to my current style, so I hope you’ll enjoy!

Our Lady of Victory, ora pro nobis!

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It was the early morning of October 7^th, a day, thought Jālūt Ibn Yahyā, surely blessed by Allah. The sky was soft and cloudless, the air gently humid; the sapphire sea rolled quietly beneath the ships of the Ottoman fleet. The wind from the east billowed the sails and fluttered the Islamic standard borne by the flagship Sultana.

Though he was a soldier, born of Greek Christian parents but kidnapped and raised Islamic, Jālūt was young and still admired beauty. His blue eyes mirrored the ocean as the wind playfully ruffled his dark hair.

Jālūt, like Ali Pasha, upon whose ship he currently served, was far more refined and gentle than the other men on board the ship. Yet, first and foremost, he was servant in battle. Courageous, obedient, and a skilled warrior-captain, he was admired by his inferiors and praised by his superiors; his unbeatable strength could render an opponent's shield useless with one blow. Combined with Jālūt's cunning in battle, he was almost legendary among the ranks of the army, through which he had risen rapidly.

In reward for his faithful service, the Pasha had bestowed many honors upon his trustworthy captain, including a larger share in the spoils of war. In fact, Jālūt's unswerving loyalty and his good-nature had made him a firm favorite of the Sultan himself, who often requested Jālūt's company when he was at home; the Sultan had even granted him his own estate in Constantinople.

Jālūt inhaled deeply of the salty ocean air. It strengthened him, he was sure, and he needed all that he could muster today; for it was the day destined for the crushing of the Christians' so-called Holy League. He knew that it was Ali's dream to capture their magnificent banner, bestowed upon them by the Pope. He glanced up at their own green and gold emblem, which was made to honor Allah. It flapped lazily in the breeze above him, blowing with the wind that flowed over the bow of the great ship.

Jālūt did not enjoy doing battle, but the object was to crush the false religion, which was an honorable thing; besides, those who were faithful would be rewarded. He smiled at the thought that he would certainly be rewarded, as his loyalty never wavered! Many were the men who followed his example when their own courage began to fail.

His gaze wandered thoughtfully over the ruffled Gulf of Patras. Each time, he asked himself whether he had the courage and strength to die this day, to feel the cold steel of a blade run him through, or to feel the fire graze his skin, or to be crushed by cannon-fire. The glory of Allah would be worth it, if he could bear the pain. He’d been wounded many times, that was nothing; but it was a question forever worth asking.

On the other hand, if he lived to see tomorrow's sunrise, he had been promised a generous share of the captured loot. It was not only for himself, but also for his loved ones, of whom there was really only one, the captive Christian girl in the cabin below, whose charge he had chosen as a reward for his loyal service at the siege of Cyprus.

The daughter of a nobleman who had been killed in the Christians' stubborn fight in Famagosta, Lia Masalis had lost her entire family to the Turkish brutality. Beautiful beyond any of the boyish hopes and dreams that had previously filled Jālūt's mind, he had at once taken pity on the half-Greek, half-Italian girl whose bearing was like that of a queen. Her dark hair and starry eyes, her regal, courageous silence, and her gentleness all captured his heart.

Memories of the siege flashed through his mind: the destruction, the bloodshed; the grief, pain, and courage of the Christians; and the woe of those who became prisoners. Lia had been among that unfortunate group. Upon seeing her roughly shoved about, Jālūt had leapt to her aid and removed her from the crowd. He had asked the Pasha if his service might be rewarded with the gift of this maiden, that he might shield her from harm. Once he had received the Pasha’s approval, Jālūt had tried to take the girl's hand to lead her away from the bloody battleground, but she had resisted.

Instead of following him, she turned and knelt at the side of a dying Turk, whom she comforted. Then she picked her way through the city, tending to the wounded and dying, regardless of what side they were on! Jālūt had followed her, astounded by her compassion, vague memories of his parents wandering through the dim halls of his mind. He watched as the maiden comforted and encouraged all of her patients to repent of their sins and ask forgiveness of her God. Many of them took her advice; even those who did not were still grateful for Lia's help.

