It was Dick Merriwell’s theory that in an encounter that promised to be unequal a sudden and surprising assault might more than outbalance the odds.
In this case he determined to put the theory to the test.
Brad understood Dick so thoroughly that it was not necessary for the latter to utter a word of command. He simply made a slight signal that was unobserved by the Greeks, and when he leaped forward the Texan was at his shoulder.
It was a daring thing to do, considering the fact that Maro, the younger man, had drawn a knife. Still Dick knew they would be compelled to fight or surrender the girl, and he had no thought of following the latter course. As it was necessary to fight, it was better to attack than to wait for the attack.
Merriwell singled out the man with the knife. Before the fellow realized what was happening, the boy was on him. Then Maro tried to lift the knife for the purpose of using it, at the same time uttering a snarl of astonished rage.
That snarl was broken midway, for Dick seized the fellow’s right wrist with his left hand, preventing him from making a stroke with the gleaming blade. At the same time the daring American lad gave Maro an awful jolt with his right.
Dick knew how to put force into a blow, and he knew how to land a blow that would put the other fellow “all to the bad.” That punch, backed with the boy’s weight, simply knocked the wind out of his antagonist.
Then Dick gave the man’s wrist a wrench that seemed to snap the bones. The knife flew from Maro’s fingers and struck with a clang against a prone and headless marble statue.
Having succeeded thus swiftly in disarming the rascal and knocking the wind out of him, Dick felt confident that he had accomplished the most difficult part of the task.
In the meantime Buckhart, roaring like an angry bull, went at Tyrus Helorus. The older Greek was no mean antagonist. He side-stepped in a manner that enabled him to avoid the full fury of the Texan’s rush, at the same time seeking to get hold of the boy with his powerful hands.
“Fool American!” he grated.
“Whoop!” shouted Brad, wheeling and coming at the man again. “Shades of Crockett and Bowie! you’re some spry on your feet!”
The Greek clutched Brad’s collar.
“Ha!” he cried in satisfaction.
“Ha! yourself, and see how you like it!” said Brad, as he delivered a body blow in the ribs.
But that blow, although struck with just as much force, perhaps, was not as effective as the one struck by Dick, for the reason that it did not land on the spot to count as heavily.
The Greek jerked Brad nearer and fastened both hands on him.
“Fool!” he said again.
Then he gathered the lad in his arms.
“I’ve been hugged by grizzly bears,” said Buckhart, in relating the adventure afterward, “but I certain allow that that old Greek gent sure could out-hug them all. When he closed in on me I heard a general cracking sound all round my anatomy, and I allowed at least nine of my ribs was bu’sted then and there. I sure did.”
In fact, Brad was robbed of his strength by that squeeze, and, for the time being, was helpless in the power of Tyrus Helorus.
Professor Gunn had been hopping round, first on one foot and then on the other. He was terribly excited, but suddenly, in a most astonishing manner, he flew at the fellow who seemed to be crushing Brad.
“Let that boy go, you wretch!” he cried, in a high-pitched voice. “Don’t you dare hurt one of my boys!”
Then he proceeded to claw at Tyrus in a manner that bewildered and confused the man for the time being.
The Greek relaxed his hold on Buckhart, enabling Brad to get a breath. With a wrench and a squirm the Texan twisted clear. He half dropped, and then his arms closed about the knees of the man. A moment later the Greek was lifted clear of his feet and pitched headlong against a marble slab.
The shock seemed to stun him.
“Much obliged, professor,” panted Buckhart. “You certain chipped into the game at just the right juncture.”
“Hum! ha!” burst from Zenas, who suddenly realized that he had done something. “They want to look out for me when I get started. I’m dangerous—exceedingly dangerous.”
By this time Dick had punished the younger Greek in a manner that led him to take to his heels in the effort to escape.
“Stop him!” shrilled Zenas.
“Let him go!” exclaimed the boy promptly. “If he’ll keep on running I’ll be pleased.”
Maro dashed in amid the ruins of the Parthenon and disappeared.
Tyrus lay where he had fallen.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Zenas, gazing in apprehension at the prostrate man. “I hope I didn’t kill him—I really hope I didn’t. Of course, it was in self-defense—or, rather, in defense of one of my boys; but still I hope I didn’t finish him when I struck him that last terrible blow.”
The old man seemed to really believe he had knocked the Greek down.
Dick turned to look for the girl. Pale and trembling, she stood with clasped hands, seemingly quite overcome by what had happened.
“Don’t be afraid, miss,” said Merriwell. “You are safe for the present.”
She gave him a flashing look of admiration from her splendid blue eyes. Then suddenly she seemed to think of the fallen man, and a moment later she was kneeling by his side, calling him by name and crying that he was dead.
“I do not think he is dead,” said Dick, attempting to reassure her. “Let me see.”
Even as the boy placed an inspecting hand on the breast of Tyrus the eyes of the man opened and he heaved a sigh. The girl gave a cry of gratitude and relief. He turned on her a glance that made her tremble, and in his native tongue he began to mutter threats which sent her to her feet like a startled fawn.
“Don’t waste your sympathy on him,” advised Merriwell. “A man who can growl like that isn’t badly hurt. He’ll be all right in a short time.”
“Then—then he make me marree Maro!” she gasped. “I better die!”
“What are we going to do about it, pard?” asked Brad. “Whatever can we do to help her?”
“That’s a puzzling question,” admitted Dick. “Evidently this man is her guardian, and we’ll get into no end of trouble if we try to take her from him. She ought to be able to appeal to the proper authorities for protection.”
“Tak’ me to Charlee,” entreated the girl.
“Charlie?” exclaimed Dick. “Who in the world is Charlie?”
“I love heem!” she declared. “He grandes’ man in the world! He grandes’ man ever live! I marree Charlee!”
“Ah, ha! So that’s the way the wind blows?” cried Dick. “There is another man in the case, and that’s why old Tyrus is trying to force you to marry Maro?”
She nodded violently.
“Charlee come to tak’ me to my father, in India,” she said. “When Maro find that so he come to Tyrus, say I never go, say I marree heem. Tyrus say I must marree Maro. Say I never meet Charlee no more. That brek my heart. I cry no, no, no! They tak’ me from home, so Charlee never find me when he come. They tak’ me where I have to stay in small room all time till Maro marree me. I geet out. I run. I come here. Charlee say he come here often look at ruins. I think he may come now. I wait. Tyrus and Maro come find me. I try to run. I see you. I call for help. That all.”
