“I don’t doubt it’s being good for him, but it would be misery for her. She won’t do it. Why, there was that girl at Bashi Konak—the maid-of-honour. He flirted with her under Zoe’s very eyes. That’s not the kind of thing a woman forgets in a hurry.”
“You know more about women than I do, no doubt—better opportunities. The question is whether Christodoridi doesn’t know even more than you. At any rate, I’ve told you what he’s got in his head, and you’ll see that I am correct.”
“I don’t believe the beggar has the cheek,” said Maurice, unconvinced, but a few days later he was reluctantly compelled to acknowledge that Wylie was in all probability right. It was early morning, and the party at the monastery were at breakfast in the gallery, Maurice and Wylie taking the meal in haste between a surprise inspection of the nearest camp and a long tramp over the hills which formed the backbone of the peninsula, to examine the defences behind Karakula. Up to the monastery gate came the thud of soft-shod running feet, and a panting voice summoned the guards to open. A struggle seemed to follow upon the opening, but the runner, a lithe young Greek, wriggled through his opponents and flung himself up the steps. At the top he drew himself up and bowed courteously all round.
“A message and a gift for the Lady Zoe from the Lord Romanos,” he said, and paused impressively. From the folds of his shirt he drew out something scarlet and white in a crumpled mass, then shook it out with the dexterity of a conjuror, and exhibited a Roumi flag. “Last night it waved over the quarters of the Roumi commander at Ahmed Pasha. This morning it is at the feet of the Lady Zoe,” and he spread it proudly on the ground before her.
Much against her will, Zoe felt her colour rise as she stooped to look at it. She glanced at Wylie with something of defiance. “It’s rather large for a handkerchief, and rather small for a tablecloth, isn’t it?” she said, with exaggerated flippancy. To her utter disgust, Wylie answered her only by a frown and an instant endeavour to remove the bad impression she had made.
“Did Prince Christodoridi himself secure this trophy?” he asked, forcing a corner of the flag into her reluctant fingers. The messenger, who had been watching with distinct animosity Zoe’s reception of the offering, brightened again at once.
“It is more than a trophy; it is a token,” he replied. “This morning the Imperial Eagle flies over Ahmed Pasha, in the place of that dishonoured rag.”
“What! Prince Christodoridi has taken the village?” cried Maurice. The messenger swelled with pride.
“With the noble Prince as leader, we stole upon the place last night in three bands, and took the Roumi dogs by surprise. The village is now free from them.”
“How many prisoners?” asked Wylie sharply.