"Don't think me absurd," she went on, hurriedly. "But I've got a quite definite fancy that he's going to play an important part in our escape. Would you mind if I went down and spoke to him?"
"No, I'll go," Michael said. "You don't know Greek."
"Do you?" she retorted.
"No. But he might be alarmed and attack you."
"He'll be less likely to attack a gentle female voice," Sylvia argued; and before Michael could say another word she began to slide down the side of the gully, repeating very quickly, "Don't make a noise; we're English," laughing at herself for the probable uselessness of the explanation, and yet all the time laughing with an inward conviction that there was nothing to fear from the encounter.
The corporal jumped up and held high his bayonet, which was gleaming black with moonlit blood.
"English?" he repeated, doubtfully, in a nasal voice.
"Yes, English prisoners escaped from the Bulgarians," Sylvia panted as she reached him.
"That's all right," said the corporal. "You got nothing to be frightened of. I'm an American citizen from New York City."
Sylvia called to Michael to come down, whereupon the corporal took hold of her wrist and reminded her that they were still in Bulgaria.