“My dear Count Constantine Caliphronas,” said Maurice deliberately, “you have called me a scoundrel, for which epithet, coming from a despicable wretch like yourself, I care nothing. But if you dare to speak disrespectfully of Miss Helena, I will certainly throw you into that boiling spring over there.” The Greek was young, strong, and athletic, and could doubtless have held his own against the Englishman to a considerable extent,—although he would have been beaten in the end, owing to his ignorance of boxing, an art in which Maurice excelled,—but so craven was his soul that he did not dare to resent this calmly insulting speech, but merely stood his ground, quivering with fury. “_Và!_” he hissed through his clinched teeth, and shaking five fingers at Maurice, which is about the strongest imprecation a Greek can use. “I will be even with you, pig, English as you are!” “I see you want pitching into that stream,” replied Maurice, rising. “You dare to apply such another epithet to me, and, as sure as I stand here, in you go.” Caliphronas trembled with mingled fear and rage, for he had seen the man before him box with Boatswain Dick, and knew he had but small chance against such pugilistic science. He was as careful of his beauty as a lady, and dreaded lest some sledge-hammer blow should mar his perfect features, therefore he deemed it wise to restrain his temper, and laughed derisively. “Bah! to-day for you, to-morrow for me,” he said jeeringly. “You cannot hold yourself against the future ruler of Melnos. I will have the island and Helena! You will have nothing.” “Don’t be too sure of that, Caliphronas! I don’t want Melnos, but I certainly do want Helena, and shall certainly refuse to give her up without a struggle.” “Try!” sneered the Greek, snapping his fingers under Royland’s nose; “try!” Hitherto Maurice had kept his temper well under control; but this last insult was too much, so, lifting up the light frame of the Greek in his athletic grasp, in spite of his struggles, he calmly sent him splash into the nearest pool, which was fortunately but tepid in character, otherwise the Count might have run a chance of being parboiled. “Next time you dare to use your vile tongue on me, I will sling you down the grand staircase,” said Maurice quietly; then, without waiting to hear the bad language of his enemy, calmly strolled away towards the scene of the festival, smoking with great enjoyment. Caliphronas, considerably cowed, crawled out of the pool, looking like a drowned rat; and few would have recognized in this despicable object the daring, handsome Hermes of the morning. Had he possessed a knife, he would certainly have pursued Maurice, and done his best to kill him; but, being without a weapon, he had a wholesome dread of the Englishman’s fists, so, swallowing his rage for the time being, went off in search of dry garments.