Cristiano first refurnished the stove with fuel, and lighted it. Then, having washed his hands and face with much care and neatness in a corner of the room, he took his place, and began to carve the cold meats in a style that showed him to be a master of the art.
“It’s curious,” remarked M. Goefle; “you have what they would call in France the manner of a perfect gentleman, and yet that old coat of yours there—”
“Indicates misfortune, and not poverty,” answered the adventurer, quietly. “Eight days ago I was very decently equipped, and could have appeared at the ball without any embarrassment.”
“Very possibly,” said M. Goefle, seating himself, and beginning to make good use of his handsome teeth; “just as it is quite possible that you are getting ready for one more of those romances that travelling adventurers excel in. It is all the same to me, if it is amusing.”
“Come,” said Cristiano, laughing, “in what language shall I recite my tale?”
“Faith, in Swedish, as that is your own language. You are a Swede, and a Dalecarlian too; I see that plainly enough, by your face.”
“But I am not Swedish, though; Icelandic, rather.”
“Rather? are you not sure?”
“Not the least in the world. Therefore, as Latin is the universal language, if you please—”
And Cristiano continued in elegant and correct Latin, speaking it with the greatest facility.