“It’s enough!” cried Dick. “Where is this Charlie? We will take you to him.”
She shook her head in distress.
“He somewhere in citee,” she said, with a sweep of her hand.
“A whole lot indefinite,” observed Buckhart.
Dick asked the girl if she did not know in what hotel Charlie was to be found.
She did not.
“What is the rest of his name?” questioned Dick. “Do you know it?”
“Whole name Charlee Cav’deesh,” she declared.
“Cavendish?”
“That right.”
“It’s up to us, Brad,” said Merriwell, “to find Charlie Cavendish as soon as possible.”
“I opine it is,” nodded the Texan.
“In the meantime,” said the professor, “we’ll all be arrested for kidnapping the girl. Boys, boys, is it impossible for you to keep out of scrapes?”
“I’m afraid it is,” confessed Dick.
Having beaten off the two Greeks, neither of the boys had a thought of surrendering the girl. They were determined to protect her, no matter what happened, until they could get word to Cavendish, who, she asserted, was somewhere in Athens.
Tyrus made no objection when he saw the lads and the old professor departing with the girl in their midst. He sat up, staring after them, a wicked look on his face.
Barely had Zenas, the boys, and the girl disappeared from view when Maro reappeared amid the ruins of the Parthenon and ran swiftly to the spot where Tyrus sat.
“Why do you sit thus?” he demanded. “Did you not see them taking Flavia away?”
“I saw them,” was the gruff answer.
“Then why did you permit it?”
“Why did you permit it?”
“You are her uncle.”
“You are her lover.”
“But you have the power.”
“It is, indeed, little power I had after being dashed against this slab of marble.”
“But yours is the authority.”
“They are Americans.”
“What of that?”
“Americans recognize no authority but that of might. They are wonderful fighters.”
“They fight like fiends!” exclaimed Maro. “Who could think that those boys would dare attack us! And I was armed with a knife.”
“Little good it did you,” returned Tyrus, with a touch of scorn. “I had no weapon, and I would have mastered one of them had not the old man attacked me, scratching and clawing like a cat.”
“But you are going to let them carry Flavia away?”
“You have as much right to stop them as I have.”
“No, no!” almost shouted Maro, in great exasperation. “You have the right, for you are her uncle. You must do it!”
“I like not your language, Maro. No man has ever told me I must do a thing.”
“But you let them walk away with her?”
“Because the young man, strong and able to battle for his rights, fled and sought shelter in hiding. Maro, I sadly fear I have been much mistaken in you. I fear you are a coward.”
The younger man flushed with mingled anger and shame.
“What was I to do?” he demanded, seeking to justify himself in the eyes of Tyrus. “I saw that you were stretched prone upon the ground, and I feared you had been slain. I was disarmed, and that terrible American boy was hitting me so fast that the blows could not be counted. I knew that, in another moment, I would have all three of them upon me. I fled to save my life.”
“You saved it,” said Tyrus, still with that biting touch of scorn. “You saved your life, but it may be that you have lost Flavia.”
“Never!” grated Maro. “I will follow and take her from them!”
“Alone?” asked Tyrus, with that same manner. “You ran from one of them, but now you propose to follow and conquer all three of them. Indeed, Maro, your words and your behavior are inconsistent.”
“We are losing time!” exclaimed Maro.
“We? Why, I thought you were going to do it quite alone.”
“It is you who must lodge the complaint against them, as you did against the Englishman, for you are the uncle and guardian of Flavia.”
“Oh, so you advise that we seek the assistance of the law?”
“It is the better way.”
“In truth I doubted if you actually intended to attack those American fighters, even though you spoke so boldly. You have had quite enough of that, Maro. You still insist that Flavia must be your bride, even though you know now that she scorns you and would prefer death?”
“She is my light, my life! I must have her! You have given me your word that she shall be mine.”
“But I had no thought that she would make such a terrible resistance. She has ever been a good and dutiful girl since her father left her in my hands. I knew she was averse to you, Maro, but I fancied you could overcome her aversion, or that she would dutifully submit at my command. She has in her the spirit of her father’s family. He married my sister even though I hated him and sought to prevent the union. Maro, he loved her, which I hold to his credit. He was a good husband to her, and he nearly died of grief when she passed from earth and left little Flavia. It was for Flavia that he lived. Otherwise I believe he would have taken his life that he might join her. But when he met reverses and lost most of his little fortune, he felt that bad fortune had placed a blight on him while he remained in his native land. He found an opportunity to go to India, and he left Flavia with me, charging me to be like a father to her. It is now said by this Englishman that he has prospered in life, and by this Englishman he sends a message which tells me to let Flavia return to him in care of the Englishman.”
“A trick! a trick!” cried Maro fiercely. “The letter was a forgery!”
“How do you know?”
“The Englishman and Flavia met before he presented that letter.”
“Which is true.”
“She fell in love with him.”
“Her behavior seems to denote it,” confessed Tyrus.
“She knew I wished to marry her and that you favored me.”
“Go on.”
“The Englishman smiled on her. She was deceived. She told him of her father. Perhaps she gave him some letters from her father. Either the Englishman forged the letter, or he employed an expert to accomplish it. In this manner he means to steal her from you and from me.”
“It is possible you speak the truth.”
“I know I speak the truth! I feel it here in my heart! He is deceiving her. He would take her away, pretending that it is his intention to conduct her to her father; but in truth he has no such intention, and when he becomes tired of her he will desert her. I am right, Tyrus. She will be left to die in some foreign land by this young dog of an Englishman, whose father is rich and who has money to fling about with a lavish hand. It is your duty—and mine—to save her from such a fate! Arouse yourself, Tyrus! Bestir yourself, and let’s do something without delay. The Englishman has been placed beneath arrest. It is our next move to enter complaint against the Americans and have them arrested also. It can be done.”
Tyrus bowed gravely.
“It can be done,” he agreed; “and, as you say, it may be our duty to see that it is done.”
“Then delay not. Every moment is precious.”
“Give me your hand,” said the elder man.
Maro assisted him to rise.
“It was a terrible shock I received,” muttered Tyrus, moving his shoulders and making a wry face. “It is most remarkable that my neck was not broken. Even now to move at all causes me discomfort, and to-morrow I fancy I will be exceedingly lame.”
“Think not of yourself,” urged Maro, burning with impatience and seeking to pull Tyrus onward. “Think of Flavia and your duty to her. Hasten!”
“Wait a little,” said the elder man. “I am dizzy. My head reels. It is a singular sensation, for all my life I have been strong as the horse.”
