Part 58 (1/2)

”You are dead,” said his own voice out of the other's mouth. ”You are dead, and I am Gorlias.”

Then the strong teeth were set and the lips closed, and the gladiator's unmatched arms wound themselves upon the other's strength, with grip and clutch and strain not of earthly men.

Silent and terrible, they wrestled in fight, arm to arm, bone to bone, breath to breath. Hour after hour they strove in the still room. The sun went westering away, the shadows deepened. The night came stealing black and lonely through the window. Foot to foot, breast to breast, in the dark, they bowed themselves one upon the other, dumb in the agony of their reeling strife.

Late in the night, in the cold room, Paul Griggs felt the carpet under his hands as he lay upon his back.

His heart was broken.

CHAPTER XLIII.

LORD REDIN had barely glanced at the man in the blue jacket with silver b.u.t.tons, whom he had seen in the deep shadow of the little wine shop as he strolled down the Via della Frezza. But Stefanone had seen him and had gone to the door as he pa.s.sed, watching him when he stood talking to the one-eyed cobbler, and keeping his keen eyes on him as he pa.s.sed again on his homeward way. And all the way to the hotel in the Piazza di Spagna Stefanone had followed him at a distance, watching the great loose-jointed frame and the slightly stooping head, till the Scotchman disappeared under the archway, past the porter, who stood aside, his gold-laced cap in his hand, bowing low to the 'English lord.'

Stefanone waited a few moments and then accosted the porter civilly.

”Do you know if the proprietor wishes to buy some good wine of last year, at a cheap rate?” he asked. ”You understand. I am of the country.

I cannot go in and look for the proprietor. But you are doubtless the director and you manage these things for him. That is why I ask you.”

The porter smiled at the flattery, but said that he believed wine had been bought for the whole year.

”The hotel is doubtless full of rich foreigners,” observed Stefanone.

”It is indeed beautiful. I should prefer it to the Palazzo Borghese. Is it not full?”

”Quite full,” answered the porter, proud of the establishment.

”For instance,” said Stefanone, ”I saw a great signore going in, just before I took the liberty of speaking with you. I am sure that he is a great English signore. Not perhaps a mylord. But a great signore, having much money.”

”What makes you think that?” inquired the porter, with a superior smile.

”Eh, the reasons are two. First, you bowed to him, as though he were some personage, and you of course know who he is. Secondly, he lifted his hat to you. He is therefore a real signore, as good perhaps as a Roman prince. We say a proverb in the country--'to salute is courtesy, to answer is duty.' Therefore when any one salutes a real signore, he answers and lifts his hat. These are the reasons why I say this one must be a great one.”

”For that matter, you are right,” laughed the porter. ”That signore is an English lord. What a combination! You have guessed it. His name is Lord Redin.”

Stefanone's sharp eyes fixed themselves vacantly, for he did not wish to betray his surprise at not hearing the name he had expected.

”Eh!” he exclaimed. ”Names? What are they, when one is a prince. Prince of this. Duke of that. Our Romans are full of names. I daresay this signore has four or five.”

But the porter knew of no other, and presently Stefanone departed, wondering whether he had made a mistake, after all, and recalling the features of the man he had followed to compare them with those younger ones he remembered so distinctly. He went back to the Via della Frezza and drank a gla.s.s of wine. Then he filled the gla.s.s again and carried it carefully across the street to his friend the cobbler.

”Drink,” he said. ”It will do you good. A drop of wine at sunset gives force to the stomach.”

The one-eyed man looked up, and smiled at his friend, a phenomenon rarely observed on his wrinkled and bearded face. He shrugged one round shoulder, by way of a.s.sent, held his head a little on one side and stretched out his black hand with the gla.s.s in it, to the light. He tasted it, smelt it, and looked up at Stefanone before he drank in earnest.

”Black soul!” he exclaimed by way of an approving a.s.severation. ”This is indeed wine!”

”He took it for vinegar!” observed Stefanone, speaking to the air.

”It is wine,” answered the cobbler when he had drained the gla.s.s. ”It is a consolation.”

Then they began to talk together, and Stefanone questioned him about his interview with the tall gentleman an hour earlier. The cobbler really knew nothing about him, though he remembered having seen him several times, years ago, before Gloria had come.