“I am not English!” cried Eirene, sitting up indignantly. “At least, I mean—— Oh, what are they doing?” as a single awful cry of agony came from the centre of the throng of robbers, and made Zoe almost drop the flask.
“Don’t look, don’t look!” entreated Wylie. “That’s it, Miss Smith, try and get a drop into his mouth. Now, Miss Eirene”—sharply—“can’t you unfasten your brother’s collar, and hold up his head?”
“I’ll do it,” said Zoe, as Eirene touched Maurice’s tie delicately; “you take the flask. Oh!” stopping short with trembling fingers, as a second and feebler cry was heard.
“It’s over now, at any rate,” said Wylie, setting his lips. “Get your brother’s head tied up quickly, before these fiends have time to remember us. Each man is bound to give the poor wretch a stab, dead though he may be.”
“Is it Haji Ahmad?” asked Zoe faintly, as she folded her handkerchief into a pad.
“Yes. A Roumi need expect no mercy from these fellows. Take my handkerchief for a bandage; it’s larger than yours. Oh, good heavens! have you no knife or scissors that you could cut this rope with, and give me a chance to stand up to them when they turn round?”
“In the carriage?” suggested Zoe, measuring the distance with her eye. “Oh, Maurice has a knife, of course.”
“Leave it, leave it!” he cried quickly; “they’re coming. Stand up if you can, Smith,” as Maurice opened his eyes feebly. “No, it’s no good. Keep quiet.”
He stood before the girls, and it seemed to Zoe that the advancing robbers quailed when they met his eye, and shuffled their blood-stained yataghans out of sight, as though suddenly conscious of the awful mass on the ground behind them.
“Can any of you speak English?” he cried.