“Look!” said he, “that young man, lover or husband, is a brute. On my soul, they are quarrelling.”
The three had stopped by a bench under a tree. The young man, who wore claret silk and a sword, had one of those thin faces of dirty complexion which show the ravages of dissipation, and he was talking with a rapidity and vehemence of which only a Latin tongue will admit. We could see, likewise, that the girl was answering with spirit,—indeed, I should write a stronger word than spirit,—while the elderly gentleman, who had a good-humored, fleshy face and figure, was plainly doing his best to calm them both. People who were passing stared curiously at the three.
“Your divinity evidently has a temper,” I remarked.
“For that scoundel—certainly,” said Nick; “but come, they are moving on.”
“You mean to follow them?” I exclaimed.
“Why not?” said he. “We will find out where they live and who they are, at least.”
“And you have taken a fancy to this girl?”
“I have looked them all over, and she's by far the best I've seen. I can say so much honestly.”
“But she may be married,” I said weakly.
“Tut, Davy,” he answered, “it's more than likely, from the violence of their quarrel. But if so, we will try again.”