“Not if I ask it, Wylie?” said Maurice.
“No,” was the gruff reply. “You are plotting to save me from whatever happens to you, and I won’t have it.”
“‘I will be drowned, and nobody shall save me,’” quoted Maurice, in a perplexity so hopeless that it became humorous. “Look at it sensibly, old man. Can’t you realise what a comfort it would be to me to know that the girls had some one to look after them?”
“I stay here to look after you.” Wylie was unmoved.
“But you are on the sick list. Really, you wouldn’t add to our fighting strength much, you know, and if we succeed in surrendering before Nilischeff does it for us, your presence would complicate matters horribly. You are a meddlesome foreigner, you see, without even as much right here as I have. To make things easier—as a favour to me——”
“Don’t ask favours, Maurice; give your orders!” cried Eirene, her voice high and harsh. “You realise, if Colonel Wylie doesn’t, that we may never reach Ephestilo, and that we must not fall into the hands of the Roumis. Do you see now, both of you? Neither Constantine nor Zoe nor I—no descendant of John Theophanis—must fall into the hands of the Roumis.”
“Wylie, you see?” cried Maurice passionately. “How could I put such a responsibility into the hands of Zeko?”
“For God’s sake, don’t put it into mine!” cried Wylie in horror. “Go yourself, and leave me here.”
“I can’t, and you know it. Wylie, you must go. You are the only man I can trust in a thing of this kind.”
Wylie looked round him with hunted eyes, as though seeking a way of escape. Then, with a groan, “All right. I’ll go,” he said.