the darkness. Trombin tried the door and
found it ajar; both men entered, and Gambardella pushed it back to its
original position.

It was quite dark within, and the place smelt like a wine-cellar, but
the two evidently knew their way and they walked quickly forward, half a
dozen paces or so, till a wide space suddenly opened on the right, and a
wretched little earthenware oil-lamp appeared, high up, dimly lighting
the first landing of a damp stone staircase. The friends began to mount
at once.

As they went up the air became drier, the smell of the cellar turned
into a complex odour of grilled meats, savoury sauces, rich wine, and
spring fruits, which the companions snuffed and breathed in with greedy
delight; sounds of laughing voices were heard, the stairs were better
lighted, and now and then the idle tinkling of a lute or of a
deep-voiced, double-stringed guitar made an improvised accompaniment to
the cheerful echoes.

Gambardella and Trombin entered a brightly lighted vestibule at the head
of the stair and were greeted by the host in person, a broad-shouldered,
black-haired Samian with brilliant red cheeks; he was showily dressed in
blue cloth trimmed with gold braid, wore a tall fez and spotless linen,
and had a perfect arsenal of weapons stuck in his belt, all richly
ornamented with silver work, in which were set pieces of coral,
carbuncles, and turquoises. He had a look of tremendous vitality and
health, and the tawny light danced and played in his eyes when he
laughed. He spoke the Venetian dialect fluently, but with a strong Greek
accent, and an evident difficulty in pronouncing the letter B.

'Welcome, young gentlemen!' he cried in a formidably cheerful voice, as
he rose from the little table at which he had been busy with his
accounts. 'Here is old Markos, your faithful friend! What can Markos do
for your lordships to-day? Do you desire money of Markos? It is yours,
all his poor store! Or do you come for supper, to taste a real pilaf and
a brace of quails roasted in fig leaves, with a jar of old wine of Samos
and a sweetmeat, and some liquor brewed by the monks of Mount Athos?
Markos is here to serve you!'

He looked as broad as he was long as he stood there bawling out his
noisy greetings, his thumbs stuck into his broad red leather belt, his
legs apart, and his white teeth gleaming like a young boar's tusks in
the midst of his shiny black beard.

Trombin nodded gravely at each phrase, keeping his h