‘Ah, pardon, my lord! They will kill you, they—the people—the men of the island.’
I gazed at her sternly. She shrank back in confusion. And I spoke at a venture, yet in a well-grounded hazard:
‘You mean that Constantine Stefanopoulos will kill me?’
‘Ah, hush,’ she cried. ‘He may be here, he may be anywhere.’
‘He may thank his stars he’s not here,’ said I grimly, for my blood was up. ‘Attend, woman. Who is this?’
‘It is the lord of the island, my lord,’ she answered. ‘Alas, he is wounded, I fear, to death. And yet I fell asleep. But I was so weary.’
‘Wounded? By whom?’
Her face suddenly became vacant and expressionless.
‘I do not know, my lord. It happened in the crowd. It was a mistake. My dear lord had yielded what they asked. Yet some one—no, by heaven, my lord, I do not know who—stabbed him. And he cannot live.’