"Thou hast a name?" continued the half-yielding, half-doubting guardian of
the port.
"Dost take me to be worse off than the bark of Baptiste, there? I have
papers, too, if thou wilt that I go to the vessel in order to seek them.
This dog is Nettuno, a brute from a far country, where brutes swim like
fishes, and my name is Maso, though wicked-minded men call me oftener Il
Maledetto than by any other title."
All in the throng, who understood the signification of what the Italian
said, laughed aloud, and apparently with great glee, for, to the grossly
vulgar, extreme audacity has an irresistible charm. The officer felt that
the merriment was against him, though he scarce knew why; and ignorant of
the language in which the other had given his extraordinary appellation,
he yielded to the contagion, and laughed with the others, like one who
understood the joke to the bottom. The Italian profited by this advantage,
nodded familiarly with a good-natured and knowing smile, and proceeded.
Whistling the dog to his side, he walked leisurely to the bark, into which
he was the first that entered, always preserving the deliberation and calm
of a man who felt himself privileged, and safe from farther molestation.
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