“Oh, that’s not what’s the matter,” returned Maurice from behind, in a Mark-Tapleyan tone of voice. “They’re calling us names for making them turn out of their nice comfortable camp and go wandering about the mountains in the dark and the wet. They say they have taken such care of us, and treated us as honoured guests, and our ingratitude is something detestable.”
“Anybody might think we wanted to come!” said Zoe.
“Well, it certainly is our fault in a way,” said Maurice. “If we didn’t exist, or weren’t here, they wouldn’t be running away from Wylie.”
They relapsed into silence again, and the grumbling curses of the brigands were the only sounds to be heard above the plashing of footsteps and the swish of the rain. The girls were half-unconscious with fatigue and want of sleep, and stumbled on in a kind of waking dream. It must have been drawing near dawn, though the blank black skies showed no sign of it, when the brigands paused again, in the shelter of a clump of stunted trees, hardly more than bushes, and the scouts glided forth on their errand. They returned unexpectedly soon, and their report called forth ominous curses.
“There are soldiers holding the path in front,” explained Maurice in a whisper to the girls. “Wylie knows what he is doing, bad luck to him! He’s got us between two fires, with all his precautions.”
For the moment it looked as though Wylie had actually brought about the death of his friends, for the brigands were now thoroughly roused. “Kill the European dogs, kill them and get rid of them!” was the murmur. “They have brought us to this pass. Let us kill them and leave their bodies here on the track for their friend to find.” Daggers were once more unsheathed, and revolvers drawn.
“Why don’t you pray? Are you an atheist?” demanded Eirene of Zoe, breaking off in the middle of a catalogue of saints, whose aid she was audibly imploring.
“No; I am praying,” said Zoe, but she felt curiously resigned. Death would be such a rest after this dreadful night. But the reference to Wylie, which Maurice translated under pressure, disturbed her. He would never be able to forgive himself if he realised what he had done. If only one of them could escape, it might make him a little less miserable. She sat up with an effort, and grasped Maurice’s arm.
“Maurice, even if they kill us, you might escape. You can run, and your things don’t cling so. We will make as much fuss as possible, to give you time to get away to the soldiers.”
“Don’t be an owl,” said Maurice brusquely. “Is it likely? I ask you, is it likely?”