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 "we are not in the habit of sheering lambs—it's sheep's wool we are after, eh, captain?"

The leader did not reply to him. He was regarding us, more in sorrow than in anger.

"When I shook hands with you to-night," he remarked, "I felt as if I were shaking hands with thousands of golden pounds. And now"

He wagged his head, like a good man upon whom Fate has played a scurvy trick.

"We shall get Spiropoulo yet," said one of the men hopefully. "He has entirely too much money, and we have too little. Our motto is 'Equal Division.'"

"You're right, pallikari," another assented, and the two shook hands.

By this time it was the small hours of the morning, and the party began to break up.

Some of the men rose to their feet, put on their kosocks, saluted the leader, and started off on their business. By the entrance was a large icon of St George, their patron saint. Each brigand, before going out, halted in front of the icon, made the sign of the cross, and reverently kissed the hand of the saint.

"Come with me, my holy Saint," each implored.

I almost giggled at the idea of St George going with them and assisting in the capture of harmless men.

Then the lanterns in the cave were put out; but first two small oil lamps were lighted, one to