"But how will they appear in the court of Heaven, on that dread day, when all men will be judged by their deeds?" asked the Maltese commander, with a stern expression: which, however, did not abash our volatile friend. "Admirable!" he replied, waving his cigar; "you act the military monk to the life. That sort of air did very well in L’Isle Adam’s days, but it won’t pass now, Marco; so pray lay it aside, or assume it only in the convent at Malta, or the palace at Naples, and for the present be the frank cavalier of the last hour. A proud spirit cannot brook an admonitory tone. Ah! here comes my rascally groom at last: while he loiters with that girl yonder, let us drink to la Signora Teresa. Her family, if they be wise, will hush the matter up, and she may yet marry some honest artisan; who will deem her none the worse for having a few ducats from Valerio Piozzi, captain of the Royal Italian Guard, knight grand cross of San Marco, and Heaven knows what more." The eyes of the young Calabrese flashed fire. "And think you, base ruffian," he exclaimed, in a voice shrill and tremulous with rage, "that old Albanian Greeks, though now sunk to the grade of mere Italian citizens, will forget that their blood has descended to them from the long line of the princes of Epirus, and permit these foul wrongs to pass without retribution?" "Insolent brat, I neither know nor care!" replied the captain, grasping his riding switch, and regarding the bold youth sternly; "and but that your chin is smooth as an apple—poh! I can bandy word and blow with any blusterer in Italy, and shall not shrink from a peasant or woodcutter of this rustic land: but now, since the days of chivalry have passed away, tell me, my pretty Messerino, who will become the champion of this fallen star? and, save myself, to whom can she look for redress?" "To the right hand of her sister, since death has left none other to avenge her," cried the youth, in a voice rising almost to a shriek; and the bright barrel of a pistol glittered in the sunlight which streamed between the vine-leaves of the trellis. Levelling it full at Valerio, she fired, just as I struck up her weapon. From the tone of the voice, and the despair that glared in the eye, there flashed upon me a suspicion of the sex and purpose of this youth. The ball dashed to pieces the head of the large waxen Madonna, which occupied a lofty niche at the corner of the street. A cry of "sacrilege, and murder!" arose, and the people rushed towards us from all quarters. As the smoke cleared, we discovered the imperturbable captain stroking his moustache, and smiling grimly, but with an air of exquisite nonchalance. "Thrice my heart failed me; but he is destroyed at last!" cried Pompeia, in terrible accents, as she cast away the pistol (which she had fired with both her eyes closed), and sinking back on the rustic sofa, burst into a passion of tears.