At last, seeing that it grew late, Jālūt chose to direct Lia to follow him to a temporary but safe residence; she had complied, albeit in Christian silence. From then on, she displayed, not the obedience of a conquered slave, but a heroic and holy obedience that spoke of a great faith in her God. Everything she did and said was graced by purity of mind and heart, like a flower laced with crystal frost.

Jālūt was moved to leave Lia to her own devices in her own rooms, leaving only his great war hound, Veli, to protect her. Whenever Jālūt would visit the maiden, he would find her kneeling, holding a string of beads in her hands as her lips moved in silent prayer, Veli sitting attentively beside her; yet Lia’s prayer was louder than the few distant words she exchanged with Jālūt. It was a battle simply to draw a noncommittal “yes” or “no” from her lips.

Jālūt had told Lia that he hoped to wed her upon their arrival in Constantinople. Until then, he would keep her safe. Lia sat there, looking at him in silence. Despite the indignation and fear that flashed briefly in her eyes, she neither objected or acquiesced. She did, however, extract a promise from him.

“Can you keep me safe from yourself?” she had asked him quietly. It had seemed unnecessary for her to ask; hadn’t he already saved her? But Jālūt had made the promise, and was rewarded by the faintest glimmer of relief.

That had been several months ago. Jālūt had faithfully kept the promise which Lia had required of him, still dreaming of a wedding in Constantinople, one that even the Sultan would grace by his presence.

Once Jālūt had been ordered onto the Sultana to engage with the Christians' Holy League, he had placed Lia in the best cabin available, decorated with luxurious furnishings and scattered with silks, jewels, and gold. How noble the Pasha had been in allowing Lia's presence on board! This had ensured that Jālūt could continue to be her protector. He said a quick mental prayer that the Pasha be blessed by Allah for his kindness.

Moreover, Jālūt had ensured that Lia would have the door locked at all times; but there was no need for him to tell her. He had scarcely put one foot outside the door after escorting her inside the first day, and he found himself shoved the rest of the way out with the door barred securely behind him. He was getting nowhere with her.

The maiden still scarcely spoke to him when he visited, and never said a word regarding a possible future with him. Even more rare than the sound of her sweet, grave voice was the sight of her sunny smile, usually given to Veli; but her gravity was peaceful, and Jālūt could not help admiring her. She seemed to live in a sphere of serenity which nothing penetrated, and nothing seemed to cast a ripple within it, neither promises nor pleas, nor even the disturbing sound of the soldiers aboard the ship.

Jālūt found himself smiling again as he brought himself back to reality. Lia was as much a puzzle as she was a consternation and the object of his affection.

At the sound of the main cabin door opening, he flung a quick glance over his shoulder and saw the Pasha standing in the shade near the cabin, talking with one of his subordinate officers. The glittering of the Pasha's multicolored gems was scarcely dimmed by the shadows that fell over him. Jālūt blinked and wished again that Lia would wear the jewels that he had given her, that she would give some sign that she accepted his protection and affection. He sighed and turned back to watch the horizon.

Everything was calm and still; the azure waves foamed as they danced against the sides of the ship, splashing over the creaking of the oars handled by the Christian slaves below. Jālūt briefly imagined what it must be like for them: the water that splashed over the sides; the pain of the lashes handed out by the slave-master; the dry, tasteless food and the stale water. He shuddered and turned his attention back to the sea. He could only imagine what the heathen Christians would do to Ottoman slaves! And yet. . . if they were like Lia? And not like the rough men by whom he was surrounded?

A great cry broke the stillness – the warning of ships on the horizon! It would not be long before the wind brought the Ottoman fleet down upon the ships of the Christians’ so-called Holy League.

