“Oh, come, now, my good fellow, really you must remember that I’m tied up, and not in a position to be chaffed.  Bother your Italian humbug!  Don’t speak in these confounded figures of speech, you know, but say up and down—­how much?”

“De brigands haf talk you ovair, an’ dey will haf no price.”

“What the devil is all that rot about?”

“Dey will haf youair blood.”

“My blood?”

“Yes.”

“And pray, my good fellow, what good is that going to do them?”

“It is vengeance,” said Girasole.

“Vengeance?  Pooh!  Nonsense!  What rot!  What have I ever done?”

“Dat—­dere—­his blood,” said Girasole, pointing to the coffin.

“What! that scoundrel?  Why, man alive, are you crazy?  That was a fair stand-up fight.  That is, it was two English against twenty Italians, if you call that fair; but perhaps it is.  His blood!  By Jove!  Cool, that!  Come, I like it.”

“An’ more,” said Girasole, who now grew more excited.  “It is not de brigand who condemn you:  it is also me.  I condemn you.”

“You?” said Hawbury, elevating his eyebrows in some surprise, and fixing a cool stare upon Girasole.  “And what the devil’s this row about, I should like to know?  I don’t know you.  What have you against me?”

“Inglis milor,” cried Girasole, who was stung to the quick by a certain indescribable yet most irritating superciliousness in Hawbury’s tone—­“Inglis milor, you sall see what you sall soffair.  You sall die!  Dere is no hope.  You are condemn by de brigand.  You also are condemn by me, for you insult me.”

“Well, of all the beastly rot I ever heard, this is about the worst!  What do you mean by all this infernal nonsense?  Insult you!  What would I insult you for?  Why, man alive, you’re as mad as a March hare!  If I thought you were a gentleman, I’d—­by Jove, I will, too!  See here, you fellow:  I’ll fight you for it—­pistols, or any thing.  Come, now.  I’ll drop all considerations of rank.  I’ll treat you as if you were a real count, and not a sham one.  Come, now.  What do you say?  Shall we have it out?  Pistols—­in the woods there.  You’ve got all your infernal crew around you, you know.  Well?  What?  You won’t?  By Jove!”

Girasole’s gesture showed that he declined the proposition.

“Inglis milor,” said he, with a venomous glitter in his eyes, “I sall haf youair life—­wis de pistol, but not in de duello.  I sall blow your brain out myself.”

“Blow and be hanged, then!” said Hawbury.

And with these words he fell back on his straw, and took no further notice of the Italian.

[Illustration:  “INGLIS MILOR, I SALL HAF YOUAIR LIFE.”]

CHAPTER XXVIII.

TORN ASUNDER.