“Mr. Roylands,” said Justinian, taking the young man’s hand, and looking keenly at him, “you are welcome to my island. I am the Demarch of Melnos.”
Behind Justinian came Caliphronas, who looked rather dismayed when he saw the courtesy with which the island king received his guest; and even Crispin made a gesture of surprise, which movement at once drew the old man’s eyes towards him.
“You also, truant!” he said, taking the poet’s hand, but without releasing his hold of Maurice; “you have come back to Melnos?”
“Yes, for a purpose,” said Crispin boldly, evidently not to be duped by the suave greeting of Justinian.
As a flash of lightning leaps from the heart of a dark cloud, so gleamed a glance from Justinian’s dark eyes, and he was evidently about to make some fierce retort to the bold poet, when he restrained himself with wonderful self-command, and released the hands of both the young men.
“Before I ask you any questions, gentlemen,” he said, striking a silver bell that stood on one of the small tables near, “I must attend to the rites of hospitality.”
A man made his appearance, and bowed submissively to Justinian.
“The bath! the meal! for these guests,” said the old man in tones of command, speaking in Greek. “You can attend to Mr. Crispin—tell Georgios to see to the other gentleman. When you are quite refreshed,” he added in English, turning to his guests, “I will speak to you here.”
“But Gurt?” said Maurice, pausing a moment.
“Oh, the sailor!” observed Justinian, carelessly looking at him; “let him follow you, and Anasthasius can look after him. Go now! I will await your return here.”