Lia will soon know the horrors of battle at sea, Jālūt thought, stepping back from the rail as men began to rush to and fro, preparing for battle with a wild joy he hated witnessing. She will be frightened.

Passing the Pasha, Jālūt saluted him and continued on into the ship's cabin. He paused a moment once inside so as to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting, but it did not take him long to locate the room occupied by the maiden. Jālūt rapped softly on the door.

The rasping of wood upon wood, and a click as the lock slipped back, and the door creaked softly open to reveal the maid, clad in a soft gray garment. Her long dark hair framed her face; her only adornments were the crucifix she wore about her neck and the string of pearl beads that was ever in her hand.

“Lia!” whispered Jālūt happily, stretching his arms out towards her. Lia pushed the door a bit farther closed.

“Forgive me, but why must you be so troubled?” Jālūt sighed. There would have to be some point when he could actually give her a hug, wouldn’t there? Terribly frustrating, considering he hadn’t had a hug for the last eight years of his life, not since leaving his adoptive parents for the wars. He stifled an impatient groan.

“The Christians' scout has been sighted,” he told Lia.

The girl tilted her head back a bit.

Jālūt hastily corrected himself. “Your friends' scout?”

He could tell by a slight change in her stance that she was appeased.

“Lia . . . I wanted to warn you. Do not be frightened by the battle. It will be horrifying for you – you will hear cannon shots slamming into the water and splintering the wood of the ships, feel the waves rocking from the impact, hear the screams and the cries of dying men; you will feel the crash of ship against ship – but all for the glory of Allah!”

His gaze was raised to heaven, imagining the glory of those who died in service. He almost had the door slammed in his face, barely catching it with one hand.

“Lia! Forgive me! You are a Christian, so you are bound to be against that which I hold to. Now, please listen to me! You mustn’t fear, for Allah and I will ensure your safety. But please, stay as close to the center of the cabin as you may. A battle at sea is no light occurrence: there will be blood everywhere, and executions left and right–”

Lia interrupted him.

“I have been through all this before, sir, at Cyprus.”

This time she did shut the door in his face. Jālūt stopped, staring at the wooden planks before him. Somehow, he could not keep from flushing with shame, as if it were his fault, and his alone, that Lia's family had been murdered. It had been a move which he had not liked, nor participated in, that all the Christians be wiped out. There was no reason for him to feel guilt, yet a heavy sigh came from the depths of his heart.

How long will it take for her to love me? He didn’t have time to wonder any further about it, for a cry came from above, ordering all men on deck. Tightening his sword-belt, Jālūt stepped out into the now glaring midday sun.

The deck was crowded with the savage Janissaries, who were shoving each other for a glimpse of the hated enemy. Already they were thirsting for blood and the glory that came from grasping life and land for their religion. Somehow the thought was repulsive to Jālūt's mind just then; Lia was going to be unhappier than ever once the battle was over. He had to find a way to make her understand - but he almost wanted to never speak to her of it again, never wanted to have the door slammed in his face.

Jālūt's eyes roved over the crescent-shape deliberately formed by the hundreds of Ottoman vessels. He heard the sound of a single volley from the Christians' crimson and gold flagship, and his heart beat like a gong in his ears as adrenaline pounded through his veins.

To his relief, it was not beginning yet; a white flag was flown. He watched silently as the ships swung about into cruciform battle formation. Jālūt stiffened with anticipation, tightening his grip on his sword. It would be a small thing, this victory – small, because it would be far too easy. The Christians were having trouble, for the wind was blowing towards them, filling the sails of the Turkish ships instead and sending them skimming over the water. Once again, Allah was with his warriors – as always, and as always he would hand them the victory!

He would, if only something inexplicable had not occurred to throw doubt into Jālūt’s mind.

The wind turned right about and slammed into the Turkish force, causing them to abruptly slow in their swift charge! The Christians were coming on swiftly, the wind carrying them over the waves - but that was not what was truly so astonishing.

