The Chiote pursued his triumph, and with a languid, lover-like gaze on the wine, which sparkled in purple radiance to the brim of its enameled cup, he apostrophized the produce of his fine country.
“Delicious grape!—essence of the sunshine and of the dew!—what vales but the vales of Chios could have produced thee? What tint of heaven is brighter than thy hue? What fragrance of earth richer than thy perfume?”
He lightly sipped a few drops from the edge, like a libation to the deity of taste.
“Exquisite draft!” breathed he; “unequaled but by the rosy lip and melting sigh of beauty! Well spoke the proverb: ‘Chios, whose wines steal every head, and whose women, every heart.’”
“You forget the rest,” gladly interrupted the German—“and whose men steal everything.”
A general laugh followed the retort, such as it was.
“Scythian!” said the Greek across the table, in a voice made low by rage, and preparing to strike.
“Liar!” roared the German, sweeping a blow of his falchion, which the Chiote escaped only by flinging himself on the ground. The blow fell on the table, where it caused wide devastation. All now started up; swords were out on every side, and nothing but forcing the antagonists to their cells prevented the last perils of a difference of palate. The storm bellowed deeper and deeper.
The Captain
“Here’s to the luck that sent us back before this north-wester thought of stirring abroad,” said the Arab. “I wish our noble captain were among us now. Where was he last seen?”