A scoundrel’s weapons must be used to beat him.

It took Caliphronas some considerable time to recover his usual serenity of temper, as never during his whole life had his vanity received such a blow as this refusal of Helena’s to marry him. Hitherto the Greek had been so much petted by all on account of his beauty, especially by women, that he had become quite a spoiled child, and looked upon it as his right that every whim he took into his handsome head should be gratified. To express a wish, and have it at once fulfilled, appeared to him to be the proper mode of behaving towards him, and it was a severe wound to his arrogant self-complacency to find that the only woman he cared about should refuse to yield to the dearest wish of his heart.

His love for Helena was purely a sensual feeling, based on the feminine beauty of the girl, so, when he found himself scorned in such a way, this animal affection speedily merged in the stronger feeling of intense hatred. Formerly he had regarded Helena as a charming toy, who would do him credit as his wife, and satisfy his artistic requirements by her womanly grace; but now he regarded her in the light of a bitter enemy, one who deserved to be punished for the infamous way in which she had slighted his addresses. Nothing would have given Caliphronas greater gratification than to mar that lovely face he had so much admired, and he would have liked to drag Helena through the gutter, and render her an object of pity and derision to all the world, in order to satiate his vengeance against her.

Had he been a Turkish Bashaw, he would doubtless have tied the offending beauty up in a sack and dropped her into the Bosphorus; had he been a Russian boyar, he would have done his best to get her exiled to Siberia; but, as he was neither the one nor the other, and was in his present position quite unable to treat her as cruelly as he wished, with devilish ingenuity he hit upon the only mode in which he could hope to gratify his petty spite against a woman, whose only crime was that she did not admire him as much as he admired himself.

The Count’s little scheme of revenge was not complex, as he merely intended to call upon Justinian to keep his word, and force his daughter into the marriage, and, once she was his wife, punish her in a way of which he felt himself thoroughly capable, that is, by worrying her to death. A petty, spiteful, narrow-minded man like the Greek had quite a gift in annoying those people whom he disliked, and by assiduously exercising this ignoble talent, could hope to render unbearable the life of even the happiest and most long-suffering person. Besides, if he grew tired of Helena, he could easily force her to leave Melnos, for her father was so old that he would soon be in his dotage, and thus could not protect the girl, in which case Caliphronas would be free to act as his spiteful nature dictated.

AsAs to Justinian’s breaking faith with him, such a thing never entered into the Count’s mind for a moment, and, scoundrel as he was himself, he hardly dreamed that any one would be astute enough to beat him with his own weapons, least of all the Demarch, who had hitherto acted towards him in a strictly honorable way. Strong diseases, however, require strong remedies, and, had the deceiving of Caliphronas not been imperative for the salvation of the island, Justinian would certainly not have stooped to such duplicity. Caliphronas, therefore, ready to betray the Demarch if the fancy took him, never thought the Demarch would betray him, and thus relied blindly on the promise of the forced marriage being fulfilled, in which case this consummate scamp decided to sacrifice Helena in the most painful manner which he could devise, for the gratification of his wounded pride.

That Maurice loved Helena he knew well enough, for had not the mere sight of that lovely face brought the young man from England to this semi-civilized island of the Ægean; but as to whether the passion was reciprocal, Caliphronas felt doubtful, as he had never espied anything in the girl’s demeanor towards his rival to inspire him with such a belief. But whether she loved this young Englishman or not, the Count was quite indifferent, as he had Justinian’s promise that, with her consent or without it, Helena should be his. As it turned out, the marriage, if it took place, would be without her consent, but this the Greek deemed a small matter, and therefore repaired to the Acropolis with the full determination to force the Demarch to keep his word. It was in this rosy light that Caliphronas looked at the circumstances of the case, and he never thought of what he should do in the event of things turning out otherwise, for the simple reason that, in his blind arrogance, he deemed himself too powerful to be thwarted in any way; so, disguising his chagrin under an air of triumph, he went in the afternoon to meet Justinian, and his fate.