The sun darkened for Jālūt. Alarmed, he looked to the sky for the reason, seeking sudden storm clouds which were not there. What he saw in its place was strangely far more frightening than a thousand blades and a thousand bolts of lightning as he flung himself to his knees in an unaccustomed terror, confused.

A wondrous woman stood there, robed in deepest violet and lapis blue, a strand of pearls identical to Lia’s garlanded over her arm – the sun flamed behind her head, gilding her dark hair beneath its silk veil dotted by jewels like raindrops and tears, and illuminating the floral crown of gold which held it in place. Her heart was pierced by seven swords, her expression so sorrowful and so terrible that Jālūt wished he could sink into the wooden deck beneath him. He beheld, trampled beneath her feet, the silver sickle moon and the dusky emerald banner of the flagship.

Frightened, Jālūt cast a glance in the direction of the flagstaff and found that the wind was tearing the standard in twain, and a silent voice spoke his Christian name, calling it from the depths of his memories.

Chrysanthos, Chrysanthos!

The voice came softly, drifting down to him, but beneath the breeze he could hear it ringing like a sword against armor, and he flinched, turning his eyes back to those sweet eyes filled with tears.

I am your Mother, Chrysanthos. Why do you attack my Son?

Those who deal destruction to my children

Are walking away from my love and from His,

Into fire –

Come back to Him, Chrysanthos, come back to me!

Listen to the prayers of my people,

Who have suffered at the hands of those you give your strength to.

Jālūt felt a wave like a stormy sea crashing over his insides, a powerful surge of prayer flowing from the Christians, and it burned – a burn that somehow seemed to be tearing away the layers that hid memories of his own childhood prayers, layers built by adoptive Ottoman parents, by the wars, by the soldiers -

Lia's prayers were woven with the Christians’, with prayers for peace and a Christian victory, and he felt her prayers for the souls of all of the Turks - and mostly, she was praying for him. Jālūt.

Chrysanthos.

Jālūt-

Chrysanthos!

Peace, my little one.

There – it was there, a dark farmhouse, lit by the flames of three candles, surrounding a plain statue of a beautiful haloed lady – a statue carved by his father, and his mother was smoothing the child’s hair, telling him of that heavenly Mother who would be there for him when she couldn’t be.

A mother who didn’t abandon, no matter the grief.

A rush of humility and shame mingled with love as the walls came crashing down and he knew what he had to do.

He had to get Lia out of there.

He had to go home.

Not looking to see whether the Lady still stood in the clouds, he scrambled to his feet and tried to repair to the cabin to free Lia.

A cry escaped from more than one throat when the Janissaries realized that a certain scintillating crash had been the sound of a cannonball smashing into one of the great lanterns that signified that the Sultana's importance, and glass shards shattered over the deck, showering the men. Jālūt ducked as a piece grazed his face, leaving blood running down his cheek.

The command swiftly came to change the battle formation to prevent the ships from being riddled by the Christians' shots. Jālūt felt his gaze drawn downwards like a magnet; he frowned and squinted. The Christians’ scarlet flagship was headed straight for them, and what was that up against the mainmast?

It grew in his vision until he realized it was a massive crucifix. Jālūt couldn’t tear his gaze from it as the ships bore down upon each other - it seemed almost as if the crucifix was sailing on its own, straight towards him, like a sword, its point in the ground, ready to splice the Sultana up the middle.

But it was the Sultana who was choosing the fight, or was she?

He had no time to steady himself as a splintering, shuddering crash cracked the air as the ships collided and the Sultana speared the Real; in return, vicious firepower was turned upon the Sultana as the ships jolted back apart. Jālūt lost his balance and slipped as, with a tremendous shudder, the ships collided a second time.

Wood rasped against wood as the sides of the ships scraped against each other. Men went staggering across the deck; a few lost their balance and fell overboard. Jālūt watched dazedly from the ground as Christians attempted to climb onto the Turkish vessel. He struggled to his feet, realizing that he was in as much danger as any of the other Turks. He swayed a bit, trying to regain his balance, eyes searching for the cabin door as he drew his sword.

