"Glory!" exclaimed Moira O'Donnell, her blue eyes wide with delighted horror. "There's one I'd not need to have pointed out to me to know him a pirate—or the dreadful knaves that do be rowing the oars. My faith, look to the color of them, as red as Indians with the sun, and they without the clothes any heathen would be by way of wearing."
She clapped her hands.
"But I like the kerchiefs on their heads. See! All red and green and yellow and blue. And the marks they have done in their skins."
Her father was otherwise impressed. He glowered down at the heap of treasure kegs, chests and packages which Murray had ordered fetched on deck that morning, and then stared off at Flint's gaudy figure.
"And 'tis to scoundrels like yon ye'll be trusting the lives of all of us, Andrew Murray!" he snarled. "By times, man, I think there's a green madness in your brain. Why, the view of that gold and silver below would be sufficient to tempt better men than they to commit murder."
My great-uncle took snuff.
"Your diagnosis is correct, chevalier," he retorted. "They would cheerfully commit murder for a coveted knife or a sixpence with a hole in it. My design in revealing to them the entire extent of the treasure we carry is to impress them at once with my good faith and benumb their acquisitive faculties by the sight of greater wealth than they ever dreamed of obtaining at one time."
A snort from Peter diverted attention to the Dutchman.
"You do not agree with me?" inquired Murray mildly.
"Neen! A t'ief is a t'ief. He steals to steal."