Malcolm had been deep in the columns of home news, while sipping his wine from time to time--wine that was not the Mareotic vintage so celebrated by Strabo and Horace, but of the common espalier trees in the Delta--before he became aware that he had a companion at his table similarly engaged, but in the pages of the obnoxious _Bosphore Egyptien_. He was a striking and picturesque-looking fellow in the prime and strength of manhood. Though somewhat hawk-like in contour, his features were fine and dark; his eyes and moustache jetty black--the former keen, and his knitted brows betokened something of a stern and savage nature. He was well armed with a handsome poniard and pistols, and his dress resembled the Hydriote costume, which is generally of dark material, with wide blue trousers descending as far as the knee, a loose jacket of brown stuff braided with red, and an embroidered skull-cap with a gold tassel. Furtively, above his paper, he had been eyeing from time to time the unconscious Skene, in whose grave face he was keen enough to trace a mixture of power and patience, of concentrated thought without gloom; a face well browned by exposure, a thick dark moustache, and expression that savoured of the resolution and perfect assurance of the genuine Briton; by all of which he was no way deterred, as the picturesque-looking rascal was no other than Pietro Girolamo, the perpetrator of so many unpunished outrages. Malcolm Skene was intent on his paper, and read calmly from column to column, till a start escaped him on his eye catching the following paragraph: 'Misfortune seems to attend the sporting season at Earlshaugh, in Fifeshire. A short time since we had to record the accidental--or supposed accidental--shooting of one of the guests--a distinguished young officer; and now we have to add thereto, the mysterious disappearance of the host, Captain Roland Lindsay, who, when covert shooting last evening, disappeared, and as yet cannot be traced, alive or dead.' Skene started, and for a moment the paper dropped from his hand. 'Dogs dream of bones and fishermen of fish, but what the devil are you dreaming of?' said a voice in rather tolerable English, and Malcolm found himself seated face to face with Pietro Girolamo! With an unmistakable expression of annoyance and disdain, if not positive disgust in his face, Skene rose to leave the table, when the hand of the other was lightly laid on his arm, and Pietro said with mock suavity; 'The Signor will make his apologies?' 'For what?' asked Malcolm bluntly. 'Permitting his English paper to touch my boot just now.' 'Absurd; I merely dropped it,' said Malcolm Skene, turning away and about to look at the paragraph again. 'You must, you shall apologize!' cried the Levantine bully, his sparkling eyes flaming and his pale cheek reddening with rage and rancour.