The prince, though advanced in years, was still handsome: his features had all the splendid regularity of their Greek origin; but in the enormous orbits, of which the tint was nearly black, and the indented temples, traversed by veins of immense size, and the firm compression of his lips, might be read the signs of a man who carried the gambling spirit into every incident of life, one ready ‘to back his luck,’ and show a bold front to fortune when fate proved adverse.
The Greek’s manner was perfect. There was all the ease of a man used to society, with a sort of half-sly courtesy, as he said, ‘This is kindness, Mr. Atlee—this is real kindness. I scarcely thought an Englishman would have the courage to call upon anything so unpopular as I am.’
‘I have come to see you and the Parthenon, Prince, and I have begun with you.’
‘And you will tell them, when you get home, that I am not the terrible revolutionist they think me: that I am neither Danton nor Félix Pyat, but a very mild and rather tiresome old man, whose extreme violence goes no further than believing that people ought to be masters in their own house, and that when any one disputes the right, the best thing is to throw him out of the window.’
‘If he will not go by the door,’ remarked Atlee.
‘No, I would not give him the chance of the door. Otherwise you make no distinction between your friends and your enemies. It is by the mild methods—what you call “milk-and-water methods”—men spoil all their efforts for freedom. You always want to cut off somebody’s head and spill no blood. There’s the mistake of those Irish rebels: they tell me they have courage, but I find it hard to believe them.’
‘Do believe them then, and know for certain that there is not a braver people in Europe.’
‘How do you keep them down, then?’
‘You must not ask me that, for I am one of them.’
‘You Irish?’