Evidently the alarm had spread, for there were others ahead of Blake.
Several men were grouped beneath an open window. They were strangely
excited; some were panting as if from violent exertion; a young French
Creole, Lecompte Rilleau, was sprawled at full length upon the grassy
banquette, either badly injured or entirely out of breath. He raised a
listless hand to the newcomer, as if waving him to the attack. Norvin
recognized them all as admirers of Myra Nell--cotton brokers,
merchants, a bank cashier--a great relief surged over him.
"Thank God! You're here--in time," he gasped. "What's happened to--her?"
Raymond Cline started to speak, but just then Blake heard the girl
herself calling to him, and saw her leaning from a window, her piquant
beauty framed with blushing roses which hung about the sill.
"Myra Nell! You're safe!" he cried, shakingly. "What have they done to
you?"
She smiled piteously and shook her dark head.
"You were good to come. I am a prisoner."
"A prisoner!" Norvin stared at the young men about him. "Come on," he
said, "let's get her out!"