“There, that’ll do for the present,” said he, handing his attendant the basin. “I feel a little better now.”
The hours flew by, night came on, but the sick man was unable to obtain sleep, and young Knoulton sat up and watched him with exemplary patience. As the night waned, its tedium was beguiled by conversation, for when alone with his nurse the pirate was loquacious enough, for nothing pleased him better than spinning yarns, as he termed it, and giving his companion a brief recital of some of the incidents in his earlier career.
Knoulton encouraged him in this, for he argued that it was far better than his brooding over his present misfortunes.
“Well, for the matter of that, I have seen all sorts of sights, both ashore and afloat,” said Murdock, “but about as terrible a bit of business it is well possible to conceive was what is termed a ‘cacciata.’”
“A what?” said Knoulton.
“A cacciata. It’s an Italian word, I believe, but it means a fight with knives or poignards. As I can’t sleep I’ll just give you an account of it. When I was a young man I did a little business on the cross with an Italian count. He wasn’t of much account, but that doesn’t much matter, but to talk to him you’d suppose butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I had left my ship for a time, and visited Rome to see the sights there, and met by chance my old friend the count.
“‘Ah, Murdock!’ said he, ‘what brought you here?’
“‘A little matter of business in the first place,’ I answered, ‘and pleasure in the next.’
“‘All right, my friend,’ he returned. ‘I’m glad to see you. You have seen most of the sights, I suppose?’
“‘I have seen a good many.’