Strolling along the mulberry-tree avenue, Caliphronas, anticipating quite a brilliant career of scoundrelism, began to build castles in the air, which were all inhabited by one person—himself. Justinian was old, and would soon die, or, at all events, putting his much-desired death out of the question, would shortly become incapable of managing the affairs of the island, therefore this goodly heritage would soon revert to Count Constantine Caliphronas, better known as Andros, the shepherd boy. This humble birth, however, he would sink in oblivion, and become widely known as Prince Caliphronas, the sole survivor of a famous Fanariot family. Helena, of course, he would marry, in order to revenge himself, and when he grew weary of her beauty and his revenge, there were plenty of ways of getting her shipped off to Stamboul, where she could be finally disposed of in some jealously guarded harem. Then he would be sole ruler of the Isle of Melnos, and make it a dwelling after his own heart, for, after turning both Crispin and the Englishman off the island, he would set up a princely establishment in this Ægean paradise.

What with the exports of wines, silks, pottery, olives, and grapes, he would be able to realize a magnificent income, which he would apply, not to the aid and assistance of the Melnosians, but to his own enjoyment. He would build a palace, have troops of servants, a pleasure yacht, and could also give rein to his sensuality in the matter of the most beautiful women. As to carrying out Justinian’s foolish dream of a new Hellas, of course that was ridiculous, and his first act on becoming Demarch of Melnos would be to abolish the three days’ festival, so that the Melnosians could live like other insular Greeks, on such amusements as they could provide for themselves. Besides, the title Demarch only meant Mayor, and was hardly lordly enough for such a magnificent person as he intended to be. He would call himself Prince of Melnos, and who knows but what, with the assistance of Alcibiades and a few other scoundrels of the same kidney with whom he was acquainted, he would not be able to extend his principality so as to include all the surrounding islands. Then Crete, under Turkish misrule, would be glad to come under his protection, and Rhodes also—in fact, a few years might see the whole Cyclades acknowledging him as their sovereign. In that case, he would be powerful enough to measure himself against the Greek Government, who, perhaps, weary of a foreign king, might be persuaded or forced to drive away King George, and place the Prince of Melnos on the vacant throne.

In fact, while indulging in these Alnaschar-like visions, Caliphronas was rapidly foreseeing the conquest of Constantinople, and himself seated on the golden throne of the PalÆologi, as Emperor of the East, when the sight of the Acropolis, directly in front of him, dispelled these glowing dreams, and he ascended the steps rather dolefully, with the conviction that, as yet, all his fine schemes were in the clouds.

Pausing a moment on the threshold, in order to quite recover his usual jaunty manner, the future Emperor, but present adventurer, drew aside the curtain and entered the court, to find himself confronted by Justinian, his daughter, and their two guests. The old Demarch reclined in a capacious chair beside the fountain, smoothing the golden hair of Helena, who was seated at his feet. On the back of the chair leaned Maurice, laughing at some trivial remark, and Crispin, balanced perilously on the marble rim of the pool, was irritating Argos, who strutted near with his gorgeous tail spread out to its fullest extent. All of them looked remarkably happy, especially Justinian, whose stern face was glowing with pleasure, and in Helena’s eyes shone the light of undying love as she glanced shyly, from time to time, at her joyous lover, so strong, so handsome, and so noble.

When Caliphronas appeared at the entrance, however, all this merriment vanished; for Helena, mindful of the previous night, sprang to her feet, with an indignant look at the advancing Greek, and the faces of Maurice and the poet assumed a cold expression of keen disapproval. Not so Justinian, who, quite enjoying the situation, received his enemy with a bland smile, which, had Caliphronas but known it, boded ill for the success of his mission.

“Helena, my child,” said the Demarch quietly, “will you leave us for a little while. I have some business with Count Caliphronas.”

