"Ho!" he said, almost aloud, "after all, first thoughts are true, and Luigi's ruffians come to give me cause to know them; but, by heaven! we will have a fight,—they shall not kill me like a fox run to earth! there are stores of weapons here; I'll sell my life dearly; some of them shall know 'it is ill fashing wi' a desperate man,' as my northern friends say; they'll find what it is to beard a lion at bay!"
Whilst he was uttering all this between his clenched teeth, he caught a sword off the wall, and two pistols; the latter he cocked,—they were ready loaded; he looked at the flints—for percussion had not got to Italy yet—they were dry, so was the priming; holding one in each hand, he placed the sword across the coffin in easy reach, and stood prepared for any odds. His bold spirits rose with the danger; the blood mounted to his cheeks; his eye brightened; he felt his heart beat full,—not with fear, but eager excitement,—the high resolve to die like a hero! It was a perfect picture! With one foot advanced, he stood ready, a pistol in either hand, with their tubes pointed to the ground, the sword within reach, unsheathed. He waited in this attitude nearly two minutes,—the voices had ceased, all was silent.
"He seems determined to try my patience," he thought; "he will have the warmer reception; for, now I think of it, I will have a knife for close work; they at least give one weapons enough for defence."
He stretched to secure a stiletto off the wall, still keeping his gaze on the doorway; he reached one down, and placed it on the pall beside the sword; but in taking it from the nail on which it hung, he accidentally pulled down a couple of cutlasses immediately above; they fell with a loud clanging on the rocky flooring. At the same moment he heard a footstep approaching,—the heavy tramp rang through the arched passage.
"Now for it," he said; "shall I shoot the villain directly he enters, or hear what the scoundrel has to say? The last is best; it is but a single fellow, and, at the worst, I will show him two can play at this game."
The step came nearer, and sounded louder and louder. The Earl waited in breathless expectation; the curtain moved,—it was pushed aside, and a figure entered. A look of surprise passed over the Earl's face: he had expected to see a fine, showily-dressed brigand,—probably Luigi Vardarelli himself; instead of that, he saw in the figure before him an old weather-beaten tar, not in the picturesque garb of the banditti, but in a fisherman's costume. The man had a hangdog look; his features were coarse and repulsive; a ghastly scar seamed his brow; his lank hair was grizzled and matted; his beard and whiskers tangled more grizzly still, and besprinkled with snuff; he wore a rough pilot jacket, and heavy fisherman's boots, which reached up to his hips; his figure short, but broad as a bear; his expression at once gloomy and fierce. His grotesque dress, in such a den,—a man so wholly unexpected, so out of place—was so ridiculous, that the Earl could resist no longer, and throwing his pistols down right and left, regardless of the danger of their exploding, he burst into a merry fit of laughter.
The old man,—none other than Bill Stacy, as the reader must have guessed,—regarded this outburst of jocularity with savage scorn; and when the Earl seemed to have regained his composure,
"The deevil take your daffin and laughin'!" said old Bill, who had not forgotten all his Scotch, "is this a place for your whiggery, think you, and the dead sae near? And what, in the fiend's name, have you loaded yourself with slashers, barkers, and whingers?—what the deevil have you to fear,—can't you trust old Bill?"
"Upon my word, my good man, I was expecting such a totally different guest, your appearance quite upset me! To your questions,—my being here is the best answer to them, and proves I fear you not. Trust you I did not; and being unarmed, and not knowing but that a dozen ruffians would be on me, I armed myself. It seems I had no need, and what I thought would be a tragedy, turns out a comedy. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Stow your ill-timed jesting, or I'll soon teach you, my Lord, where ye be, and all your arms will avail ye but little!"