d wait for the
removal of the obstacles which do not permit the immediate convocation of
the National Assembly that will lay definitely the basis of the State."

After nearly three years of "internal evolution," the time for the
redemption of these pledges seemed to the people overdue. In vain did M.
Venizelos endeavour to put off the day of trial by arguing that it was
advisable to avoid the agitation inseparable from an election whilst
Greece was still at war with Turkey, and by promising that the elections
would follow close upon the signature of peace. It was natural that he
should adopt this course: he could not but hope that the fruits of his
foreign policy--fruits never even dreamt of a few years before--would
reconcile the people to his domestic administration. It was equally
natural that the people should be impatient: {218} Turkey may not sign
peace for ages, they protested; meanwhile are we to go on living under
martial law? They demanded the dissolution of the illegal and, at best,
long superannuated Chamber, and fresh elections. The call for freedom
grew louder, more insistent, more imperious and dangerous, until M.
Venizelos took a first tentative step towards a return to normality.

On 6 May, 1920--the day of the publication of the Turkish Peace terms
granted by the Allies at San Remo--a Royal Decree was issued at Athens
abolishing martial law. As at a signal, the Press turned its
search-lights on the inroads made into the Constitution. Abuses and
excesses hitherto held back by the Censorship gained publicity.
Political groups started organizing themselves for the electoral contest,
with every grievance of the past as an incitement to action in the
future. Most disturbing manifestation of all--though one that might have
been foretold--streets and taverns resounded again with the song in which
King Constantine was referred to as "The Son of the Eagle" leading his
army to glory. Evidently the efforts to root up loyalism had not
succeeded: far from it.

While M. Venizelos grew less by his elevation, King Constantine was
raised by his humiliation to a condition, if not actually divine,
half-way towards divinity. In many a house his portrait stood among the
holy icons, with a light burning before it, and the peasants worshipped
it much as their pagan ancestors would have done. It was but the
culmination of a process long at work--a process in which the historical
element was strangely mingled with