“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.”