Helena needed no second bidding, but, with an angry glance at her rejected lover, walked quickly to the curtains, through which she vanished, but not before sending a sweet smile in the direction of Maurice. Caliphronas saw that smile, and felt uneasy as to the meaning of it, but he became still more uneasy, when the Demarch, without asking him to be seated, addressed him formally as Count Caliphronas.

“Why do you not call me Andros?” asked the Greek apprehensively.

“I understood you called yourself Count Caliphronas,” replied Justinian smoothly, “and, naturally, I give you that title. Of course, I thought you were but a shepherd boy, who, in default of god-parents, had to be called by the name of your birthplace. However, I am wrong, as it seems you are the offspring of a noble family, and have a title.”

“I don’t know what you mean by talking to me like this!” said the Count in rather a cowed manner, feeling that the speech of the Demarch was decidedly hostile in tone. “I wish to speak to you alone.”

“You can speak to me in the presence of these gentlemen,” retorted the old man coolly; “they know all my secrets.”

“All?” said Caliphronas in a meaning tone.

“As far as you are concerned—yes!”

“Beware, Justinian!” cried the Count in Greek, whereupon the Demarch ruthlessly interrupted him.

“You had better speak English. I prefer it.”

This was quite the dictatorial Demarch of old, strangely unlike the yielding Justinian of the last few weeks, so Caliphronas, feeling more and more uneasy, burst out into a torrent of rapid English.

“What do you mean? Why do you talk like this? Have you forgotten your promise to me?”

“What promise?”

“Your promise that I should marry Helena!”

“Oh yes, yes! I remember something about that. Well, have you asked her to marry you?”

“I have, and she has refused me,” said Caliphronas sullenly.

“In that case, I am afraid you cannot marry her.”

“Cannot marry her!” stammered Caliphronas, the rich color of his face fading to a dull gray; “but you promised to make her marry me.”

“Did I? then I break that promise!”

“You break it! And what about my succeeding you as Demarch of Melnos.”

“I break that also!”

Caliphronas, too startled to speak, stood looking blankly at the Demarch, pale as the marble pillar against which he leaned. Much as he disliked him, Maurice could not but feel sorry for the shame and agony felt by the baffled schemer. Twice, thrice, he tried to answer Justinian, but the words died away feebly on his parched lips, while the Demarch, relentless in his anger, spoke cruelly and deliberately, as if to torture still further the wretched man before him.

“You are astonished at my thus acting so dishonorably. I am astonished myself, as never before have I broken a promise once made, even to the meanest person. However, in this case, necessity demanded that I should make use of you as a tool, in order to gain my own ends, and I have done so, with the fullest intention of defeating your schemes. Ah yes, my dear friend, I know perfectly well that you would have betrayed me to Alcibiades, had I not, by a stroke of diplomacy, secured you to my interests, by promising to give you my daughter and make you my successor. Had I not done so, you would have joined the ranks of my enemies, and I, being ignorant of their schemes, would have been at a disadvantage in defending my property. Therefore, knowing you were ready to play the traitor, unless bribed to remain true to your benefactor, you can hardly wonder that I made use of you, to learn the plans of those who were dangerous to me in every way. A man cannot serve two masters, and as the question of whose side you would embrace was simply one of bribery, I took advantage of your baseness. I bribed you! I promised you all you wished, without the slightest intention of fulfilling such promise. From you I have learned all I wish to know, and am now in a position to baffle both your ambition and that of Alcibiades. Between two stools you have fallen ignominiously to the ground; and now, having no further use for you, traitor and ingrate as you are, I command you to leave my island this very day.”

During this long speech the Greek made neither sound nor movement, but, like a beaten hound, cowered before the lash of Justinian’s scornful words. When the Demarch ended, he raised his head with a bitter smile on his pallid face, and flung out his hand threateningly towards the speaker.

