“The Maid of Athens? What are you doing, quoting Byron?”
“I opine it was Byron that made me call her that, and I’ll bet a bunch of Texas longhorns that Byron’s maid wasn’t any prettier than Flavia.”
“Do you understand that, Flavia?” questioned the voice of Cavendish. “Did you catch the compliment of this devil-may-care youngster who is in the trap with us?”
“I hear heem,” was the answer, in a voice that made Brad start! “same time the English is hard to comprehen’.”
The Texan whistled.
“So Flavia is here with us, eh? And Maro outside! I don’t quite understand it.”
Cavendish explained as well as he could.
“I fancy I came near being shot,” he went on, “when I saw that Greek ruffian catch Flavia in his arms. They warned me I’d be shot down the moment I thrust my nose out of this cave, yet my blood boiled when he clasped her. However, he kept her from Maro, and now he’s in a bad way himself. Boy, I fear you and I will not live to see the rising of another sun. I fear these ruffians will cut our throats. As for Flavia, my soul shudders when I think what may become of her.”
“It shudders some, does it?” said Buckhart, with a touch of unspeakable scorn. “Well, I opine you see now, Mr. Cavendish, what a long-eared jackass you made of yourself by fooling round an innocent girl in this country. You sure brought it on yourself by trying to deceive her.”
In the gloom of the cave Cavendish stirred suddenly, and Brad fancied he could see the figure of the man risen to a standing attitude.