Indeed, he swayed and might have fallen but for the supporting arm of the young man.
“Oh, these Americans!” he muttered. “Even mere boys, scarce escaped from the nursery, seem to have the courage, skill and strength of men. What a wonderful people they must be!”
“Bah! I admire them not, for ever it is that an American and an Englishman will unite against one of any other nation. They speak one language, and there is between them a bond of sympathy stronger than they themselves dream. Has the Astrologer of Minerva not said that some day they will unite and rule the world. I admire them not, I tell you! Come, Tyrus, they will escape with Flavia, and we——”
“We will find them, never fear. They shall soon be placed in confinement and kept there until Flavia is yours. I think I can walk now.”
“Then hasten, hasten!” urged the impatient and baffled lover.
Zenas Gunn strutted like a peacock. He seemed to feel that he it was who had accomplished the feat of baffling the girl’s pursuers. For a time he put aside his fear of further trouble over the affair, jogged along at her side and talked fluently with her in the language she could best understand.
They left the plateau by way of the marble gate and hastened to descend.
“Trust us, my dear child,” said the professor.
“I do,” she declared, smiling on him in a manner that made him throw out his chest still further. “But, oh, I fear Tyrus and Maro! They are determined that I shall never see Charlee again.”
“Hum! hem! How long have you known this Charlie?”
“It is not long. He is the most beautiful man in all the world!”
“You should have seen me when I was younger,” said Zenas. “I beg your pardon, but I do not think we have learned your name?”
“It is Flavia.”
“Beautiful name,” declared the professor. “Look out, my child, do not stumble there.”
“There is no danger that I will stumble, but you——”
“Oh, I’m as frisky as a young colt! Didn’t you see me put Tyrus to the bad a while ago? Don’t worry about me.”
“The old boy is getting along some!” observed Brad, speaking to Dick, as they followed Zenas and the girl. “It takes a young girl to wake him up and make him lively.”
There was a shadow on Merriwell’s face.
“It was our duty to protect the girl,” he said; “but now it would be an absolute relief if we knew where to find this Englishman, Cavendish. There is going to be a great rumpus over this, and we may find ourselves in a pickle because we took the part of this maid of Athens.”
“The Maid of Athens!” exclaimed Brad. “That’s the title for her! It fits her. By the great Panhandle! if it wasn’t for Nadia Budthorne——”
Dick laughed.
“Brad, you’re smashed! She has a fellow—Cavendish. And that is not mentioning Maro.”
“Hang Maro! He doesn’t count any whatever.”
“But Cavendish does.”
“He’s lost in the shuffle.”
“Well, there is Nadia, and you——”
“She’s all right!” exclaimed Brad sincerely; “but she isn’t here, and I opine I’ve got a right to admire the Maid of Athens some.”
“But no right to make love to her.”
“No danger of that, pard,” grinned the Texan. “I never did cut much ice with the girls. You always were the one, and it’s a wonder to me that this girl didn’t forget Charlee the moment she placed her sky-blue eyes on you.”
“Oh, that will about do!” laughed Dick. “You’re forever imagining that girls are struck on me, when the fact is that they are not, and——”
“How about Doris Templeton?”
“Mere friendship.”
“Is that so? How about June Arlington?”
“Friendship just the same.”
“Well, then, how about——”
“That will do! Don’t try to make me out a chap with a dozen girls!”
The Texan chuckled.
“Don’t you get gay with me,” he advised. “I can come back at you good and plenty.”
By this time they were well down toward the base of the Acropolis. Suddenly Flavia uttered a wild cry of joy, broke from Professor Gunn and ran toward two men who were approaching.
One of the two was a very young man, with a delicate mustache on his lip, while the other was middle-aged, florid and puffy, carrying a heavy cane. The younger man had seen Flavia the moment she discovered him, and he sprang toward her, his hands outstretched.
“Galloping jack rabbits!” exclaimed Buckhart. “Whatever does this yere mean?”
“It means,” said Dick, with satisfaction, “that we’ll not have to search all over Athens for Charlee.”
“I’m almost sorry,” declared Brad, with a comical twist of his face. “She didn’t have time to discover how much superior I am to Charlee.”
Professor Gunn looked both relieved and disappointed. He had feared they would get into serious trouble, yet now he was disappointed by the appearance of the Englishmen.
For Englishmen they were, beyond question. The elder man had the appearance of a man of the world, given to special delight in the good things of life. He surveyed the boys and the professor with mild curiosity. His eyes were rather bleary and blood-shotten.
At first Flavia was too overjoyed to make an explanation, but finally, in a confused torrent of words, she told what had taken place on the plateau of the Acropolis.
The face of the young Englishman brightened as he began to understand how she happened to be escorted by Professor Gunn and the boys.
“So you went there thinking you might meet me, Flavia?” he said. “It was on my way to view those ruins that I first met you, and you remembered. I fancied you might, don’t you know, and that is why I am here now. I found you had been removed from your home, and I could not trace you. It is pure chance, but, by Jove! luck is with us.”
Then he turned to the Americans.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “my name is Cavendish—Charles Cavendish, son of Sir Henry Giles Cavendish, of Grantham. This is a particular friend of our family, Sir Augustus Camberwell. I wish to thank you most heartily and sincerely for your brave defense of Flavia. Permit me to shake hands with you all.”
“Yes,” said Sir Augustus, “very gallant, really. Just like you queer Americans. Never stop to inquire into an affair where a woman is concerned. Always go in and stand by the woman. Splendid sentiment, but dangerous.”
Sir Augustus now turned his attention to Flavia, at whom he gazed in a manner that Dick did not fancy.
“Very charming, my dear Charlie,” he admitted. “I’m beginning to understand how it happened. Oh, you rascal! Where would you be now if I wasn’t in Athens? Why, you would be in jail. It took my influence to get you out.”
“For which I thank you most sincerely, Sir Augustus.”
“All right, my boy—all right. But you want to remember my advice. You want to remember what I told you about getting in too deep. Oh, you rascal! you’re going to be another case with the girls, just as your father was before you. Many’s the little toot we’ve been on together, and Henry always was getting entangled with a female.”
“Well, what do you think of that, pard?” whispered Buckhart, in Dick’s ear.
“I think Sir Augustus is smelly,” was the answer.
Professor Gunn was likewise far from pleased. He regarded the older Englishman with an air of pronounced distrust and suspicion.
“Don’t worry about me, Sir Augustus,” advised Cavendish.
Just then, happening to glance up the path they had lately descended, Professor Gunn uttered an exclamation of alarm and warning.
