Then suddenly the tumult broke out again with its cries of “Kill the devil! Tear the wizard to pieces! Death is behind him! He brings death! Kill, kill, kill!”
A score of knives flashed in the air, only this time Grey Dick set no arrow on his string. Their holders ran forward; then the Man lifted his hand, in which was no weapon, and they stopped.
Now he spoke in a low voice so cold that, to Hugh’s excited fancy, the words seemed to tinkle like falling ice as one by one they came from his lips. He spoke in Italian—perfect Italian of Venice—and young Day, whose teeth where chattering with fear, translated his words.
“Is this your welcome to a stranger,” he said, “the companions of whose voyage have unhappily met with misfortune?” Here with a faint motion of his fingerless glove he indicated the dead who lay all about the decks of that fatal ship. “Would you, men of Venice, kill a poor, unarmed stranger who has travelled to visit you from the farthest East and seen much sorrow on his way?”
“Ay, we would, sorcerer!” shouted one. “Our brothers were in that ship, which we know, and you have murdered them.”
“How did you learn Italian in the farthest East?” asked another.
Then for the second time, like hounds closing in on a stag at bay, they sprang toward him with their poised knives.
Again he lifted his hand, again the semi-circle halted as though it must, and again he spoke.
“Are there none here who will befriend a stranger in a strange land? None who are ashamed to see a poor, unarmed stranger from the East done to death by these wolves who call themselves children of the white Christ of Mercy?”
Now Hugh touched Dick upon the shoulder.