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