“Look—look, boys!” he cried. “There come the Greeks!”
Maro and Tyrus were to be seen descending the path.
Flavia was greatly alarmed in a moment.
“Let them not touch me, Charlee!” she entreated, clinging to Cavendish.
“Never fear,” he said reassuringly. “They shall not.”
“But I opine we’d better be moseying along out of this,” said Buckhart.
To this the others agreed, and they lost no time in moving.
Although the Greeks pursued them into the city, they made no attempt to recover possession of Flavia.
What they did do, however, was something alarming.
At intervals they called to other men, friends or acquaintances, and many of these joined them in following the girl and her escort. This little band of dogged pursuers grew by ones and twos until there were in all at least ten of them.
Professor Gunn’s agitation grew as the number of pursuers increased.
“Boys,” he said, “I sadly fear we are going to have grave trouble. It would not surprise me if we were attacked and murdered right here in the city of Athens. I am in favor of calling for protection by the ‘Agents of Peace,’ as they call the police here.”
“Now, don’t you know, really I wouldn’t do that,” objected Sir Augustus Camberwell. “Really I wouldn’t.”
“Why not, sir?”
“On account of the girl, don’t you understand! The blooming Agents of Peace might ask us to explain what we are doing with the girl and why we withheld her from her uncle, don’t you see! Don’t have anything to do with the Greek bobbies. We have but a short distance farther to go—a very short distance.”
So the Agents of Peace were not appealed to by them, and at last they reached the hotel where Sir Augustus and Charles Cavendish were stopping.
“I have to thank you very much for your gallant protection of Flavia,” said Cavendish, again shaking hands with the boys and the old professor. “She has explained fully how you risked your lives for her, as that crazy fellow, her uncle wishes her to marry, drew a knife on you. It is really wonderful that two boys and an old man should be able to stand those two ruffians off.”
“Old man!” exploded the professor indignantly. “Who are you calling an old man, sir? I would have you understand that I’m younger than lots of men half my age.”
“No offense, professor,” Cavendish hastened to say. “You are indeed remarkably young for your years.”
Zenas sniffed and hemmed in a manner that denoted he was not fully pacified.
Both Cavendish and Sir Augustus seemed anxious to get rid of the Americans.
Maro, Tyrus, and the rest of the pursuers had now disappeared, and, therefore, Dick proposed that they should return to their hotel.
Not until they were far away and had failed to discover further signs of their pursuers did Professor Gunn throw off his nervousness.
“I tell you, boys,” he said, “this has been a very serious affair—very. Of course, we may yet have trouble over it. There is no telling. I can’t understand why we were not attacked by that band of men who gathered to follow us. It is certain that the Greek of to-day is not much like the Greek of old. In ancient times we would have been overwhelmed and slaughtered like dogs.”
Dick was silent and moody. He seemed thinking of something that was far from pleasant. Even after they had reached their hotel and were in their rooms he maintained an air of gloomy thought.
“Whatever is troubling you, pard?” questioned Brad, when the professor had retired to his room.
“I am thinking of Flavia—poor Flavia,” answered Dick. “Her situation bothers me, Brad. I almost fear we made a mistake to-day.”
“I’ve been thinking some that same way,” declared the Texan, springing up and beginning to pace the floor with long strides. “I sure didn’t like old Augustus any, and Cavendish didn’t hit me any too well. You don’t suppose that young snipe is fooling that girl, do you, Dick?”
“That is a hard question to answer. There is something queer about this affair. Flavia says Cavendish is going to take her to India, where her father is; but still they met by accident on the Acropolis or near it. If Cavendish was sent here by the father of Flavia, why didn’t he come direct to the girl?”
“You tell!”
“Sir Augustus is an old rascal, and from his manner I inferred that he held the idea that Cavendish is crooked. Brad, if we have been instrumental in getting that beautiful girl into trouble, instead of helping her out of trouble, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“What are we going to do, Dick?” asked the Texan, gravely.
“Perhaps it is our duty to go to the headquarters of the Agents of Peace and tell all about it.”
“And get up to our necks in trouble, sure as shooting.”
“I suppose so. Sir Augustus must have influence, for he got Cavendish out of the jug in a hurry.”
“Filthy lucre did it, partner. It will do almost anything in these days. Somehow I opine that old Tyrus doesn’t rate very high in the family line here, and it’s likely good coin would cause the authorities to wink at an intrigue between a gay young Englishman and a girl of poor family.”
At this moment Professor Gunn came prancing back into the room, very much excited in manner.
“I was sure of it!” he squawked, shaking a quivering finger in the air. “I was sure I had heard of that old reprobate! I looked over my notes. Boys, he’s a miserable old rounder! He’s a man with a bad record! He ought to be in prison! He would be in prison if he had his just deserts! He disgraced himself and his family in England! He left his own country on account of his reputation. That’s the kind of man he is.”
“Who are you talking about?” asked Dick.
“Sir Augustus Camberwell,” answered the professor. “And he’s the friend of Cavendish!”
“Now we know how the land lays, partner,” said Brad.
Dick rose to his feet, catching up his hat and light topcoat.
“Come, Buckhart,” he said grimly.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going out to get some air. I’m afraid we have been chumps of the chumpiest variety.”
“I’m with you,” said the Texan.
“Boys, boys, boys!” spluttered the professor. “I hope you are not going to do anything more that is rash. I can’t permit it. I must object. I must put my foot down.”
“Don’t worry about us, professor,” said Dick. “I feel the need of a brisk walk to cool off. My indignation is getting the better of me.”
Zenas hurried to the door.
“You shall not go until you promise me you will do nothing rash,” he declared. “I shall not permit you to leave this room.”
Dick managed to appease and reassure him in a short time, and soon he left the hotel, accompanied by his chum.
“What’s your plan, pard?” asked Brad, as soon as they were on the street.
“I’m going direct to Cavendish and Camberwell,” said Dick. “Unless Cavendish can satisfy me beyond the shadow of a doubt that his intentions toward Flavia are perfectly honorable, I’ll denounce him to the authorities, and push the matter against him, even if I go to jail myself for it!”
“Whoop!” cried the Texan. “That’s the stuff! We’ll take to the warpath, Dick, and there will be things doing in Athens. You hear me shout!”
Although it did not take them long to retrace their steps to the hotel where they had left the Englishmen and the Greek girl, they met with a most surprising disappointment when they arrived there. They were informed that Cavendish, Camberwell, and Flavia had just left in a closed carriage. The carriage was pointed out to them, just disappearing down a street that seemed to lead toward the outskirts of the city.
