“Me—a leetle,” said a small, slim man, pushing his way to the front.
“What do you want with us?”
“We take all you got, zen get moch money for you,” was the reply, given with an ingratiating grin.
“So I thought. Well, I have this to say to you. You can pillage my friend and me if you like, but you won’t lay a finger upon the ladies. They will turn out their pockets and show you what they’ve got, and you can take what you want.”
The interpreter turned to his friends, apparently not sorry to escape from Wylie’s glance, and explained the terms to them. Absurd though it seemed, the will of the bound and defenceless prisoner prevailed above the murmurs that arose, and the interpreter undertook, on behalf of the chief of the band, that the girls should not be searched if Wylie would swear on the Evangelists that they had given up everything.
“Turn out your pockets, quickly,” he said to them, as two of the men seized him, and two others dragged Maurice to his feet and propped him against a tree.
“I won’t!” cried Eirene, her eyes flaming.
“Nonsense! you must. Didn’t you hear me promise for you?” He spoke with difficulty, trying to turn round while his captors thrust and pulled him about.
“I don’t care. I never gave you leave to make promises for me. If they touch me, I’ll kill them.”
What she held in her hand neither Zoe nor Wylie could see, but the brigands were clamouring and the interpreter insistent.