The Count was thus driven into a corner, and all his suave manner vanished as he sat up on the turf with a scowl on his handsome face, and a significant movement of his right hand toward his waist.
“Oh, I’m not afraid of that, you scamp,” said Crispin quickly; “you wear not the fusanella here, nor have you knife or pistol with you. You are in a civilized country, my noble Count, so must act in a civilized manner.”
The Greek, recovering his temper, burst out laughing, and beckoned Crispin to sit down beside him on the soft green turf.
“You have the whip-hand of me, Creespeen,” he said lightly; “and I am too wise a man to waste time in argument, so I will tell you the reason of my presence here. You were quite right in thinking I did not come for pleasure; on the contrary, I wish to carry out a very delicate affair, and perhaps it is as well you should know, as I may want your assistance in the matter.”
“I will help you in none of your villanies.”
“By St. Theodore, how pious you have become! Oh, I forgot! you are Misterr Creespeen, the famous poet, the new Chrysostom of the Golden Mouth. Eh yes; I heard all about you in London. No one would think this great poet was ever”—
“Hold your tongue!” said Crispin, roughly grasping the Greek by the wrist; “whatever I have been, whatever I am, I have done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Indeed! would you like them to know all?” retorted the Count, jerking his hand in the direction of the house.
“I intend to tell them all when I choose; but not before.”
“Suppose I anticipate you?”