“Jepthah, close up.”
Mr. Hampton’s heart seemed to turn over in his breast. As for Jack and Frank and Ali, to whom he had repeated his conversation with Amrath, they, too, recognized the name of one of the exiles of Korakum described as “true men.”
“Coming, Amonasis, coming,” called a voice merrily, and the man addressed as Jepthah came in sight. “A stone in his hoof,” he said patting the neck of his horse.
Again the repetition of a proper name caught the ears of his listeners. Amonasis. Another of those true men of Amrath’s tale. Only to Mr. Hampton, with his partial knowledge of Athensian, was the import of the conversation between Jepthah and Amonasis understandable, however.
“Let us halt a moment and await him,” said Amonasis to his two comrades, and they nodded.
All drew their horses toward the grassy terrace of the plateau, and the animals, dropping their heads, begun to nibble the grass. Not six feet from the screen of bushes behind which lay Mr. Hampton, to whom they were nearest, were they. An illuminating idea which had been struggling for birth in his mind from the first sight of the horsemen burst into full being. These were not Athensian Janissaries. On the contrary, they were revolutionaries exiled to Korakum. Simultaneously with the thought came the decision to speak to them, and Mr. Hampton called cautiously in the Athensian tongue:
“Don’t move, Amonasis. Our rifles cover you. See.”
He poked the barrel of his rifle through the screen of bushes almost into the face of the stupefied man who he addressed.
“Call Jepthah,” Mr. Hampton continued. “I have word for you two and for a third man, Shilluk, from your friend Amrath.”
“I am Shilluk,” spoke up another of the three, while Amonasis beckoned Jepthah to approach and rapidly repeated what Mr. Hampton had said, “Besides,” added Shilluk, “this is my brother, Shedrach”—pointing to the fourth. “We be all true men. What sayeth Amrath?”