"True, I had forgotten the soldiers. Where are those noble men now?"
"Half-way back to Slavitesti, excellency."
"And the muleteer?"
"Oh, my friends are warming his feet for him. We are not fond of Greeks, here in the mountains, excellency."
Gavin started as the man spoke, for a wild shriek broke upon his ears and becoming louder until it sounded like some supreme cry of human agony, ended at last in a fearful sobbing, as it were the weeping of a child in pain. When he dared to look, he saw the gypsies had dragged the wretched Greek to the camp-fire and pouring oil from a can upon his bare feet, they thrust them into the flames and held them there with that utter indifference to human suffering which, above all others, is the characteristic of the people of the Balkans. Worming in their embrace, his eyes starting from his head, his voice paralyzed by the fearful cries he raised, the wretched man suddenly fainted and lay inanimate in the flame. Then, and not until then, they drew him back and left him quivering upon the green grass.
"He was warned," the gypsy leader muttered sullenly; "he should have known better."
But Arthur, showing Gavin his bleeding wrists, said with a shrug.
"I think very little of wisdom, Gavin."
The rope had cut the flesh almost to the bone in his efforts to go to the help of the wretched Greek.