Phroso. Anthony Hope

meant to do, and I said:

      ‘You fellows go and get something to eat, and a snooze if you like. I’ll look after this youngster. I’ll call you if anything happens outside.’

      After a few unselfish protests they did as I bade them. I was left alone in the hall with the prisoner; soon merry voices from the kitchen told me that the battle was being fought again over the wine. I set the lantern close to the boy’s face.

      ‘H’m,’ said I, after a prolonged scrutiny. Then I sat down on the table and began to hum softly that wretched chant of One-Eyed Alexander’s, which had a terrible trick of sticking in a man’s head.

      For a few minutes I hummed. The lad shivered, stirred uneasily, and opened his eyes. I had never seen such eyes; I could not conscientiously except even Beatrice Hipgrave’s, which were in their way quite fine. I hummed away; and the boy said, still in a dreamy voice, but with an imploring gesture of his hand:

      ‘Ah, no, not that! Not that, Constantine!’

      ‘He’s a tender-hearted youth,’ said I, and I was smiling now. The whole episode was singularly unusual and interesting.

      The boy’s eyes were on mine again; I met his glance full and square. Then I poured out some water and gave it to him. He took it with a trembling hand—the hand did not escape my notice—and drank it eagerly, setting the glass down with a sigh.

      ‘I am Lord Wheatley,’ said I, nodding to him. ‘You came to steal my cattle, and murder me, if it happened to be convenient, you know.’

      The boy flashed out at me in a minute.

      ‘I didn’t. I thought you’d surrender if we got the cattle away.’

      ‘You thought!’ said I scornfully. ‘I suppose you did as you were bid.’

      ‘No; I told Constantine that they weren’t to—’ The boy stopped short, looked round him, and said in a surprised voice, ‘Where are all the rest of my people?’

      ‘The rest of your people,’ said I, ‘have run away, and you are in my hands. And I can do just as I please with you.’

      His lips set in an obstinate curve, but he made no answer. I went on as sternly as I could.

      ‘And when I think of what I saw here yesterday, of that poor old man stabbed by your bloodthirsty crew—’

      ‘It was an accident,’ he cried sharply; the voice had lost its dreaminess and sounded clear now.

      ‘We’ll see about that when we get Constantine and Vlacho before a judge,’ I retorted grimly. ‘Anyhow, he was foully stabbed in his own house for doing what he had a perfect right to do.’

      ‘He had no right to sell the island,’ cried the boy, and he rose for a moment to his feet with a proud air, only to sink back into the chair again and stretch out his hand for water.

      Now at this moment Denny, refreshed by meat and drink and in the highest of spirits, bounded into the hall.

      ‘How’s the prisoner?’ he cried.

      ‘Oh, he’s all right. There’s nothing the matter with him,’ I said, and as I spoke I moved the lantern, so that the boy’s face and figure were again in shadow.

      ‘That’s all right,’ observed Denny cheerfully. ‘Because I thought, Charley, we might get a little information out of him.’

      ‘Perhaps he won’t speak,’ I suggested, casting a glance at the captive who sat now motionless in the chair.

      ‘Oh, I think he will,’ said Denny confidently: and I observed for the first time that he held a very substantial-looking whip in his hand; he must have found it in the kitchen. ‘We’ll give the young ruffian a taste of this, if he’s obstinate,’ said Denny, and I cannot say that his tone witnessed any great desire that the boy should prove at once compliant.

      I shifted my lantern so that I could see the proud young face, while Denny could not. The boy’s eyes met mine defiantly.

      ‘Do you see that whip?’ I asked. ‘Will you tell us all we want to know?’

      The boy made no answer, but I saw trouble in his face, and his eyes did not meet mine so boldly now.

      ‘We’ll soon find a tongue for him,’ said Denny, in cheerful barbarity; ‘upon my word, he richly deserves a thrashing. Say the word, Charley!’

      ‘We haven’t asked him anything yet,’ said I.

      ‘Oh, I’ll ask him something. Look here, who was the fellow with you and Vlacho?’

      Denny spoke in English; I turned his question into Greek. But the prisoner’s eyes told me that he had understood before I spoke. I smiled again.

      The boy was silent; defiance and fear struggled in the dark eyes.

      ‘You see he’s an obstinate beggar,’ said Denny, as though he had observed all necessary forms and could now get to business; and he drew the lash of the whip through his fingers. I am afraid Denny was rather looking forward to executing justice with his own hands.

      The boy rose again and stood facing that heartless young ruffian Denny—it was thus that I thought of Denny at the moment; then once again he sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands.

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t go out killing if I hadn’t more pluck than that,’ said Denny scornfully. ‘You’re not fit for the trade, my lad.’

      I did not interpret this time; there was no need; the boy certainly understood. But he had no retort. His face was buried in those slim hands of his. For a moment he was quite still: then he moved a little; it was a movement that spoke of helpless pain, and I heard something very like a stifled sob.

      ‘Just leave us alone a little, Denny,’ said I. ‘He may tell me what he won’t tell you.’

      ‘Are you going to let him off?’ demanded Denny, suspiciously. ‘You never can be stiff in the back, Charley.’

      ‘I must see if he won’t speak to me first,’ I pleaded, meekly.

      ‘But if he won’t?’ insisted Denny.

      ‘If he won’t,’ said I, ‘and you still wish it, you may do what you like.’

      Denny sheered off to the kitchen, with an air that did not seek to conceal his opinion of my foolish tender-heartedness. Again I was alone with the boy.

      ‘My friend is right,’ said I gravely. ‘You’re not fit for the trade. How came you to be in it?’

      My question brought a new look, as the boy’s hands dropped from his face.

      ‘How came you,’ said I, ‘who ought to restrain these rascals, to be at their head? How came you, who ought to shun the society of men like Constantine Stefanopoulos and his tool Vlacho, to be working with them?’

      I got no answer; only a frightened look appealed to me in the white glare of Hogvardt’s lantern. I came a step nearer and leant forward to ask my next question.

      ‘Who are you? What’s your name?’

      ‘My name—my name?’ stammered the prisoner. ‘I won’t tell my name.’

      ‘You’ll tell me nothing? You heard what I promised my friend?’

      ‘Yes, I heard,’ said the lad, with a face utterly pale, but with eyes that were again set in fierce determination.

      I laughed a low laugh.

      ‘I believe you are fit for the trade after all,’ said I, and I looked at him with mingled distaste and admiration. But I had my last weapon still, my last question. I turned the lantern full on his face, I leant forward again, and I said in distinct slow tones—and the question sounded an absurd one to be spoken in such an