All around him the air echoed with shots, steel, and screams, the air was clouding with smoke. Aboard the scarlet ship stood a knight, clad all gold; the metal of his armor flashed in the sun, echoing the vicious zipping of the blade he wielded, as he protected the Holy League's emblem, sapphire blue and emblazoned with the Cross.

Jālūt’s gaze was jerked back when he noticed that those trying to board the ship were slipping and sliding upon the Sultana's cleverly greased surfaces, which had now become smeared with the violent scarlet of battle. For an instant he wanted to catch the men who struggled – but offering a hand would give him a sword in the stomach, and no one else was going to pull Lia away from it all before the ships sank!

A wail went up as Jālūt's attention snapped from the Christians' plight. The Pasha had been hit! His once-friend disappeared from view as the green Islamic banner was replaced by the Christian Cross!

Jālūt almost sighed with relief at the shouts of victory which followed, but caught himself with a hasty glance at his fellow Turks. The blood-thirsty Janissaries would gladly kill him for the glory and purging of their religion. He couldn’t risk that yet, but maybe he should have, because that same moment found him clouted from behind!

His head swam as his world whirled upside-down, with the earth-less ocean on top and the bottomless sky below. The sea sparkled violently, blinding him as he was hurled against the side of the deck, and the autumn sun was merciless. His face, hair, and neck were drenched with burning sweat and blood, which trickled through his eyelashes and stung his eyes like burning tears. Flinging his head aside to clear his vision, he staggered to his feet in time to see a silver blade flashing down, about to strike his face!

Jālūt spun and rolled against the side of the deck. The sword came down and collided with the wood, and stuck long enough for Jālūt to scramble to his feet and dodge through the vicious, ruby-splattered melee. He avoided flashing swords, flying arrows, shrieking bullets, and even bare fists, while slipping in pools of seawater mixed with blood.

Jālūt hastily retreated in the direction of the cabin. An unintelligible war cry broke out behind him, and the sound of boots pounding upon the deck chased him through the whirling, confused crowd of deadly dancers. Jālūt whipped about and ducked just in time to avoid the Spaniard's blade. Swiftly drawing his own, he parried a second stroke, fumbling for the door with his left hand.

An unexpected bee-like sting flooded his hand with a gush of ruby-red blood, and Jālūt jerked his hand away from the door in surprise. It was only the sharp tip of the sword which had slashed the first two layers of skin. Jālūt grit his teeth and kicked the Spaniard in the shin. The soldier gasped in startled pain and nearly dropped his sword – the Greek knocked it swiftly out of his hand and flew into the cabin, shoving the door shut behind him.

Barely had he moved a step when the sharp edge of the door was slammed back into his shoulder-blade as the Spaniard leapt after him.

“Coward!” cried he, parrying Jālūt's awkward blow. “You hide in the ship while your comrades are dying! Tell me, what does your religion mean to you?!”

“I'm not sure I have one right now!” Jālūt growled, managing to keep a table between them.

“Ah!” The soldier bounded over the table and Jālūt leapt away, crashing into Lia's cabin door. “I hate an atheiest more than an infidel!”

Jālūt grappled with the Spaniard, who forced the sword out of his hand and slammed him against the door frame. A sharp pain ran up the Greek's spine, weakening his muscles. Jālūt grit his teeth and, forcing his limbs to cooperate, shoved the Spaniard away. The soldier stumbled backwards but regained his balance. Dropping his sword, he attacked Jālūt again on equal terms. A blow smashed into the Greek's face and he tasted hot blood.

Must this Christian be as dogged as a Janissary? Angered by his opponent's insistence on battling, Jālūt shoved him away again, only to be hurled back into the oaken door, which creaked under the impact. To their surprise, it abruptly gave way and both fell in a heap at Lia's feet.

