The poet, considerably astonished at this unwonted emotion of Justinian, accepted the proffered hand of the old man,—although he did so with a somewhat doubtful air.
“I cannot forget you were kind to me in my youth, Justinian, and brought me up; but I cannot understand these sentiments, now so different from those you expressed when we last met.”
“You were yourself to blame in the matter, Crispin. Force is of no avail with me, and you came in a rage to demand what I refused to tell you. I have been a wild man in my day, but I am not so absolutely bad as you think me, and it depends upon yourself as to whether I tell you what you wish to learn.”
“I have a right to know!” cried the poet impetuously.
“That I question,” retorted Justinian, with a flash of his keen eyes. “I will tell you or not entirely at my own pleasure; but the tone you adopt will not make me answer your questions. The storm cannot bend the oak, but the gentlest breeze will make its branches quiver. Lay that parable to heart in your demeanor towards me, Crispin, and all will yet be well; otherwise—well, you know how you left last time.”
The young man made no reply, but relapsed into moody silence, whereupon Justinian turned to Maurice with a winning smile.
“You must bring this obstinate boy to reason, Mr. Roylands. Believe me, it is as well we should be all firm friends and allies, as I have reason to believe there will be trouble.”
“From Caliphronas?”
“Exactly. He has made a demand of me which I refuse to grant.”
“About Helena?” said Crispin, suddenly looking up.