I know this Diurbanu well, and you'll know him, too, before he's through with you.

I'll bet you my fiddle, Manasseh, you won't live to see another day; but it serves you right! You could handle three such men as Diurbanu in a fair fight; yet, instead of meeting him on the battle-field, you walk right into his clutches and let him bind you fast--like Christ on the cross." "Take not that name in vain, you rogue!" commanded Manasseh, sternly, "or I'll let you feel the weight of my foot." "Kick me if you wish to," returned the vagrant, imperturbably; "but, all the same, if I had been Christ I wouldn't have chosen a miserable donkey to ride on, but would have sent for the best horse out of Baron Wesselenyi's stud; and as soon as I had the nag between my legs, I would have snapped my fingers at old Pontius Pilate." The gipsy's eloquence was here interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the outer door of the cellar.
"They're coming!" cried the fiddler; "and I sha'n't get your cigar-stump, Manasseh.

They'll take me out first." Through the hole above the iron door a reddish light could now be seen.
Presently the iron door itself was opened, and two men, bearing pitch-pine torches, entered, and then stood one on each side of the door.

Diurbanu came last, dressed in the costume of a Wallachian military commander, his face flushed with wine and evil passions, and his long hair falling over his shoulders.

Despite his disguise, Manasseh recognised him at once.