Bandolo, who sat on the top of his precious mail, which he had placed upon a stool, swung his legs to and fro, laughed boisterously as the schnaps mounted to his brain; for she had uttered the last wish aloud.
"Bandolo—man—monster! what wrong have I ever done you, that you should persecute me thus?"
"You have not done any thing, but your father has. He rode me down in the streets of Vienna; and the man you love has, for he defeated and disgraced me at Glückstadt. He has stabbed and discovered me in various disguises; and, by robbing him of you, I rob him of that which he prizes more than his miserable life, which I could have taken by a pistol-shot at any time—ha! ha! So do not talk in that way again, my bride, or, zounds! I will come and kiss you."
Terrified by this threat, Ernestine remained silent for a time.
He uttered a succession of savage chuckles; then whistled a bolero, and resumed his swinging to and fro on the stool and his beloved portmanteau, eyeing his prisoner all the time as a cat does a mouse.
"Bandolo—Herr or Señor—for I know not by which to address you," said Ernestine; "you are said to love gold as a fish loves water, or flowers the sun."
"As flowers love water, or a fish the sun—what a fine simile! ha! ha!" said Bandolo, who was rapidly becoming tipsy; "Well—what if I do?"
"Conduct me to the nearest Austrian garrison, and I will see that you are paid a thousand ducats in gold."
"Bah!" said he; "I have just sold your sister for that very sum."
"My sister—my sister!" reiterated Ernestine in a breathless voice—"to whom?"