“You fools one and ozer,” remarked Milosch sardonically, when he heard their decision. “Behold our slighted consideration avenge itself in severity.”
The meaning of this cryptic sentence appeared immediately, for the brigands, offended by the rejection of their offer, bound the two men’s arms behind them so tightly that the cords cut into the flesh. Wylie laughed grimly. “We can’t choose to be bound, and then complain because they bind us,” he said. “I am sorry to be unkind, Miss Smith, but the sooner you find the track too difficult for you, the better we shall be pleased.”
Even now there was some time to wait before the start, while two men, detailed for the purpose, removed the ashes of the fire and other traces of the night’s occupation from the cattle-shed where it had been spent, and the rest of the brigands made up their loads, those who carried the rugs complaining angrily because the prisoners were obviously unable to do so. Then the procession set out, with the captives in the middle, the girls uneasily silent, frightened by the unpleasant result of Eirene’s advice.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HISTORY OF A DAY.
Eirene’s ingenious idea had been signally mistaken. This was evident almost as soon as the little clearing in which the cattle-shed stood had been left behind, and, indeed, it could never have been entertained if the prisoners had been able to see their way and the nature of their surroundings the night before. Far from being an easy road, leading through villages, the path was a mere goat-track, plunging into the very heart of the mountains. To the active brigands, in their flexible moccasins, it presented no particular difficulty, but it was full of perils and alarms for inexperienced climbers wearing boots. At first, Zoe and Eirene shrank nervously from the gaps in the pathway, and the narrow ledges on which they were expected to creep round corners of rock; but the curses and threats which followed the slightest hesitation soon drove them on in blind terror. The brigands were worse than the mountain. Realising that Maurice and Wylie were helpless, the girls maintained sufficient resolution not to appeal to them, even by a glance, as they stumbled painfully up the track, their arms tortured by the cords. Not only curses, but blows, were showered on them whenever they missed their footing; but the treatment meted out to the girls was what they found hardest to bear. At last, when Zoe slipped and almost fell, and the nearest brigand’s grimy paw clutched her and shook her savagely, Wylie could stand it no longer.
“Smith, we must give our parole!” he called to Maurice. “Your sisters can’t get on alone. Here, you interpreter, tell them we’ll promise not to try to escape.”
A halt was called, and a good deal of discussion ensued among the brigands. There was an evident disposition to allow Maurice and Wylie to bear the consequences of their refusal to the bitter end, but the men who were carrying the rugs objected, and so did the two who were charged with seeing to the girls’ safety. It was unreasonable, they pointed out with much cogency, to expect them to be bothered with these troublesome women and their parcels, when the task could be imposed upon their natural protectors, and the plea commended itself at length to the rest. While Milosch delivered an oration on the unsurpassed kindness of the brigands in allowing the captives to change their minds, the chief cut the cords with his knife, and ordered an immediate advance. Chafing his numbed wrists, Wylie joined Zoe.
“We may have prevented you from escaping!” she said miserably.
“Not a bit of it. At least, if you see any chance of escape here in these atrocious hills, I must say I don’t. Take my arm, won’t you? the path is wider just here. Oh, I say”—he had caught sight of tears in her eyes—“please don’t! You’re not fagged out yet?”
“It’s—not that,” came in a series of gasps. “It’s seeing you—and Maurice—knocked about—and not being—able to do—anything. I hate—being a woman.”