“You do well, Justinian, to say you are prepared,” he said in a hoarse voice; “you do well to be on your guard; for I swear by the Panagia herself to ruin you and your schemes before the end of another month. Had you been true to me, I would have remained true to you; but now”—

“Most virtuous scoundrel!” cried Justinian scornfully; “you were anxious to guard what you thought was already your own, and now make a boast of doing that which you were bribed to do. As to your threat to ruin me, go and do your worst! I defy both you and your precious friend Alcibiades!”

“You have every reason to be grateful to me. I have told you all the schemes of your enemies.”

“Yes; you betrayed them as you would have betrayed me, had their bribe been the larger. Gratitude! gratitude! you dare to speak of that to me, to whom you owe everything! Who were you? Nobody! What were you? Nothing! I found you a poor rustic in the Island of Andros, and trained you up to be my successor—which you would have been, had I not discovered in time your heartless, fickle, scoundrelly nature. Gratitude, forsooth! and you, ingrate, turning to bite the hand that has fed you all these years. You owe me everything, I owe you nothing, save the contempt that an ungrateful hound like you deserves for such treachery as you meditated. You would have sold me, you Judas! you would have betrayed a man who has been a father to you! But I have baffled you! I have tricked you! and you are now reaping the reward of your own vile actions. Go! quit my sight, ungrateful wretch! lest I pass from words to actions, and spurn you from the threshold which your very presence pollutes.”

“I will go,” cried the Greek, with venomous spitefulness; “but I will return, with an army at my back, to ruin you and yours. I will wreck your island, I will make of you a slave; and as for your daughter”—

“Not a word about that lady,” said Maurice firmly, stepping forward and taking part in the conversation for the first time; “she is to be my wife!”

“Your wife!” hissed the Greek furiously. “Never! never! I will drag that fine piece of purity from your arms to the gutter. I will”—

“You d—d reptile!” cried the Englishman, white with passion; “say another word, and I’ll break your neck!”

Caliphronas, having had some experience of Royland’s strength, judged it wise not to say another word; but, turning on his benefactor, poured out the vials of his wrath on the old man’s head.

“So this is why you brought him from England!” he said fiercely; “to marry Helena! You promised that if I fulfilled your desire, and lured him to Melnos, I would be your daughter’s husband”—

“If she accepted you, yes—if she refused you, no!”

“So you say now. Oh, I have been your tool and slave all along!”

“You have. I have met treachery with treachery, and baffled you.”

“I have obeyed your wishes,” hissed the Greek venomously; “I have kept your secrets, but I will do so no longer. Whom you are, and what you are, I will tell this man.”

“Be silent, wretch!”

“I will not be silent; I have been silent too long. You have betrayed me, so now I will betray you. Maurice Roylands, look at this so-called Justinian. Do you know whom he is? An outcast Englishman, a renegade adventurer—your uncle Rudolph!”

“My uncle Rudolph!” replied Maurice, aghast.

“Yes. It was he who sent me to England for you; it is he who is heir to your fine estate; and you—you are nothing but a pauper!”

“Crispin, turn that man out!” commanded the Demarch, rising. “Go to the western pass, Count Caliphronas, and there you will find a boat in charge of Alexandros. Leave this island before nightfall, or, by heaven, I will have you drowned like the rat you are!”

“I go,” retorted the Greek fiercely, retreating before Crispin, and clutching the curtains. “I go; but when I return, I swear by all the saints that you shall suffer agonies for every word you have uttered to-day. Scoundrel! wretch! renegade! outcast! VÀ vÀ!”

And, uttering the bitterest malediction he could think of, the beaten schemer vanished from the Acropolis, and later on from the island itself; from whence he doubtless went to Kamila, in search of Alcibiades, to assist him in his plans of revenge.

“Thank heaven, that is all over!” said Justinian, when they were once more alone. “Now, at least, it will be open war, and not hidden treachery, Maurice!”

“And you are really my uncle Rudolph?” said Roylands, grasping the outstretched hand of the Demarch.

“Really and truly! Now you know the meaning of so many things which have so often puzzled you. Did you never suspect the truth?”

