"But what about this?" demanded Nikka whimsically. He jerked his pistol muzzle at Kara sitting demurely on the floor, playing with her knife. "If we show our backs, she'll knife us or open the door—and besides, where shall we go?"
"Tie her up," I answered impatiently.
Kara, who, of course, could not understand a word of what we were saying, laughed with glee.
"Do you think I am your enemy?" she demanded in the Tzigane dialect. "I tell you I am your friend. See!"
And she tossed her knife across the room.
"I came with you to help you, Giorgi Bordu."
"My name is Nikka Zaranko," he answered shortly.
"What matters your name?" She leaped up and flung her arms around his neck. "It is you I love—not your name."
Nikka eyed me sheepishly across her shoulder.
"See you, little one," he remonstrated, "this is no time for talking of love. We may be dead in five minutes."