“Caliphronas!” cried Maurice and Crispin in one breath.
It was indeed Caliphronas who came slowly down the steps and paused in alarm just where the light began to mingle with the darkness;—a new and brilliant Caliphronas, arrayed in all the bravery of the Greek national garb, with gold-broidered leggings, snowy fustanella, gaudy jacket, and red skull-cap. In this picturesque dress he looked handsomer than ever, and had quite recovered his bombastic air, which terror had deprived him of during the storm.
“Creespeen! Mr. Maurice!” he cried in a startled voice, placing his hand on one of the pistols stuck in his belt, for he was quite aware that his treachery deserved a warm reception from those whom he had doomed to death.
“You needn’t do that,” said Crispin, curling his lip as he observed the action; “we are not going to punish you.”
“Punish me!” jeered the Greek, recovering his insolent manner. “Oh, never fear, I can defend myself. Punish me! and for why? Because I chose to save my own life!”
“Yes, and nearly caused us to lose ours!” said Maurice grimly.
“You know my philosophy, Mr. Maurice; so why expect me to be false to it?”
“You are an infernal scoundrel, Caliphronas!”
The Greek smilingly showed his white teeth, as if a compliment had been paid to him.
“We are all scoundrels more or less, only some are cleverer at concealing it than other people,” he said carelessly. “So you are all safe? I made sure you were drowned.”