“That if Caliphronas is appointed your father’s heir, it were better for this crater to become full of seething lava once more, than the hot-bed of scoundrels such as that scamp will surely make it.” “I don’t think you need be afraid of that,” replied Helena, with great scorn; “Andros is not likely to rule Melnos.” “You don’t like him?” “I hate him!” “And why? He is very handsome.” “Do you think I am a woman likely to be taken with mere good looks in a man?” she answered, with an angry light in her eyes. “I thought you knew me better than that, Maurice.” “Forgive me, Helena; but indeed I am glad you do not like Caliphronas.” Helena knew the reason of this pointed remark, and, looking down with a blush, was about to reply, when the man they were talking about came quickly along the narrow path, with a savage scowl on his handsome face. “Helena, your father is asking for you,” he said abruptly. “Oh, I will go at once,” replied the girl lightly, in order to conceal her confusion; and rapidly left the spot, where Caliphronas still remained looking angrily at Maurice. The Englishman saw that the Count was in a terrible rage, and ready to overwhelm him with invective, but, nevertheless, was not sorry to come to a complete understanding with this treacherous scamp, who had no regard for truth, honor, or daring. Caliphronas was a thorough bully by nature; and, having succeeded in browbeating his own countrymen by arrogance, thought he would try the same plan with Maurice, quite unaware that the seemingly easy-going young man was made of sterner stuff than yielding Hellenes, and would hold his own against all odds with true British doggedness. “Well, Bacchus,” said Maurice, trying to pass the matter off lightly at first, “why have you deserted your revellers?” “To punish a scoundrel,” burst out the furious Greek, stamping his foot. Maurice looked around serenely; and then, sitting down on a block of black lava, streaked with sulphur, began to roll a cigarette, which innocent proceeding irritated Caliphronas beyond all powers of self-control. “Do you hear me?” he cried, mad with rage. “I came here to punish a scoundrel!” In a quarrel the victory is generally to him who keeps his temper, as Maurice knew very well; so, in this case, the more enraged grew the Greek, the calmer became the Englishman. “So I see,” he replied phlegmatically; “but, as I see no scoundrel here but yourself, I hardly understand you.” “Understand this, Mr. Maurice—you are the scoundrel!” “Really!” said Roylands, lighting his cigarette with provoking coolness; “and your reason for applying such a name to me?” “You make love to the lady who is to be my wife.” “I was not aware your offer of marriage had been accepted.” “I have her father’s consent.” “True; but you have not the lady’s consent.” “Bah! what of that? Women and dogs are born to obey.”