growled the inn-keeper, giving a vicious glance downwards. "We call him the Vampire."
"A painter?"
"A fine trade! He only paints corpses. If anybody in Constantinople or round about here dies, he always has a portrait of the corpse ready on the same day. The fellow paints in advance, and he never makes a mistake, the vulture."
The old Polish lady gave a cry of horror,—in her arms lay the daughter, swooning, white as a sheet.
And at the same instant the husband leaped down the small flight of steps, seized the Greek by the throat with one hand, and with the other clutched at the portfolio.
We quickly ran down after him. The two men were already scuffling in the sand.
The portfolio was flung down, and on one leaf, sketched in pencil, was the head of the young Polish girl,—her eyes closed, a sprig of myrtle around her brow.
