“Try!” sneered the Greek, snapping his fingers under Royland’s nose; “try!”
Hitherto Maurice had kept his temper well under control; but this last insult was too much, so, lifting up the light frame of the Greek in his athletic grasp, in spite of his struggles, he calmly sent him splash into the nearest pool, which was fortunately but tepid in character, otherwise the Count might have run a chance of being parboiled.
“Next time you dare to use your vile tongue on me, I will sling you down the grand staircase,” said Maurice quietly; then, without waiting to hear the bad language of his enemy, calmly strolled away towards the scene of the festival, smoking with great enjoyment.
Caliphronas, considerably cowed, crawled out of the pool, looking like a drowned rat; and few would have recognized in this despicable object the daring, handsome Hermes of the morning. Had he possessed a knife, he would certainly have pursued Maurice, and done his best to kill him; but, being without a weapon, he had a wholesome dread of the Englishman’s fists, so, swallowing his rage for the time being, went off in search of dry garments.
As Maurice approached the vineyard, he heard shouts of laughter, and found it was owing to the latest amusement, that of dancing on the slippery surface of a skin of wine,—a pastime as old as the days of the Dionysia itself. Many skilful dancers fell off; and it was long before any one succeeded in carrying off the prize, which was the skin of wine itself; but ultimately it fell to the lot of the handsome young Palikar who had sung the song about St. Dionysius.
Helena looked apprehensively at him when he appeared, as she was afraid there had been a quarrel between her two suitors; but Maurice calmed her fears by a smile, and together they watched a sailor’s hornpipe danced by Dick to the music supplied by old Andronico, who had picked up the air from Gurt’s whistling.
Justinian was in ecstasies over the dance, and made Dick sing some sea-songs, which, with the rude but tuneful chorus of his messmates, made the old man’s eyes flash with patriotic fire.
“I’m only Greek on the surface, you see,” he said to Crispin, with a somewhat sad smile; “but my heart is English still.”
“Hearts of oak!” replied Crispin gayly. “After all, there is no place like England; for you see Melnos, with all its tropical loveliness, is still unsatisfying when memories of white-cliffed Albion awaken in your heart.”
“Bravo, Crispin!” cried Maurice, who had heard this speech; “you are a true patriot, and must confirm your views by singing ‘Home, sweet Home.’”