“How can we bind him? It is Racoare. He is here! Cozma Racoare, lady!”
“Cowards!” cried the lady, and threw herself upon Cozma.
The highwayman took her arm, pressed her hands together, tied them with a leather strap, and lifted her under his arm like a bundle.
“Get out of the way!” he said then, and the people fell over each other as they scattered to either side.
“What a pearl among women!” thought Cozma, while he strode along the corridor with the lady under his arm, “he has not bad taste, that Boyar Nicola! Proud woman!”
The Sultana looked with eyes wide with horror at the servants who gave way on either hand in their terror. She felt herself held as in a vice. At last she raised her eyes to Racoare’s fierce face. The light from the room was reflected in the man’s steely eyes, and lit up his weather-beaten face.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
“I? Cozma Racoare.”
The lady gave another glance at the servants huddled in the corners, and she said not another word. Now she understood.
Outside, the highwayman mounted the bay, placed the lady in front of him, and set spurs to his horse. Once more the sound of the galloping horse broke the silence of the night.