“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.
[CHAPTER XXVIII.—DONATUS, THE SULIOTE.]
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.