Only a moment was Dick Merriwell nonplused. Then he called for saddled horses, and the money he displayed brought him the assurance that his wants should be supplied.
“Lose not a second,” he ordered. “We must overtake that carriage.”
Buckhart was burning with impatience, but he bemoaned the fact that they were not armed.
“Oh, for a brace of revolvers now!” he cried. “If we had the guns we certain would take that girl away from them.”
“We’ll take her anyhow,” declared Dick grimly.
Brad did not ask how they were going to do it, for he had perfect confidence in his bosom friend. If Dick said they would do a thing, that settled it—it was as good as done.
So it happened that in a very few moments the two daring American boys were mounted and riding at a breathless gallop along the street of that Greek city.
The carriage had disappeared from view some time before, but the boys kept on, hoping fortune might be with them.
Not far from the outskirts of the city Dick paused to question some laborers. One of the men could speak good English, and he immediately declared that he remembered the carriage. He directed them, and they were soon galloping onward once more.
The street they now followed quickly brought them to the open country outside the city. In the distance lay some low, rugged hills, which from that point seemed rather barren and forbidding. The road led up a steep incline.
“Pard,” said Brad, “I’m sure afraid we’ve missed them. We can’t see anything of them anywhere.”
“Perhaps we have,” admitted Dick; “but let’s get to the top of this hill and take a survey.”
They clattered up the hill. Near the crest, the road wound round the shoulder of an immense bowlder, which was fully as large as a small cottage.
Sitting on the ground with his back against the rock and his body in the sunshine, being fully protected from the rather chill wind that swept the top of the hill, was a ragged beggar. He held out his open palm to them.
“Drachma,” he said. “Drachma.”
“Whatever does he mean by that?” asked Brad.
“Money,” said Dick. “Evidently he takes us for wealthy foreigners, else he would not ask for drachma, which has a value of something like twenty cents in our money.”
Dick produced a coin and tossed it shimmering toward the beggar, who deftly caught it.
Then the boy began to question him, using a little “modern Greek” and many signs. The beggar was grateful and seemed anxious to understand and aid Dick. He even rose to his feet and drew nearer.
Dick sprang down from his horse, giving the bridle into the hand of his companion. With his finger he swiftly drew a crude picture in a patch of dust beside the road. It was the picture of a closed carriage.
The beggar understood in a twinkling. He nodded excitedly, jabbering in his own language and motioning for the boys to follow him. Turning, he ran to the point where the road disappeared round the shoulder of the bowlder, pausing again to beckon them on.
Merriwell leaped into the saddle and the two lads rounded the rock at the heels of the beggar. The man pointed along the road, and amid some bare trees on a slope half a mile away the carriage was plainly seen, a tiny cloud of dust rolling up behind it.
“Whoop!” shouted Buckhart. “There she is, pard! We’re still on the trail!”
They did not pause to thank the beggar, but were off down the hill, the hoofs of their horses ringing clear on the hard and stony road.
It was dangerous to ride as they rode, for that strip of road was anything but good. Still they took chances and dashed onward.
It seemed that some one in the carriage observed them, for they soon decided that the horses attached to the vehicle had been forced to greater speed.
“But they can’t get away from us now!” declared Dick grimly.
“What will we do when we overtake them?” questioned Brad.
“We’ll hold them up and find out what they are trying to do with Flavia.”
“It’s a whole lot queer they were able to get away from that hotel and out of the city without any of that bunch of Greeks interfering.”
“I’ve been thinking of that. After following them to the hotel, it seems that Maro, Tyrus, and their friends quit.”
“I certain am afraid the Greek of to-day is a sure enough quitter.”
“Look, Brad—look at the road yonder!”
“Horsemen, partner, and they’re riding good and hard.”
For a few moments a number of horsemen were in plain sight on another road, and it was plain that they were pushing their mounts. They soon disappeared from view behind an intervening ridge.
“They were Greeks,” said Dick.
“Sure thing.”
“The carriage has disappeared.”
“That’s right.”
“Brad, I think the road those horsemen were following intersects this road somewhere beyond that ridge.”
“I judge she does.”
“The occupants of that carriage could not see those horsemen.”
“Because the ridge shut out the view of the other road.”
“Exactly. But I think the horsemen knew the carriage must come round that ridge at the western end, and I believe they mean to intercept it where the roads cross.”
“Partner, I allow you have figured it out proper. That being the case——”
“Tyrus and Maro are leading the horsemen.”
“I’ll bet on it.”
“In which case there is liable to be bloodshed. Camberwell and Cavendish may be butchered by the engaged uncle and lover.”
“That’s whatever.”
“They may deserve it, but still it’s our duty to prevent it, if possible.”
Even while riding at full gallop the boys had managed to carry on this conversation. But now, as they reached the last declivity of the road, and were descending into the valley between the two ridges, Dick’s horse stepped on a loose stone and fell as if shot.
Had not Merriwell been an expert horseman that accident might have been fatal. He shot over the head of the horse, having managed to free his feet from the stirrups with the quickness of thought itself. Striking on his feet, he managed to keep up for two springs, and, when he did fall, he regained an upright position and wheeled so swiftly that it was almost impossible to say that he had been down at all.
As the horse rose Dick had the creature by the bit and was talking soothingly to it.
Having uttered an exclamation of dismay, Buckhart reined in as soon as possible and turned about. An expression of relief shot over his rugged face as he saw his friend on his feet, holding the frightened horse by the bit.
“Good work!” shouted the delighted Texan. “It certain takes more than a little thing like that to put you down and out, partner.”
Dick managed to fling himself into the saddle. As his feet found the stirrups once more, he waved his hand to Buckhart.
Brad wheeled his own horse as Merriwell came alongside, and they were off again, making for the rise beyond the hollow.
Dick, however, quickly made an unpleasant discovery. His horse had been injured, and quickly showed signs of lameness as they struck the rise. In fact, the creature limped and betrayed signs of distress, beginning to fall back.
“Hard luck, Brad!” said Dick. “The beast is hurt, and will be scarcely able to hobble in a few moments.”
The other boy drew up somewhat, turning his head to anxiously regard his friend’s faltering mount.
“That’s right,” he said. “At first I reckoned you both had come through all right. If the horse is that lame as quick as this, it will be plumb done up in ten minutes’ time.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be on hand when the pursuers stop that carriage. Ten to one I’ll ruin this horse if I try to push him.”