“Never!” answered his nephew emphatically; “but Crispin”—

“Crispin knew it all along,” said the poet quickly; “but, as I had given my sacred word to keep silence, of course I could say nothing.”

“I am glad you are my uncle, Justinian.”

“Oh, I am still Justinian, then!” said Rudolph, with a smile, as he shook his nephew heartily by the hand. “Well, it is better so; I am too old to learn new tricks, and, after forty years of Greek life, I cannot turn Englishman in one moment.”

“Of course Roylands Grange is now yours.”

“Boy, boy,” observed the old Demarch, laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “do you think so meanly of me as that? Were I a pauper, I would not deprive you of a single acre; but, being as I am, rich and happy, I would indeed be base to take your estate when I have all this.”

“Still, you are the head of our house.”

“A head that will soon be in the grave. No, no, my son, the property is yours; and if you have any scruples, why, then, are you not going to marry your cousin? so the Grange will still belong to you, and yet remain with the elder branch of the family.”

“Why, Helena is my first cousin!”

“Of course she is!”

“A second Eunice,” said Crispin, smiling, “only not so charming.”

“Crispin! Helena is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“So is Eunice.”

“Come, that’s nonsense, you know!” objected Maurice warmly; “there can’t be two most beautiful women in the world.”

Justinian settled the matter by bursting out laughing.

“Every one thinks his own crow the whitest,” he said gayly; “but come, leave off arguing about the merits of your respective lady-loves. We have other things to think of.”

“The coming war, eh?”

“Yes. Andros will do as he says, and bring Alcibiades here with his band of scoundrels. Well,” added the Demarch, with a grim smile, “they will get a rather warm reception when they do come. The Roylands are a fighting family.”

“Ah, now I understand how you made that allusion before,” said Maurice quickly; “and now I come to think of it, what with the many hints you dropped, I must have been blind not to guess the truth.”

“When a man has been numbered with the dead forty years, it is hard to believe that he is alive,” said the Demarch philosophically.

“You must have had a strange life, uncle.”

“Very,” replied Justinian, gratified by the title. “To-night, when Helena has retired to bed, I will tell you all my adventures since leaving the Grange.”

“Does Helena know I am her cousin?”

“She knows nothing beyond the fact that I am Demarch of Melnos. No, my son, you have wooed and won your bride entirely on your merits, so now you can understand how delighteddelighted I am at the prospect of this marriage, which will blend both the elder and younger branch of the family in one common line.”

“Can I tell Helena?”

“Certainly, whenever you please.”

“Here is Helena now,” said Crispin, as the girl, looking rather pale, entered the court. “Come here, sister Helena; Maurice has something to tell you.”

“About Caliphronas?” asked Helena, coming up close to her father.

“No, my dear,” said her father, kissing her fondly. “Caliphronas has received the reward of his treachery, and has left Melnos forever.”

“I am glad of that, father,” said the girl, with a sigh of relief. “You can have no idea how I disliked him. But has he been treacherous?”

“Very; he wanted to give up Melnos to Alcibiades.”

“Did he dare?”

“Yes; and was only deterred from doing so by being promised both yourself and the island.”

“But, father,” cried Helena in great distress, “you did not want me to marry Caliphronas?”

“Never! I wished you to marry Maurice.”

“Well, your wishes are going to be fulfilled,” said Helena, with a lovely smile, turning to her lover.

“Helena,” remarked Maurice, with mock solemnity, taking her hands, “look at me carefully.”

“I am doing so with both eyes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Of course—Maurice Roylands.”

“And what else?”

“My—my future husband,” said the girl, with an amused smile.

“Still, I am something even more.”

“I don’t understand,” began Helena in bewilderment, when Justinian interposed.

“Do not tease the child so, Maurice. Helena, this is your future husband and your first cousin.”

“My cousin!”

“By all the laws of the Medes and Persians,” said Maurice, kissing her. “Your father is my long-lost uncle Rudolph, of whom I have spoken, and you, my sweet bride to be, are my dear coz Helena.”