“Yes, Auntie Zoe.” The roguish little face peered over the ledge above her. “Shall I come? I haven’t nearly finished this place yet.”
“No. I want you to be a very brave boy, Con.” She tried hard to speak so as to impress the child without frightening him. “Dare you go all the way back by yourself, to the place where we saw Colonel Wylie with that funny thing this morning, and take him a message?”
“Oh, Auntie Zoe!” the disappointment was poignant. “There’s sixty million flowers here that I haven’t picked yet.”
“It’s to do something for father, Con. There are naughty men who want to hurt him. Tell Colonel Wylie that they are here in a boat, and he must come round in another boat and catch them. Poor Auntie must stay here till Colonel Wylie comes, so tell him to be quick. Don’t walk on the nice grass, Con—it—it isn’t safe—until you get to the very top, and then run. Oh, Con!” as the sound of something being dragged over the stones reached her, “don’t take the basket. Auntie will bring it when she comes. Think of father!”
She sent the appeal after him despairingly, for she knew well his tenacity of purpose. “And if any of the flowers fall out, he’ll stop and pick them up!” she groaned to herself. How long would he take to get to the top of the cliff? How would his little scrambling childish feet manage to clamber up those slippery limestone slopes? If he avoided the grassy hollows, as she had told him to do, his holland overall would hardly be seen against the rocks by any one who was not looking specially for it. She must occupy the attention of the men in the boat, and keep them from looking at the cliff above her, whence the rattle of fragments of stone as they fell showed her that Constantine was somehow working his way up. She stood forward and looked out to sea, as though watching for ships, her figure boldly outlined against the green of the hollow. Suddenly the boat shot out from beneath her into her field of vision, and she started violently, making vehement gestures of astonishment, as though unable to credit what she saw. Both men were watching her every movement, and the rifle was pointed directly at her. If she could keep their eyes fixed on herself, Constantine would be able to escape. Making a speaking-trumpet of her hands, she called out the Greek “Good day!” and inquired whether the fishing had been successful. The men in the boat did not appear to understand, but they were evidently amused, and returned answers which she could not distinguish. But they were not speaking either Greek or the Thracian dialect used by the majority of the Slavic Emathians, of this she was sure. She stood there, calling out incoherencies in Greek, and receiving irrelevant replies in the unknown tongue, until voice and strength failed her simultaneously, for the approach of the climber in the chimney became audible in grunts and a kind of shuffling noise. She had sufficient presence of mind to wave her hand to the men in the boat before she sat down, trying to look as though it was not because her limbs refused to support her. Still apparently gazing out to sea, she watched, with dilated eyes and panting breath, for the appearance of a red-capped head above the brink. When would it come? and what should she do? Constantine must have reached the top of the cliff by this time, and now that he was safe, the love of life regained its strength in her. She looked round once at the rocky slope above her, with a wild idea of leaping at it and scrambling up too fast for the man in the boat to be able to take aim. But it was so steep. She would have found it difficult to climb at any time, and now she was trembling all over. And even above it there was no possible shelter until nearly the top of the cliff, where a projecting rock might hide her from the view of the marksman in the boat. But nothing could shelter her from the men who were climbing up. Could she pretend to meet them unsuspiciously—disarm their hostility, temporise, hold them in talk until help was in sight? If she addressed the first that appeared in French, which all educated Roumis might be supposed to understand——? But a moment’s thought reminded her that the first man was certain to be Janni, who had doubtless discovered and often used this way of reaching his abode, and who would let down a rope, or even a rope-ladder, before his confederates would venture on the climb. And Janni—dark-browed Janni, who scowled angrily even at little Constantine, and knew no language but his own, which she only spoke very imperfectly,—how could she hope to conciliate him? Could she—would she have the courage to push him down when he was climbing over the edge? For that moment he would be at her mercy, since the man in the boat would not venture to fire for fear of hitting him. But no, she had not the nerves for it, as she had said to Eirene so long ago. “And besides, I don’t know that he means anything dreadful. He may be merely coming home with some friends,” she told herself by way of half-excuse, and then laughed at her own moral cowardice.
There was a sudden quickening of attitude on the part of the men in the boat. The rifle was raised, and pointed not at Zoe, but at the top of the cliff far above her. There was the sound of something striking the rock overhead, bringing down a shower of small fragments, and almost simultaneously came the report. Other bullets followed, and then there was a report closer at hand—from overhead, in fact. Something struck the sea near the boat, raising a little splash, and then, after—but only momentarily after—a second near report, the man who held the gun seemed to crumple up, and the weapon dropped from his hands into the water. Looking up, Zoe had a fleeting impression of a man kneeling at the top of the cliff, with a rifle raised to his shoulder; but as she looked, he lowered it, and began to swing himself down, taking a more direct way than the pleasant path by which she had wandered with Constantine. Then her attention was distracted, for a face surmounted by a red cap appeared over the edge of the hollow, and resolved itself into that of Janni the fisherman, with a knife held between his teeth. His eyes seemed to fascinate her. She could not move, and watched in helpless silence while he drew himself up gradually to her level.
There was a click on the ledge above her, where Constantine had been left. “Jammed!” said Wylie’s voice, in a tone of such angry disgust that she nearly laughed, just as Janni pulled himself over the brink with a final effort, and ran at her, brandishing the knife.
“Take my hand,” said the voice overhead, clear and hard, and turning mechanically to obey, she saw that Wylie was lying on the ledge above, stretching out his left hand to her, while his right held the rifle clubbed. She sprang at the rock, and scrambled wildly up its slippery face. Presently Wylie was assisting her with both hands instead of one, and now she crouched panting on the ledge beside him. Looking round involuntarily for Janni and his knife, she saw that he was not, as she had imagined, an inch or two behind her. He was kneeling at the edge of the hollow she had left, fixing the end of a rope-ladder that he had carried with him, and another man, with a rifle on his back, was already visible upon it. Wylie whirled her to her feet, and dragged her up the path.
“He was not really going for you,” he said, in an odd, muffled voice. “That was a dodge to keep me from coming down and preventing his fixing the ladder. He knew that when once this thing had jammed I could do him no harm except at close quarters.”
He went on to discourse of the iniquities of the Mauser rifle, still in the same curious voice, as if he was talking for talking’s sake, without in the least thinking of what he said, and Zoe made no effort to understand or respond. For one moment, as he lay on the ledge, she had caught in his eyes the look she had not seen there for seven years, and she could think of nothing else. She had not deceived herself. He did care. Nothing else mattered.