Always sympathetic for dumb beasts, Dick was hurt by every hobbling stride of the animal he bestrode.
“Keep him going, pard,” urged the Texan. “This is a right desperate case, and you’ll not be to blame for the horse if he is ruined. I’m some anxious to see that the Maid of Athens gets a fair deal in the game, and I’m afraid the cards are stacked against her.”
So Dick urged the faltering horse onward, and they toiled up the road on which they had last seen the closed carriage.
Suddenly from beyond the ridge came electrifying sounds. The air bore to their ears the distant barking of firearms.
“I judge the scrimmage is on, Dick!” palpitated Buckhart. “The battle is taking place and we’re not in it. What a howling shame!”
“Wait, Brad!” cried Dick. “I’ve got to quit this horse. Your animal must carry us both.”
He leaped to the ground as the Texan pulled up. With another bound he was up behind the Texan. The lame horse was abandoned.
“Git!” cried Buckhart.
The animal bearing the double burden responded nobly. Up the road and round the shoulder of the ridge they went.
The shooting had ceased as suddenly as it began. All was silent before them. That silence was ominous.
“I’m afraid we’ll arrive too late,” said Dick regretfully.
Soon they were dashing down the road. To the left they caught a glimpse of another brown highway, the one on which they had seen the galloping horsemen. It was plain that the two roads met not far beyond.
They had made no mistake in thinking it the purpose of those horsemen to intercept the carriage. The sound of firearms had told them that the meeting was not of a peaceful nature. Dick dreaded yet was anxious to know the result.
Beyond and beneath them was a gloomy hollow. But for the clatter produced by their own horse, they might have heard the echo of hoofbeats receding and dying out in the distance of that hollow. The nature of the landscape concealed from their eyes the road that led through it and into the rugged hills beyond.
Soon they came dashing into view of the carriage they had pursued. It was overthrown on its side. One of the two horses that had drawn it was down. The driver had managed to clear the other animal, which was taking all of his attention. He was the only human being in sight. As they came on, he gave them an apprehensive look, seeming on the point of abandoning the horse and taking to his heels.
“There sure has been the old blazes to pay there, Dick!” cried Brad.
All at once, as they drew near, out from the wreck of the carriage leaped a puff of smoke. A pistol spoke and a bullet sung unpleasantly near the boys.
“Mighty bad shooting,” observed the Texan.
He flung the horse to a stand. Dick was the first to leap to the ground. Advancing toward the carriage, peering forth from which he caught a glimpse of an ashen face, he cried:
“Let up on that carelessness! Are you trying to shoot up friends?”
Immediately the head and shoulders of a man rose through a shattered door of the carriage.
It was Sir Augustus Camberwell, and his whole appearance was that of a man so badly frightened that he was liable to do almost any freakish thing. He held in his hand the pistol with which he had fired at the approaching lads. A bit of smoke still curled from the muzzle of the weapon.
“Really is—is it you—my—my dear boys?” he chattered, seeming to shake all over like a man with the palsy. “I—I thought it was—those ruffians returned to—to finish me up, don’t you understand.”
“Yes, we understand,” said Dick. “You lost your wits completely. Lucky for us that your hand shook so you couldn’t hit a house when you fired.”
“I—I hope you will pardon me.”
“We’ll have to. What’s happened here?”
“Ruffians, highwaymen, cutthroats dashed upon us! Shot down one of our horses! Tried to murder me! Fell on Cavendish and dragged him forth! Seized the girl! Upset the carriage! That’s about all I know, don’t you know. I’m hurt. I fancy they thought me killed. I kept still. They left. Cavendish is gone. Girl is gone. Confound the girl! She made all the trouble. Cavendish was a fool! I told him so.”
“Why did you leave Athens?”
“Dangerous there. Greeks followed us to hotel. Knew a quiet place in a little village where Charlie and the girl could stay till he got ready to quit his foolishness. Thought the Greeks had gone to notify the authorities, and raise a row. Thought they were satisfied after they found where we were stopping. Saw nothing of them. Improved the opportunity to get away.”
It was not the habit of Sir Augustus to express himself clearly and concisely, but his condition of nervousness seemed to jerk the words out of him in an astonishingly crisp manner.
“What do you mean by saying that Cavendish and the girl could stay in your quiet little village until he quit his foolishness?” demanded Dick. “Do you intend to convey the idea that he was not going to marry Flavia?”
“Marry her?” cried Camberwell. “How ridiculous! Why, he would disgrace his family, don’t you know!”
Dick Merriwell’s eyes blazed with anger.
“Then it is evident at last that Charles Cavendish is as great a scoundrel as Sir Augustus Camberwell!” he said, in deep disgust.
“What, sir—what?” gasped the Englishman, in astonishment. “How dare you use such language to me!”
“Give it to him, pard!” advised Brad, who was standing near, holding the horse. “Tell him a few things good and plain.”
“You got off too easily,” said Dick. “They should have hanged you to the limb of a tree—and Cavendish with you!”
Sir Augustus choked and spluttered.
“Do you know whom you’re addressing?” he fumed.
“Yes; I’m addressing an old reprobate—a miserable old toad! I know your record, Camberwell. I know that you disgraced your family in England. I know you have left a track of wretchedness and ruin behind you all through life. And now you connive with a young reprobate to deceive an innocent and trusting girl! You plot to break her heart and destroy her! I cannot find words to tell you exactly what I do think of you. You ought to get twenty years in a Greek prison—you and Cavendish.”
“Be careful!” snorted Sir Augustus, rising to his full height and clambering forth from the smashed carriage, while he shook his pistol at the daring American lad. “I have money and influence—and friends in Greece.”
“I don’t care what you have; you have entered into a dastardly plot, and I hope to see you properly punished.”
“I knew nothing of it to begin with,” averred the Englishman. “Charlie sent for me. I was his father’s friend. Of course, I brought my influence to bear to have him released. I had no part in forging the letter. That was done before I knew Cavendish was in Athens. The girl knew the letter was forged. Don’t think she is such an innocent little——”
“That’s enough!” blazed Dick, taking a step toward the man.
Involuntarily Sir Augustus lifted the hand that contained the pistol. Like a flash the boy grasped the weapon, turned its muzzle aside and wrenched it from the grasp of the Englishman.
“You’re not fit to handle such dangerous playthings,” he said.
Brad had made a move to assist Dick, but he stopped, a grim smile on his face, for he saw his friend needed no aid.
“Why—why, you’re worse than the ruffians!” gasped Sir Augustus.
