“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?”