“He will come to anon,” said the knight, stooping over him and passing his fingers through his hair. “I have lost one very valiant and gentle squire this day. I can ill afford to lose another. How many men have fallen?”
“I have pricked off the tally,” said Aylward, who had come aboard with his lord. “There are seven of the Winchester men, eleven seamen, your squire, young Master Terlake, and nine archers.”
“And of the others?”
“They are all dead—save only the Norman knight who stands behind you. What would you that we should do with him?”
“He must hang on his own yard,” said Sir Nigel. “It was my vow and must be done.”
The pirate leader had stood by the bulwarks, a cord round his arms, and two stout archers on either side. At Sir Nigel's words he started violently, and his swarthy features blanched to a livid gray.
“How, Sir Knight?” he cried in broken English. “Que dites vous? To hang, le mort du chien! To hang!”
“It is my vow,” said Sir Nigel shortly. “From what I hear, you thought little enough of hanging others.”
“Peasants, base roturiers,” cried the other. “It is their fitting death. Mais Le Seigneur d'Andelys, avec le sang des rois dans ses veins! C'est incroyable!”
Sir Nigel turned upon his heel, while two seamen cast a noose over the pirate's neck. At the touch of the cord he snapped the bonds which bound him, dashed one of the archers to the deck, and seizing the other round the waist sprang with him into the sea.