The word created a sensation among the little herd of hostages, who, for comfort and protection, had instinctively crowded together. They believed themselves miraculously rescued, at least from the spite and vengeance of the islanders, and expected to see either Malteios or Stavridis, frock-coated and top-hatted, in the doorway. Instead, they saw Julian Davenant, flushed, untidy, bareheaded, and accompanied by two immense islanders carrying rifles.
He paused and surveyed the little speechless group, and a faint smile ran over his lips at the sight of the confused faces of his prisoners. They stared at him, readjusting their ideas: in the first instance they had certainly expected Julian, then for one flashing moment they had expected the President of Herakleion, then they were confronted with Julian. A question left the lips of the postmaster,—
'President of what?'
Perhaps he was tempted madly to think that neither Malteios, nor Stavridis, but Julian, had been on the foregoing day elected President of Herakleion.
Zapantiotis answered gravely,—
'Of the Archipelago of San Zacharie.'
'Are we all crazy?' cried the postmaster.
'You see, gentlemen,' said Julian, speaking for the first time, 'that the folly of my grandfather's day has been revived.'
He came forward and seated himself at the schoolmaster's desk, his bodyguard standing a little behind him, one to each side.