“Agiropoulos, if you have not got the breeding of a gentleman, try to remember when you are in the presence of one,” cried Rudolph.
“Whew!” whistled Agiropoulos, with his enigmatic smile.
“I suppose, Ehrenstein, you don’t exactly want another challenge?”
“I want nothing, and I most certainly don’t want you.”
“Is this delirium, think you, Michaelopoulos?”
“Looks uncommonly like it,” the poet replied.
“Let me feel your pulse, Monsieur Endymion—what an appropriate comparison for the moment! That young gentleman was, we are given to understand, partial to the recumbent attitude. But we are rather embarrassed by our choice of Selene. Which shall it be, Ehrenstein, first, second or third?”
“Will you do me the favour of leaving my room, sir?” ordered Rudolph, frigidly. “When I have finished with Captain Miltiades Karapolos, I shall be happy to dispose of your claims, Agiropoulos, and then of your friend’s, if he thinks proper to demand the privilege.”
“And then of each of the desposyné Inarime’s suitors, comprising a list of two members of parliament, a mayor, a justice of the peace, forty or fifty bachelor islanders and a distinguished archæologist. Don’t forget the archæologist, I implore you, Rudolph. Demolish him before you touch me, or Michaelopoulos—the name is rather long, but practice will accustom your tongue to it—besides, your mellifluous German will be a substantial aid. First lay low the mighty Karapolos, and in a moment you avenge five thousand desolate Turkish hearths—have they hearths in Turkey? Then give the deathly accolade to the archæologist. After that, of course, these two humble individuals are entirely at your disposal, as the courtly Spaniards say. Do you know Spanish? Neither do I. Ta-ta, my friend. You have a heavy day’s work before you when you get well, Monsieur Endymion. To sweep off the face of the earth a Greek hero, a Greek poet, a Greek merchant, a Turkish archæologist, an insular demarch, two members of parliament, a justice of the peace, and fifty Teniotes. Lead me from the presence of this bloodthirsty youth, friend. I shudder,” cried Agiropoulos.
Mighty is the passion of anger—mightier far than that of love. Anger lifted Rudolph out of his sick bed, and placed him, one chill November morning, opposite Miltiades in a lonely field under the Shadow of Lycabettus, with Hadji Adam for his antagonist’s second and the French Viscount for his own. The duel terminated for Rudolph, as nineteenth century duels frequently do, but Miltiades was imprisoned for fourteen days in his own room in Solon Street, with a soldier mounted guard outside, for his colonel, with an unheroic disregard for the laws of honour, judged his act an infringement of military law.