"
"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.
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