She awoke with
a start.
"What does this mean?" I demanded. "Who is he?"
"Heaven help us, who are you?" she cried, leaping up in alarm. Indeed,
we four, with our eager, fierce faces, may have looked disquieting
enough.
"I am Lord Wheatley; these are my friends," I answered in brisk, sharp
tones.
"What, it is you, then--?" A wondering gaze ended her question.
"Yes, yes, it is I. I have bought the island. We came out for a walk
and--"
"But he will kill you, if he finds you here."
"He? Who?"
"Ah, pardon, my lord--they will kill you, they--the people--the men of
the island."
I gazed at her sternly. She shrank back in confusion. And I spoke at a
venture, yet in a well-grounded hazard:
"You mean that Constantine Stefanopoulos will kill me?"
"Ah, hush!" she cried. "He may be here! He may be anywhere!"
"He may thank his stars he's not here," said I grimly, for my blood
was up. "Attend, woman! Who is this?"
"It is the lord of the island, my lord," she answered. "Alas, and
he is wounded, I fear, to death. And yet I fell asleep. But I was so
weary."
"Wounded--by whom?"
Her face suddenly became vacant and expressionless.
"I do not know, my lord. It happened in the crowd. It was a mistake.
My dear lord had yielded what they asked. Yet some one--no, by heaven,
my lord, I do not know whom--stabbed him! And he cannot live.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162