This was more than Ithuel could bear.  All his personal wrongs, and sooth to say they had been of a most grievous nature, arose before his mind, incited and inflamed by national dislike; and he broke out into such an incoherent tirade of abuse, as completely set all Filippo’s knowledge of English at fault, rendering a translation impossible.  By this time, Ithuel had swallowed so much of the wine, a liquor which had far more body than he supposed, that he was ripe for mischief, and it was only his extreme violence that prevented him from betraying more than, just at the moment, would have been prudent.  The vice-governatore listened with attention, in the hope of catching something useful; but it all came to his ears a confused mass of incoherent vituperation, from which he could extract nothing.  The scene, consequently, soon became unpleasant, and Andrea Barrofaldi took measures to put an end to it.  Watching a favorable occasion to speak, he put in a word, as the excited Bolt paused an instant to take breath.

“Signore,” observed the vice-governatore, “all this may be very true; but as coming from one who serves the Inglese, to one who is the servant of their ally, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, it is quite as extraordinary as it is uncalled for; and we will talk of other things.  This lugger, on board which you sail, is out of all question English, notwithstanding what you tell us of the nation.”

“Aye, she is English,” answered Ithuel, with a grim smile, “and a pretty boat she is.  But then it is no fault of hers, and what can’t be cured must be endured.  A Guernsey craft, and a desperate goer, when she wakes up and puts on her travelling boots.”

“These mariners have a language of their own,” remarked, Andrea to Vito Viti, smiling as in consideration of Ithuel’s nautical habits; “to you and me, the idea of a vessel’s using boots, neighbor, seems ridiculous; but the seamen, in their imaginations, bestow all sorts of objects on them.  It is curious to hear them converse, good Vito; and now I am dwelling here on our island, I have often thought of collecting a number of their images, in order to aid in illustrating the sort of literature that belongs to their calling.  This idea of a lugger’s putting on her boots is quite heroic.”

Now Vito Viti, though an Italian with so musical a name, was no poet, but a man so very literal, withal, as to render him exceedingly matter of fact in most of his notions.  Accordingly, he saw no particular beauty in the idea of a vessel’s wearing boots; and, though much accustomed to defer to the vice-governatore’s superior knowledge and more extensive reading, he had the courage, on this occasion, to put in an objection to the probability of the circumstance mentioned.

“Signor Vice-governatore,” he replied, “all is not gold that glitters.  Fine words sometimes cover poor thoughts, and, I take it, this is an instance of what I mean.  Long as I have lived in Porto Ferrajo, and that is now quite fifty years, seeing that I was born here, and have been off the island but four times in my life—­and long, therefore, as I have lived here, I never saw a vessel in the harbor that wore boots, or even shoes.”