He had the fingers of her left hand between his, crushing them. She dropped her head. Her fine lips were quivering. "What am I forgetting?"
Anthony had grasped his elbow. "It's not right, Moore; not right to talk to the princess like this. She's really noble. She's fine!"
"You're drunk, Anthony!"
"No, no, no," he babbled. "Sleepy; that's all. Oh, that wine! Perfectly fine! Makes you feel like climbing a moonbeam!"
"So it appears. Where are the girls?"
"Over here. Say—say, Moore, when does the fight start? I—I'm just itching to get at somebody!"
"You'll have your chance in a moment. And it isn't in fun. Understand?"
"Of course I understand! Isn't my gun loaded with bullets? Are we in a trap?"
"We are! And according to my calculations there's exactly one way out. I think you and the girls will have no difficulty in breaking through. Make a dash for it. Run for all you're worth!"
"Hold on there," remonstrated Anthony, as his eyes lost a trifle of their sleepy look. "What's to become of you? Going to make a break for it, too?"