“Eirene,” said Zoe, with concentrated bitterness, “if you say you will raise a memorial church in his honour, I shall hate you till I die.”
She rose and went into the hut, and Eirene turned to Maurice.
“You think he is dead?” she said.
“Why, of course. What else could I think?”
“I don’t believe it in the least. I think they were trying to frighten him—as a punishment for yesterday, you know. I think they will blindfold him and tie his hands and pretend to take him to the edge of a rock and throw him over, but he will only fall one or two feet.”
“Good gracious, Eirene! how can you think of such diabolical things?” cried Maurice.
“But it is not as if it would hurt him really. They would wish to see him show fear; that would be most natural. It would be foolish for them to kill him. If they found themselves hotly pressed—do you say?—they might kill one of us as a warning to the pursuers, but to do it without any purpose would only diminish their power of bargaining for a ransom and an amnesty.”
“Well, if you’re so certain, why don’t you tell Zoe?”
Eirene shrugged her shoulders. “She is determined that he is dead; how could my sole opinion change her mind? If I thought it would comfort her I would tell her; but suppose that we see him no more again until we are all ransomed and set free? She would determine again that he was dead, and suffer twice over.”
“I only hope you may be right, and that he is alive,” said Maurice gloomily.