Eirene shrank as far into the shelter of the doorway as she could, and Wylie stood in front of her, concealing her as much as possible.
“They’ve got the jumps badly, and are firing at everything they see. That’s the worst of it,” he said over his shoulder. “If I go down, you must try to make them understand what an enormity they’ve committed in firing on a European, and invoke Sir Frank Francis till all is blue.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
A FUSION OF INTERESTS.
The soldiers came down the street talking loudly and excitedly, for the bonds of discipline were evidently relaxed. Every now and then a stray shot told that one of them thought he had seen a figure lurking in the shadow, and was taking the surest way of making things safe. The fitful beams of an old and inefficient lantern wavered from side to side as the leading man swung it towards each doorway in turn, but the light was so feeble that Wylie, standing rigid in his corner, almost hoped not to be seen. But his tweed clothes stood out against the dark and greasy stonework of the porch, and as the beam fluttered over him a voice called, “There’s a man hiding in that door!” Instantly the ready rifles were focussed upon him, and even before he could step forward two or three random shots struck the stonework and spattered up the dust at his feet, but these were only due to nervous men with twitching fingers. Before the order could be given to fire, his voice rang out, “Cease firing!” in Roumi, and, taken by surprise, the soldiers obeyed. He seized his opportunity, and called out that he was English, and demanded their protection as far as the British Consulate.
“Why, it is a dog of a Christian, after all!” said one.
“If he did not throw the bombs, he stirred up the rascals to do it,” said another.
“And what is he doing here, anyhow?” demanded a third.
“Discovered under suspicious circumstances,” growled the sergeant. “He can’t do any harm dead.”
“He can do you a lot of harm when his body is found, you old fool!” said Wylie vigorously. The sergeant jumped.
“Here! give me the lantern,” he said, and taking it from the man who held it, swung it so that the light fell on Wylie’s face. “Why, it is the Bimbashi Bey with the cruel eyes, who gave us cigarettes when we were up in the north three months ago!” he cried. “He is a good man, Christian or not. Let there be no more talk of shooting him. What does the Bimbashi Bey desire?”