“The black churl,” said a little shriveled Syrian, “never shares; he keeps his wine as he keeps his money.”
“Aye, he keeps everything but his character,” whispered Hanno.
“There you wrong him,” observed the Syrian; “no man keeps his character more steadily. By Beelzebub! it is like his skin; neither will be blacker the longest day he has to live.”
A roar of laughter rose round the hall.
“Black or not black,” exclaimed the Ethiopian, with a sullen grin, that showed his teeth like the fangs of a wild beast, “my blood’s as red as yours.”
“Possibly,” retorted the little Syrian; “but as I must take your word on the subject till I shall have seen a drop of it spilt in fair fight, I only hope I may live and be happy till then; and I can not put up a better prayer for a merry old age.”
“There is no chance of your ever seeing it,” growled the Ethiopian; “you love the baggage and the hold too well to leave them to accident, be the fight fair or foul.”
The laugh was easily raised, and it was turned against the Syrian, who started up and declaimed with a fury of gesture that made the ridicule still louder.
“I appeal to all,” cried the fiery orator; “I appeal to every man of honor among us, whether by night or day, on land or water, I have ever been backward.”
“Never at an escape,” interrupted the Ethiopian.