“Look here,” said the fearless American boy, “you had better keep a decent tongue in your vile mouth! Don’t say a nasty word about Flavia, unless you’re anxious to get hurt. Cavendish is a rascal, like yourself. He has led her to believe it is his intention to marry her. There is no question about that, for she told us so. She has fled from Maro, who would have married her any day, to this English reprobate, who only means to deceive her. But I fancy that Cavendish will get all that’s coming to him, for doubtless both Maro and Tyrus, the uncle of the girl, are with the band that dropped on you here. It is mighty doubtful if you ever set eyes on Charles Cavendish again.”
“If they dare injure him they’ll suffer for it!” cried the Englishman. “If they are wise, they’ll set him free without delay. I hope they do keep the girl, for he’s crazy over her, and I can’t swear he wouldn’t be foolish enough to marry her.”
Dick turned in disgust from Camberwell to the driver, who stood looking down mournfully at the dead horse.
“Can you speak English?” asked Merriwell.
“I spik it well,” was the answer.
“Who attacked you here?”
“It was Donatus.”
“Who is Donatus?”
“You never hear of him?”
“No.”
“He outlaw. One time Suliote chief. Price on his head.”
“And this outlaw, Donatus, led the men who attacked you here?”
“I have said it.”
“How did he happen to be so near the city?”
The driver shook his head.
“Some time he come into city. See hills yonder. He stay there much. Think he go there now. Take Englishman. Englishman have friends perhaps. They pay Donatus well if ever see him ’live again.”
“It’s right evident,” said Buckhart, “that Mr. Cavendish is in a very bad scrape.”
“As he richly deserves to be,” declared Dick.
Amid the wild and rugged Grecian hills lay a sheltered and secluded valley. Indeed, this valley was so secluded that a wandering traveler might chance upon it only by the rarest accident. All things favored the probability that he would pass near without ever dreaming of its existence.
It was night, and in this valley a fire burned, casting its shifting lights on the faces of a small band of men. In all there were eight. Kirtled, bearded, unkempt, picturesque ruffians they were, every man of them fully armed and looking the thorough desperado and cutthroat.
They lounged about the fire in various attitudes, with the exception of one who, at a little distance, walked back and forth in front of the black mouth of a cave. The latter was a guard.
The night wind had a chill in it, and they drew their robes about them, moving yet a little nearer the fire.
Two of them seemed unprepared to spend any time at night in lying before a fire in the open air, for they were unprotected save by their ordinary clothes. One was a man of forty-five, the other a youth of twenty-one.
The first was Tyrus Helorus; the second Maro Veturia. Finally the young man spoke to the other in a low tone.
“It is now nightfall, and there can be no further danger that possible pursuers might see us leaving this place. Let us be going.”
“Be patient,” answered Tyrus, in the same guarded tone. “When he is willing that we should depart, my friend, Donatus, will speak. He is buried in thought now.”
As he said this, he shifted his position slightly in order to observe the figure of a bearded man that reclined on his elbow almost opposite them, gazing straight into the changing flames. The figure was massive, yet graceful. The curling beard was dark, as were the eyes. His face was that of one used to command. It was cruel, yet in a way strikingly handsome.
This was the man who called himself Donatus and who dared lead his lawless band to the very gates of Athens. Indeed, for all of the price on his head, it was said he often entered the city unaccompanied.
Donatus was a Suliote, at one time a chief, but robbed of his power by the government which refused to recognize his authority and which dispersed and intimidated his followers. In vain he had sought to return to the old ways of living. Being baffled, he became an outlaw indeed, preying on his fellow men. With the exception of Tyrus and Maro, these were his followers.
“I like not that look on his face,” muttered Maro. “I don’t know why I fancy it, but I’ll swear he is thinking of my Flavia this minute.”
“Hush!” cautioned Tyrus, in alarm. “Be careful what you say, if you value your life!”
Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the dark eyes of Donatus were lifted and fastened inquiringly upon them.
“Why speak in whispers, Tyrus, my friend?” he demanded, using the Romaic speech, with which he did not seem wholly familiar. “If you have anything to utter, you need not fear to speak out.”
Instantly Tyrus would have risen, but the chief made a gesture that bade him remain as he was.
“We did not wish to disturb you, chief,” asserted the elder Greek: “It was plain you were buried in thought.”
“I was. I was thinking of my youth and of my home far from this spot. For some time I have longed to return there, Tyrus; but I have not wished to go empty-handed.”
“By the stories they tell of you, you should have riches to-day.”
Donatus made a slight, careless gesture with his hand.
“Who gets money as I have and keeps it?” he said. “It is a desperate and precarious life, Tyrus, and the rewards do not compensate for the dangers. I came to Athens to seek certain men of influence to interpose in my behalf and seek for me a pardon, with the understanding that I should forever abandon the life I have led in recent years. Chance threw me in with you, a friend who once concealed me when armed enemies were close on my track. I promised you then that if the opportunity ever came Donatus would repay the debt. You appealed to me in your distress, saying the Englishmen had stolen your niece.
“I called some of my followers, who in disguise had entered the city with me. If you had advised it, we would have attacked the Englishmen then and taken the girl from them. But you were afraid, Tyrus, that it would create an uproar, and as a result that it must become generally known that you had consorted with Donatus, the outlaw. You said wait, and we waited. Fortune came our way, for the Englishmen fancied they saw their opportunity to escape with the girl, and they lost no time in trying it. We were watching every move, and they played the game to suit us when they hastened with the girl from the city. In the open country we could work, and we did work. One poor fool of an Englishman we left on the road, permitting him to think he had deceived us, while, at your suggestion, we took the other one. He is now a prisoner in the cave yonder, where also the girl is safely stored.
“I am sorry, Tyrus, that I could not please you and your young friend by cutting the young Englishman’s throat. Had I known that was why you wished me to carry him off, I might have left him behind with the old fool who played that he had been killed, when we took good care to kill nothing save a horse. But now I am glad that we took the trouble, for one of my men tells me he is the son of an aristocrat and that the man we left behind is rich. It is well. A satisfactory ransom must be paid before the young Englishman is set at liberty. Thus through a friendly act I shall be able to turn an honest coin. Already I have dispatched a faithful fellow who bears a message to the other Englishman, stating that when I have received ten thousand drachmas I will set my captive free.”
“If you get it, you will not return empty-handed to your home,” said Tyrus.
“It was not of money I was thinking when I spoke thus,” asserted Donatus. “I am getting on in years. Long have I dreamed of an ideal who should make my home complete by sharing it with me. This day I saw her.”