Dazed, the Spaniard looked dizzily up from his place on the floor to find the girl gazing at him in mild annoyance. For a second, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He gasped sharply.

“You're no Turk, Senõrita!” said he in astonishment. He scrambled to his feet and hastily dusted himself off.

“No, Senõr,” Lia replied softly, “I am a Christian brought here from Cyprus.” The Spaniard whirled on Jālūt, who was picking himself up, neck aching.

“This dog,” said the soldier viciously, glaring at Jālūt, “has he harmed you? Or have any of the others?”

“No, indeed, he has been most generous and kind, and has protected me from them all,” Lia answered, “but he wishes to wed me in Constantinople, as my family were all murdered in the siege of my homeland.”

“I will see no Christian woman brought so low, Senõr!” cried the soldier, preparing to attack the Greek. “Whatever prayers an infidel may say, you had best choose to say them and prepare to die like a man!”

Jālūt raised his hands in surrender.

“Ave Maria?”

The Spaniard blinked. Hesitantly he lowered the swordpoint, eyes turning from Jālūt to Lia.

“Did you teach him?” he asked the girl.

“He never heard me pray.”

“You will give me a chance to revert, then?” asked Jālūt, striving to stop the flow of blood on his hand, only to remember there was blood in his hair and on his face. Lia reached out and bound the hand with a silk scarf as the ship rocked.

“To truly revert, yes,” murmured the soldier wonderingly, but still on guard.

Jālūt snorted at him, unable to believe that his sincerity was doubted. After all. . .

“Did you not see the glorious Lady who stood above the ships?” he demanded. “She was the Mother of your God. I used to know her, before I was taken by the Turks in a raid.”

The Spaniard's jaw dropped. Lia's eyes lit, but whatever either was about to say was cut short by the horrible battle sounds raining down from outside.

“They will not believe me in the silence of battle,” Jālūt pointed out. “They will still kill me.”

“The galley slaves,” Lia said suddenly. She looked at Jālūt. “Those who are Christian – they must be released!”

Jālūt whirled and ran to the stairs leading below deck. The Spaniard turned to Lia and bowed gracefully.

“Allow me to defend you, Senõrita.” He took up a protective stance in front of her. As expected, several Janissaries charged inside to punish the Christian who dared enter the cabin of a ship in Allah's service. The soldier neatly dispatched the three of them with a whirl of his sword.

“What is your name, Senõrita?” he asked the maiden, kicking one newcomer sharply in the back of the knee and causing him to collapse.

“Lia,” she answered, shrinking in unabated horror as the soldier took out two Janissaries permanently.

“I am Miguel!” he told her. “I serve under the Generalissimo – Don Juan of Austria!” He slashed at another Janissary. “A better general you could not find!”

They were prevented from further speech when there was a sudden flood of men pouring up from below-decks. Blood, soot, and bruises darkened their skin but their feverish eyes glowed. Filled with fierce joy at their freedom, they joined the fight. A gasp escaped Lia's lips when she saw the scourge marks upon the men's shoulders, their bodies emaciated. The gasp turned into a sob, and then Jālūt was beside her, directing the men before him. He paused only to draw Lia to safety as a cannonball plowed into the outside wall of the cabin.

The next hour was painted with the angry vermillion of blood and the vivid white of the sun, crowned with the gold of final victory! Lia saw both joy and sorrow as her prayers for victory were answered; now fervent prayers for all the souls of the dead, both Turkish and Christian, rose from the depths of her heart. She looked around at the ships stained red, and at the crimson ocean and sunset barred with storm-clouds. Jālūt and Miguel came up beside her and saw the tears that fell from her eyes and cleansed the deck.

“Do not weep,” said Miguel gently. “Jesus Christ is a gentle and merciful King, Who loves all of His children . . .” He looked at Jālūt. The Greek's nervousness about his future was apparent.

“Even those who have strayed.” He clapped Jālūt on the shoulder and smiled gently at Lia.

