“Oh, there is precious little law in these parts. Brigandism is not yet extinct, whatever you English may think. Besides, Alcibiades was a moderate sort of pirate, and was cunning enough not to go too far. He would rob a poor man of his last drachma, but he would not cut his throat. I don’t think Justinian blamed him for this piratical existence; indeed, I think he rather envied his wild life, and, had he been young enough, would certainly have joined him in partnership. As it was, he allowed Andros and myself to form part of the band of Alcibiades, which we, wild, uncultured scamps as we were, regarded as a great privilege.” “And how long did this buccaneering go on?” “As far as I am concerned, for some years; but as regards Caliphronas, I dare say he is at it yet.” “What! is he a thief?” “Oh, no; a thief is a vulgar thing. Caliphronas is a picturesque freebooter, and simply plunders on a large scale. I’ve no doubt his visit to England was paid for out of his ill-gotten gains.” “And is this Alcibiades still living?” “Oh yes; you will see him, I have no doubt, for he is a great friend of Justinian’s.” “But who is this Justinian?” Crispin paused for a moment and seemed to consider, then replied with great deliberation,— “I can hardly tell you. He is an Englishman, so you must be content with knowing only that. Later on I may tell you something about him, but not now.” “Well, and how did you escape from this piratical existence?” “Oh, Caliphronas was the main cause of my leaving Melnos. After my mother died, I made several discoveries—one, that Andros was not my brother, as I had hitherto supposed; and another, that Justinian was not my father. Being a comparative child, I did not pay much attention to these facts; but when I was about eighteen years of age, I began to ask Justinian questions as to who I really was, but he refused to tell me.” “Were you always called Crispin?” “Yes, always. Justinian, in spite of his fierce, wild nature, has a vein of romance in him, and, as he arrived at Melnos with myself and my mother on St. Crispin’s day, called me after that saint. My mother fell in with his humor, and from the time I landed at Melnos I was called nothing else but Crispin.” “Or Creespeen, as the Count calls you.” “Yes; Caliphronas is a good English speaker, but he makes mistakes in proper names. You observe he never risks saying Roylands, but always addresses you as Mr. Maurice—Maurice is of course a Greek name.” “And how was Caliphronas responsible for your leaving Melnos?”