The Long Night | Page 5

rather than
of fear; and the firm set of his mouth and the smouldering fire in his
eyes as he confronted the drunken bravo, no less than the manner in
which he handled his weapon, showed him as ready to pursue as he had
been hardy to undertake the quarrel.
He gave proof of forethought, too. "Witness all, he drew first!" he cried;
and his glance quitting Grio for the briefest instant sought to meet the
merchants' eyes. "I am on my defence. I call all here to witness that he
has thrust this quarrel upon me!"
The landlord wrung his hands. "Oh dear! oh dear!" he cried. "In
Heaven's name, gentlemen, put up! put up! Stop them! Will no one stop
them!" And in despair, seeing no one move to arrest them, he made as
if he would stand between them.

But the bully flourished his blade about his ears, and with a cry the
goodman saved himself "Out, skinker!" Grio cried grimly. "And you,
say your prayers, puppy. Before you are five minutes older I will spit
you like a partridge though I cross the frontier for it. You have basted
me with wine! I will baste you after another fashion! On guard! On
guard, and----"
"What is this?"
The voice stayed Grio's tongue and checked his foot in the very instant
of assault. The student, watching his blade and awaiting the attack, was
surprised to see his point waver and drop. Was it a trick, he wondered?
A stratagem? No, for a silence fell on the room, while those who held
the floor hastened to efface themselves against the wall, as if they at
any rate had nothing to do with the fracas. And next moment Grio
shrugged his shoulders, and with a half-stifled curse stood back.
"What is this?"
The same question in the same tone. This time the student saw whose
voice it was had stayed Grio's arm. Within the door a pace in front of
two or three attendants, who had displaced the roisterers on the
threshold, appeared a spare dry-looking man of middle height, wearing
his hat, and displaying a gold chain of office across the breast of his
black velvet cloak. In age about sixty, he had nothing that at a first
glance seemed to call for a second: his small pinched features, and the
downward curl of the lip, which his moustache and clipped beard failed
to hide, indicated a nature peevish and severe rather than powerful. On
nearer observation the restless eyes, keen and piercing, asserted
themselves and redeemed the face from insignificance. When, as on
this occasion, their glances were supported by the terrors of the State, it
was not difficult to understand why Messer Blondel, the Syndic, though
no great man to look upon, had both weight with the masses, and a hold
not to be denied over his colleagues in the Council.
No one took on himself to answer the question he had put, and in a
voice thin and querulous, but with a lurking venom in its tone, "What is
this?" the great man repeated, looking from one to another. "Are we in

Geneva, or in Venice? Under the skirts of the scarlet woman, or where
the magistrates bear not the sword in vain? Good Mr. Landlord, are
these your professions? Your bailmen should sleep ill to-night, for they
are likely to answer roundly for this! And whom have we sparking it
here? Brawling and swearing and turning into a profligate's tavern a
place that should be for the sober entertainment of travellers? Whom
have we here--eh! Let me see them! Ah!"
He paused rather suddenly, as his eyes met Grio's: and a little of his
dignity fell from him with the pause. His manner underwent a subtle
change from the judicial to the paternal. When he resumed, he wagged
his head tolerantly, and a modicum of sorrow mingled with his anger.
"Ah, Messer Grio! Messer Grio!" he said, "it is you, is it? For shame!
For shame! This is sad, this is lamentable! Some indulgence, it is
true"--he coughed--"may be due after late events, and to certain who
have borne part in them. But this goes too far! Too far by a long way!"
"It was not I began it!" the bully muttered sullenly, a mixture of
bravado and apology in his bearing. He sheathed his blade, and thrust
the long scabbard behind him. "He threw a glass of wine in my face,
Syndic--that is the truth. Is an old soldier who has shed blood for
Geneva to swallow that, and give God thanks?"
The Syndic turned to the student, and licked his lips, his features more
pinched than usual. "Are these your manners?" he said. "If so, they are
not the manners of Geneva! Your name,