“A woman?”
“The flower of Greece! I was thinking of her as I gazed into the fire.”
The hands of Maro suddenly closed and a wild light came into his eyes. He rose to his feet.
“Chief,” he said, boldly addressing the Suliote, “if we do not return to Athens ere another dawn, suspicion will fall on us. We must be going.”
“Would you depart so soon? Shall I send one of my men to conduct you and show you the way?”
“If you will.”
The brigand leader rose. There was a pantherish grace in every move, in spite of the fact that he was a large man. He spoke to one of the band, and the fellow sprang up.
“Bion, bring horses for my friends and conduct them on the way until they are safely on the road to the city.”
In a few minutes Bion returned from the darkness, leading two saddled horses. The chief explained that the man would accompany them on foot, being a fleet runner.
Maro had become very nervous. Now he demanded:
“Where is the third horse?”
“The third?” questioned Donatus. “There are but two of you.”
“You have forgotten Flavia?”
“Indeed not. I have remembered her well.”
Maro was pale, holding his excitement in check with difficulty.
“Then I will walk and she shall ride,” he said. “Have her brought.”
Barely a moment did Donatus hesitate, and then he gave the order that the girl be brought.
Soon one of the men conducted her from the cave before the mouth of which the guard paced. She was almost deathly white. Her eyes were wide with fear, but she pressed her lips together and tried to retain command of herself.
Never in all her life had Flavia looked more beautiful than at that moment. Donatus folded his arms on his broad chest and gazed at her with a singular expression in his eyes.
“Maid,” he said, “your uncle and your lover are about to depart. Your lover has demanded that you shall accompany him. Are you ready to go?”
“Come, Flavia!” cried Maro, holding out his hands to her.
She shrank from him.
“No!” she cried; “I do not wish to go with you! I will not go with you!”
With a single stride Donatus reached her and placed his left arm about her with almost crushing fierceness. His other hand he flung out toward Maro.
“You have her answer!” he said. “She remains, and you go without her!”
With a cry of terror, Flavia tried to break from the powerful arm that clasped her. This she could not have accomplished of her own strength, but Donatus released her, and she reeled away.
Maro sprang forward to support her, but she saw him and whirled in a twinkling, rushing back to the protection of the brigand chief, who smiled as he again clasped her with his arm.
“She has made her choice,” he said. And then in a voice unintelligible to them he added: “I shall not return empty-handed to my home!”
Maro was distracted. He clutched Tyrus by the arm, panting:
“Is this your friend? Is this the man whose life you saved? See how he repays you!”
Tyrus was greatly agitated.
“Donatus,” he said entreatingly, “have you forgotten? She is my niece. It is I who have the right to take her.”
“For years,” said the chief, “I have dreamed of her face. To-day I saw it for the first time.”
“But it is not because of you she chooses to stay. She does not understand. She does not know you mean to keep her for yourself. It is the Englishman of whom she thinks.”
“She will forget him soon when he is gone. With the money I shall secure through him I may buy my pardon. She shall be mine!”
Now Flavia did understand, and once more she struggled for her freedom, crying out in her horror of them all.
At this juncture, from some distant part of the valley, came startling sounds. Several pistol shots were fired in rapid succession. In a twinkling every brigand was on his feet, their weapons ready.
Donatus had wheeled toward the sounds, which ceased as suddenly as they began.
Behind the chief’s back Maro seized the girl, hissing into her ear:
“Foolish Flavia! Will you give yourself up to this brigand? Do not think he will let the Englishman have you. He means to keep you for himself.”
She stood like one turned to stone, unable to decide what should be done. In that moment she seemed so beset and entangled that there was no possible escape for her. She could not depart and leave Cavendish in that dark hole, yet if she remained she might be forced to become the bride of Donatus, the brigand.
Maro was likewise in a fearful state of mind. Suddenly he snatched out a pistol and threatened her with it.
“I had rather kill you with my own hand than leave you to either of them!” he hissed.
She clutched the pistol in his hand with both of her hands and sought to wrest it from him. In the struggle it was discharged.
Donatus, the Suliote, gave a great start and then his legs buckled beneath him and he fell prone to the ground.
Instantly Maro relaxed his hold on the pistol and sprang away. When the brigands who remained by the fire turned to look they saw their chief stretched on the ground, while the smoking pistol was clutched in the hands of the horror-stricken girl.
Instantly they were upon her. They wrested the weapon from her and pinned her arms at her side. One knelt beside the chief and made a hasty search for the wound.
“Kill her!” snarled a little ruffian, flourishing a knife. “Cut her throat! She has slain Donatus!”
He made a slash with the gleaming blade, as if he would sweep it across the throat of the girl.
It was the voice of Donatus that checked them and kept them from doing her fatal harm. He had lifted himself to his elbow.
“Hold!” he commanded, in the tone none dared disobey. “Hold her fast, but harm no hair on her head. Where is Ruteni? Let him see how badly I am wounded. Place her in the cave and guard her well.”
Then Flavia managed to drag those who had clutched her until she was near enough to sink on her knees beside the wounded and bleeding brigand.
“Oh, I did not mean to do it!” she sobbed. “Believe me, I did not mean it! I tried to wrest the weapon from Maro, and it was discharged.”
The face of Donatus, outcast and wretch that he was, lighted with a great look of relief. With an effort, he lifted a hand and touched her tangled hair.
“I believe you, Flavia,” he said. “You shall not be harmed. You shall remain with the Englishman.”
Then he gave a few low-spoken orders, and Maro saw Flavia led away toward the cave.
“Where is Ruteni?” again demanded Donatus. “Am I to bleed to death for need of a little care?”
Soon the man called for came running from the darkness and dropped beside the chief. He carried on his person a leather case, containing some instruments and bandages, and he began at once to look after the wound by the light of the camp fire.
“What was the firing I heard, Ruteni?” asked the chief.
“Some one succeeded in passing the guards at the entrance to the valley, chief.”
“Succeeded?” said Donatus, as if he could not believe it. “How many of them?”
“Only one. He was crawling on his stomach like a serpent when they saw him and fired. He sprang up and ran.”
“Into the valley?”
“Into the valley, chief. But he is only one, and he cannot escape. They will capture him.”
“Who could it be? Who would dare attempt such a thing? Ruteni, how badly am I wounded?”
“I fear it is serious,” was the answer.
Water had been brought, and a few of Donatus’ band were watching the work of Ruteni, seeming benumbed and dazed by what had happened. The chief saw them and said: