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CHAPTER XXVIII. – DONATUS, THE SULIOTE

Amid the wild and rugged Grecian hills lay a sheltered and secluded valley. Indeed, this valley was so secluded that a wandering traveler might chance upon it only by the rarest accident. All things favored the probability that he would pass near without ever dreaming of its existence.

It was night, and in this valley a fire burned, casting its shifting lights on the faces of a small band of men. In all there were eight. Kirtled, bearded, unkempt, picturesque ruffians they were, every man of them fully armed and looking the thorough desperado and cutthroat.

They lounged about the fire in various attitudes, with the exception of one who, at a little distance, walked back and forth in front of the black mouth of a cave. The latter was a guard.

The night wind had a chill in it, and they drew their robes about them, moving yet a little nearer the fire.

Two of them seemed unprepared to spend any time at night in lying before a fire in the open air, for they were unprotected save by their ordinary clothes. One was a man of forty-five, the other a youth of twenty-one.

The first was Tyrus Helorus; the second Maro Veturia. Finally the young man spoke to the other in a low tone.

“It is now nightfall, and there can be no further danger that possible pursuers might see us leaving this place. Let us be going.”

“Be patient,” answered Tyrus, in the same guarded tone. “When he is willing that we should depart, my friend, Donatus, will speak. He is buried in thought now.”

As he said this, he shifted his position slightly in order to observe the figure of a bearded man that reclined on his elbow almost opposite them, gazing straight into the changing flames. The figure was massive, yet graceful. The curling beard was dark, as were the eyes. His face was that of one used to command. It was cruel, yet in a way strikingly handsome.

This was the man who called himself Donatus and who dared lead his lawless band to the very gates of Athens. Indeed, for all of the price on his head, it was said he often entered the city unaccompanied.

Donatus was a Suliote, at one time a chief, but robbed of his power by the government which refused to recognize his authority and which dispersed and intimidated his followers. In vain he had sought to return to the old ways of living. Being baffled, he became an outlaw indeed, preying on his fellow men. With the exception of Tyrus and Maro, these were his followers.

“I like not that look on his face,” muttered Maro. “I don’t know why I fancy it, but I’ll swear he is thinking of my Flavia this minute.”

“Hush!” cautioned Tyrus, in alarm. “Be careful what you say, if you value your life!”

Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, the dark eyes of Donatus were lifted and fastened inquiringly upon them.

“Why speak in whispers, Tyrus, my friend?” he demanded, using the Romaic speech, with which he did not seem wholly familiar. “If you have anything to utter, you need not fear to speak out.”

Instantly Tyrus would have risen, but the chief made a gesture that bade him remain as he was.

“We did not wish to disturb you, chief,” asserted the elder Greek: “It was plain you were buried in thought.”

“I was. I was thinking of my youth and of my home far from this spot. For some time I have longed to return there, Tyrus; but I have not wished to go empty-handed.”

“By the stories they tell of you, you should have riches to-day.”

Donatus made a slight, careless gesture with his hand.

“Who gets money as I have and keeps it?” he said. “It is a desperate and precarious life, Tyrus, and the rewards do not compensate for the dangers. I came to Athens to seek certain men of influence to interpose in my behalf and seek for me a pardon, with the understanding that I should forever abandon the life I have led in recent years. Chance threw me in with you, a friend who once concealed me when armed enemies were close on my track. I promised you then that if the opportunity ever came Donatus would repay the debt. You appealed to me in your distress, saying the Englishmen had stolen your niece.

“I called some of my followers, who in disguise had entered the city with me. If you had advised it, we would have attacked the Englishmen then and taken the girl from them. But you were afraid, Tyrus, that it would create an uproar, and as a result that it must become generally known that you had consorted with Donatus, the outlaw. You said wait, and we waited. Fortune came our way, for the Englishmen fancied they saw their opportunity to escape with the girl, and they lost no time in trying it. We were watching every move, and they played the game to suit us when they hastened with the girl from the city. In the open country we could work, and we did work. One poor fool of an Englishman we left on the road, permitting him to think he had deceived us, while, at your suggestion, we took the other one. He is now a prisoner in the cave yonder, where also the girl is safely stored.

“I am sorry, Tyrus, that I could not please you and your young friend by cutting the young Englishman’s throat. Had I known that was why you wished me to carry him off, I might have left him behind with the old fool who played that he had been killed, when we took good care to kill nothing save a horse. But now I am glad that we took the trouble, for one of my men tells me he is the son of an aristocrat and that the man we left behind is rich. It is well. A satisfactory ransom must be paid before the young Englishman is set at liberty. Thus through a friendly act I shall be able to turn an honest coin. Already I have dispatched a faithful fellow who bears a message to the other Englishman, stating that when I have received ten thousand drachmas I will set my captive free.”

“If you get it, you will not return empty-handed to your home,” said Tyrus.

“It was not of money I was thinking when I spoke thus,” asserted Donatus. “I am getting on in years. Long have I dreamed of an ideal who should make my home complete by sharing it with me. This day I saw her.”

“A woman?”

“The flower of Greece! I was thinking of her as I gazed into the fire.”

The hands of Maro suddenly closed and a wild light came into his eyes. He rose to his feet.

“Chief,” he said, boldly addressing the Suliote, “if we do not return to Athens ere another dawn, suspicion will fall on us. We must be going.”

“Would you depart so soon? Shall I send one of my men to conduct you and show you the way?”

“If you will.”

The brigand leader rose. There was a pantherish grace in every move, in spite of the fact that he was a large man. He spoke to one of the band, and the fellow sprang up.

“Bion, bring horses for my friends and conduct them on the way until they are safely on the road to the city.”

In a few minutes Bion returned from the darkness, leading two saddled horses. The chief explained that the man would accompany them on foot, being a fleet runner.

Maro had become very nervous. Now he demanded:

“Where is the third horse?”

“The third?” questioned Donatus. “There are but two of you.”

“You have forgotten Flavia?”

“Indeed not. I have remembered her well.”

Maro was pale, holding his excitement in check with difficulty.

“Then I will walk and she shall ride,” he said. “Have her brought.”

Barely a moment did Donatus hesitate, and then he gave the order that the girl be brought.

Soon one of the men conducted her from the cave before the mouth of which the guard paced. She was almost deathly white. Her eyes were wide with fear, but she pressed her lips together and tried to retain command of herself.

Never in all her life had Flavia looked more beautiful than at that moment. Donatus folded his arms on his broad chest and gazed at her with a singular expression in his eyes.

“Maid,” he said, “your uncle and your lover are about to depart. Your lover has demanded that you shall accompany him. Are you ready to go?”

“Come, Flavia!” cried Maro, holding out his hands to her.

She shrank from him.

“No!” she cried; “I do not wish to go with you! I will not go with you!”

With a single stride Donatus reached her and placed his left arm about her with almost crushing fierceness. His other hand he flung out toward Maro.

“You have her answer!” he said. “She remains, and you go without her!”

With a cry of terror, Flavia tried to break from the powerful arm that clasped her. This she could not have accomplished of her own strength, but Donatus released her, and she reeled away.

Maro sprang forward to support her, but she saw him and whirled in a twinkling, rushing back to the protection of the brigand chief, who smiled as he again clasped her with his arm.

“She has made her choice,” he said. And then in a voice unintelligible to them he added: “I shall not return empty-handed to my home!”

Maro was distracted. He clutched Tyrus by the arm, panting:

“Is this your friend? Is this the man whose life you saved? See how he repays you!”

Tyrus was greatly agitated.

“Donatus,” he said entreatingly, “have you forgotten? She is my niece. It is I who have the right to take her.”

“For years,” said the chief, “I have dreamed of her face. To-day I saw it for the first time.”

“But it is not because of you she chooses to stay. She does not understand. She does not know you mean to keep her for yourself. It is the Englishman of whom she thinks.”

“She will forget him soon when he is gone. With the money I shall secure through him I may buy my pardon. She shall be mine!”

Now Flavia did understand, and once more she struggled for her freedom, crying out in her horror of them all.

At this juncture, from some distant part of the valley, came startling sounds. Several pistol shots were fired in rapid succession. In a twinkling every brigand was on his feet, their weapons ready.

Donatus had wheeled toward the sounds, which ceased as suddenly as they began.

Behind the chief’s back Maro seized the girl, hissing into her ear:

“Foolish Flavia! Will you give yourself up to this brigand? Do not think he will let the Englishman have you. He means to keep you for himself.”

She stood like one turned to stone, unable to decide what should be done. In that moment she seemed so beset and entangled that there was no possible escape for her. She could not depart and leave Cavendish in that dark hole, yet if she remained she might be forced to become the bride of Donatus, the brigand.

Maro was likewise in a fearful state of mind. Suddenly he snatched out a pistol and threatened her with it.

“I had rather kill you with my own hand than leave you to either of them!” he hissed.

She clutched the pistol in his hand with both of her hands and sought to wrest it from him. In the struggle it was discharged.

Donatus, the Suliote, gave a great start and then his legs buckled beneath him and he fell prone to the ground.

Instantly Maro relaxed his hold on the pistol and sprang away. When the brigands who remained by the fire turned to look they saw their chief stretched on the ground, while the smoking pistol was clutched in the hands of the horror-stricken girl.

Instantly they were upon her. They wrested the weapon from her and pinned her arms at her side. One knelt beside the chief and made a hasty search for the wound.

“Kill her!” snarled a little ruffian, flourishing a knife. “Cut her throat! She has slain Donatus!”

He made a slash with the gleaming blade, as if he would sweep it across the throat of the girl.

It was the voice of Donatus that checked them and kept them from doing her fatal harm. He had lifted himself to his elbow.

“Hold!” he commanded, in the tone none dared disobey. “Hold her fast, but harm no hair on her head. Where is Ruteni? Let him see how badly I am wounded. Place her in the cave and guard her well.”

Then Flavia managed to drag those who had clutched her until she was near enough to sink on her knees beside the wounded and bleeding brigand.

“Oh, I did not mean to do it!” she sobbed. “Believe me, I did not mean it! I tried to wrest the weapon from Maro, and it was discharged.”

The face of Donatus, outcast and wretch that he was, lighted with a great look of relief. With an effort, he lifted a hand and touched her tangled hair.

“I believe you, Flavia,” he said. “You shall not be harmed. You shall remain with the Englishman.”

Then he gave a few low-spoken orders, and Maro saw Flavia led away toward the cave.

“Where is Ruteni?” again demanded Donatus. “Am I to bleed to death for need of a little care?”

Soon the man called for came running from the darkness and dropped beside the chief. He carried on his person a leather case, containing some instruments and bandages, and he began at once to look after the wound by the light of the camp fire.

“What was the firing I heard, Ruteni?” asked the chief.

“Some one succeeded in passing the guards at the entrance to the valley, chief.”

“Succeeded?” said Donatus, as if he could not believe it. “How many of them?”

“Only one. He was crawling on his stomach like a serpent when they saw him and fired. He sprang up and ran.”

“Into the valley?”

“Into the valley, chief. But he is only one, and he cannot escape. They will capture him.”

“Who could it be? Who would dare attempt such a thing? Ruteni, how badly am I wounded?”

“I fear it is serious,” was the answer.

Water had been brought, and a few of Donatus’ band were watching the work of Ruteni, seeming benumbed and dazed by what had happened. The chief saw them and said:

“Go! Help search for the one who entered the valley. Bring him hither, dead or alive. I am still your chief, and shall be as long as I breathe.”

The men obeyed at once, and besides Donatus and Ruteni only Maro and Tyrus were left by the fire.

The guard still paced before the dark mouth of the cave, in which Flavia had once more been placed.

“It is now our time!” whispered Maro, in the ear of Tyrus. “I have recovered my pistol, and you are armed. Here are the saddled horses. Donatus is helpless. If necessary, we can slay Ruteni and the guard, and we can be away with Flavia before the others return.”

Tyrus grasped the wrist of his desperate companion.

“I think too much of my life to try it,” he declared. “If you attempt that, you do it alone, and you will be slain. Do not be a fool!”

Finally there was a great commotion in another portion of the valley. A single shot was fired, but shouts of triumph came faintly through the darkness.

“They have captured the spy!” said the chief, with a smile of satisfaction on his ashen face. “Are you done, Ruteni?”

“I have done everything possible, chief. The wound is in your lung. If you do not bleed internally – ”

“If I do – what?”

“I fear you’ll not see the rising of another sun,” was the frank answer.

“And to-day, for the first time, I gazed on the face of the maid of my dreams. Do all dreams end in disappointment? Ruteni, roll me a cigarette.”

The man had placed a robe, on which Donatus reclined. Ruteni rolled a cigarette and placed it between the bearded lips. Then he struck a match and lighted it.

Donatus drew in a whiff of smoke and coughed. A fleck of blood appeared on his lips.

“Take it, Ruteni,” he said sadly, surrendering the cigarette. “Throw it away. I cannot smoke. To-day I found the one of my dreams. Am I to die thus soon by her hand?”

Some of the brigands came marching out of the darkness, bringing in their midst a prisoner, his hands made fast behind his back. He was a mere boy, with a tanned and rugged face and a fearless manner.

“Is this the spy?” asked Donatus, in surprise, as the captive stood near the fire. “Who is he?”

“I know who he is!” cried Maro furiously. “Only for him and that other American all this trouble would not have come, for we should have captured Flavia this morning. I entreat the privilege of slaying him with my own hand!”

The captive was Brad Buckhart.

CHAPTER XXIX. – IN THE CAVE

As he spoke those fierce words, the young Greek drew a knife. His face was convulsed with passion and hatred for this daring American boy who, he believed, had caused him so much trouble. He longed to rush at Brad and stab him to the heart.

The manner of the Greek was enough to warn the Texan of his danger.

“Whoop!” cried Brad. “If the gent is anxious to enter into a carving contest, just give me a toadsticker and I’ll show him my style. I opine I can interest him some.”

Donatus weakly waved his hand.

“I am wearied,” he said. “I must rest. When I have rested I will say what shall be done. Until that time, place the boy in the cave.”

“But, chief, he is – ”

The wounded brigand cut Maro short with a flashing look from his still terrible eyes.

“What I have said I have said,” he declared. “Those who dare disobey me invite destruction.”

Then, as directed by him, Buckhart was marched away to the cave, before which the guard still paced to and fro.

Maro sank down, his face wearing a look of bitter disappointment. Tyrus squatted beside him, whispering in his ear:

“Be content that your life is still spared, boy. It was in wrenching the pistol from you that Flavia caused the accidental shooting of Donatus. I feared you would be slain for that. The girl, the Englishman, and the hated American boy are in the cave. They are guarded. Donatus is sorely wounded and may die. Pray the gods that we may escape with our lives.”

“And is this Donatus the man you befriended?” exclaimed Maro bitterly.

“Hush, you fool!” warned Tyrus; but the eyes of Donatus were closed and he seemed to be sleeping.

Brad Buckhart had looked around for Flavia and Cavendish. In the blackness of the cave he could see nothing. The men who escorted him left him, after warning him that he would be shot down the moment he tried to step forth, unless given permission to do so.

Then they departed. He saw their forms silhouetted for a moment against the glow of the fire as they passed from the mouth of the cave. Then the guard’s dark figure paced slowly across the opening.

“Well, here I am!” muttered the Texan. “I sure opine I’m in a right bad scrape, and I’ll have to depend hugely on my pard to pull me out.”

“It is indeed a bad scrape you are in,” said the voice of a person near at hand in the darkness of the place. “How in the world did you get here?”

“Hello!” cried the Texan, in surprise and satisfaction. “Is that your gentle warble I hear, Cavendish?”

“Yes, I am Charles Cavendish, a free-born Englishman, here held captive by these dirty Greek brigands! Some one will pay dearly for it, too!”

“Fighting mad, I see,” half chuckled Buckhart. “Well, old man, this comes of monkeying round the Maid of Athens.”

“The Maid of Athens? What are you doing, quoting Byron?”

“I opine it was Byron that made me call her that, and I’ll bet a bunch of Texas longhorns that Byron’s maid wasn’t any prettier than Flavia.”

“Do you understand that, Flavia?” questioned the voice of Cavendish. “Did you catch the compliment of this devil-may-care youngster who is in the trap with us?”

“I hear heem,” was the answer, in a voice that made Brad start! “same time the English is hard to comprehen’.”

The Texan whistled.

“So Flavia is here with us, eh? And Maro outside! I don’t quite understand it.”

Cavendish explained as well as he could.

“I fancy I came near being shot,” he went on, “when I saw that Greek ruffian catch Flavia in his arms. They warned me I’d be shot down the moment I thrust my nose out of this cave, yet my blood boiled when he clasped her. However, he kept her from Maro, and now he’s in a bad way himself. Boy, I fear you and I will not live to see the rising of another sun. I fear these ruffians will cut our throats. As for Flavia, my soul shudders when I think what may become of her.”

“It shudders some, does it?” said Buckhart, with a touch of unspeakable scorn. “Well, I opine you see now, Mr. Cavendish, what a long-eared jackass you made of yourself by fooling round an innocent girl in this country. You sure brought it on yourself by trying to deceive her.”

In the gloom of the cave Cavendish stirred suddenly, and Brad fancied he could see the figure of the man risen to a standing attitude.

“Why do you say that?” hotly demanded the young Englishman. “Deceive Flavia? How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”

“Steady, you!” growled the Texan, not a bit abashed by the evident rage of the other. “I want you to know that my pard and myself have seen and talked with that blear-eyed old reprobate, Sir Augustus Camberwell. We found him in the midst of the wreckage after the brigands jumped you on the trail. He was so nervous he was ready to shoot at his own shadow. We chinned him some, and he gave it to us straight that the whole affair was brought about because you met the girl by accident and took a fancy to fool her some. He allowed you never had the least idea of marrying her.”

Flavia had listened to all this and understood it. Now she uttered a cry and clutched at the young Englishman.

“Charlee!” she gasped; “Charlee, it is not true?”

Cavendish placed his arm about her waist and drew her close to him.

“It is not true, sweetheart!” he declared, with deep earnestness. “I must confess that Sir Augustus thought so, for he could not understand that I, a son of the house of Cavendish, could possibly mean to treat in an honorable manner a poor Greek girl of no family whatever. I tried to tell him that I was in earnest, but I found that he would turn against me the moment he believed it, and do everything in his power to separate us. The only way to obtain his assistance, which I needed very much, was to let him believe I was playing the scoundrel in this manner. That is why I permitted him to think so.”

Needless to say Brad Buckhart had listened with deep interest to these words. He now stepped forward and his hand found Cavendish’s shoulder.

“How about that forged letter?” he asked.

“I confess it was forged,” was the instant answer. “I met Flavia by accident and fell in love with her at first sight. She tells me that she loved me the moment her eyes met mine. We met several times, and she told me of Maro, and how her uncle was trying to force her into a hateful union with the fellow. We knew Tyrus Helorus would be enraged if I simply presented myself and stated that I wanted Flavia for my wife, so we concocted a scheme we fancied might work. Flavia told me all about her father, where he was in India and all that. I secured the service of an expert with the pen, and the rascal forged a letter purporting to be from Flavia’s father. The letter introduced me to Tyrus, who was directed to deliver Flavia into my care, as I would take her to her father in India.”

“That was some slick,” commented Brad.

“But it didn’t work with Tyrus,” said Cavendish. “The old man smelled a rat, you know. He pretended to think it all right, and he promised that Flavia should prepare for the journey. But he whisked her away and hid her from me. I found her, and then he had me arrested on some sort of a complaint. I was locked up, you understand, and I’d be there now only for Sir Augustus, who used his influence to get me out. That’s how I became tangled up with him, don’t you know. And now here we are. What the deuce are we going to do?”

Brad found Cavendish’s hand in the darkness and gave it a hearty grip.

“Even if I am in a right tight predicament myself,” he said, “I’m sure glad my pard and I concluded, after leaving Sir Augustus, to try to find out what had happened to Flavia and you. Cavendish, we may all go over the range into the unknown country beyond, but the jig’s not up, by a long shot.”

The Texan lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Listen: My pard and I both got into this valley, though I was the only one seen. If those cutthroats hadn’t been miserable bad shots, I’d been peppered full of holes. They shot all round me. Then something tripped me as I was scooting, and they had me before I could recover. Here I am; but Dick Merriwell is somewhere out in the valley, and I’ll wager every hoof on the Bar Z that we hear from him before morning. You want to hold yourself ready to move a whole lot lively when he takes a hand in the game, for he plays his cards to win and makes no false moves. You hear me chirp!”