“Let us go,” he said softly, and with an arm around each of them, led them over the gangway to the Real, to the feet of Don Juan of Austria, the Prince in gold. He looked them over and listened intently as Miguel explained Lia's situation. The prince bowed to the Cypriot maiden.

“I am glad of your freedom, and I grieve for your sorrow,” he told her. “But surely Our Lady has looked after you in your preservation from slavery and death.”

Lia dipped her head in agreement as Don Juan turned to Miguel.

“You have served Our Lord and Lady well, my friend.”

Miguel smiled and murmured a thank you. He glanced at Jālūt. The prince followed his gaze.

“What is this?” asked Don Juan, stepping closer. “You dress like a Turk, but you are not one of them.”

“I belonged to a Christian family in Greece,” the boy murmured, “but I was taken from them as a child and raised as a follower of Islam. The Mother of God – Our Mother – showed herself to me and I saw my folly.”

“Many of the captives tell of a similar vision,” said Juan gravely. “I thank Our Most Sweet Lady for this victory. Come now; you are all tired. Senõrita Lia, we will be in Corfu in about two weeks' time. There you may find lodging until you are able to make other plans. For now, you are welcome to use one of the cabins on board the Real.”

He called to another soldier, who escorted Lia to a neat, candlelit cabin, which was for her own personal use. Jālūt and Miguel watched her go.

“She has no one?” murmured Miguel. Jālūt shook his head numbly. They exchanged a sorrowful glance and followed the Prince inside.

It was late October when the Real finally reached Corfu; Lia disembarked. The Spanish Prince had seen to it that the maiden had been given a share of the Turkish spoils, great enough to supply her for several months. Moreover, she had finally accepted the jewels given to her by Jālūt, as a second means of temporarily supporting herself. Now she was accompanied by both him and Miguel, who escorted her to a convent and made arrangements for her stay. They paused before taking leave of her.

“Lia,” Jālūt hesitated. She looked at him with soft eyes.

“Yes, Jālūt?” He shook his head as if to shake off a fly.

“My Christian name is Chrysanthos Aetós,” he muttered.

Lia smiled gently at him. “Yes . . . Chrysanthos?”

“I – I just wondered –” he gathered his courage and looked up at her. “Why didn't you ever try to run away?”

She looked at him soberly. “Because,” she answered, “it would have been far worse for me, for I surely would have been imprisoned by one less kind than you. All authority comes from God. You were given authority over me, just He gave Pontius Pilate authority over Christ; and I saw His Will in this. You kept me safe in a place where all else was hostile, once Cyprus fell. If you had ordered me to commit a sin, however, I would not have obeyed.” She looked at him for a moment, then smiled again. “I am proud of you, Chrysanthos.”

Lifting the crucifix from about her neck, she slipped the chain over his head and laid the Cross upon his heart.

“Go home to your family! I pray that God will bless you for the good you have done!” she whispered, smiling, and gave him a kiss on his forehead. Chrysanthos gazed at her in wonder.

“May – may I come back for you?” he whispered, his voice trembling with hope. “I don’t wish to leave you alone-”

She smiled again but did not answer. Perhaps that was answer enough. Although she would be alone in the world for a time, at least, her courage did not falter. She bade both men farewell and went to her room.

Miguel sighed and turned to Chrysanthos, who remained gazing at the convent door.

“All we can do now is pray,” Miguel told him. “We have to leave her. If she could stand up to you for that long, she will do well.” Chrysanthos had to smile.

“Yes,” he said softly, touching the crucifix lying upon his heart, “she will do well because Christ and His Mother are watching over her.”

Miguel extended his hand and Chrysanthos grasped it firmly.

“God be with you, amigo. I pray that you will find your family well!”

“Thank you. I hope the same for you, and that you will serve your Generalissimo for many more years!”

The men smiled at each other and went their separate ways, leaving the ocean to hum softly behind them, and the sickle moon to fade into the night sky.

THE END

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