"He soon will be."
Mocenigo's eyes fixed on Hugh's in a glare of baffled hate.
"The—end—is—not—yet," he gasped. "Shalt—not—have—your——"
He mouthed a word of vile import, the bloody foam on his lips mocking the bestiality of his tongue.
"Ay—you—shall—not—have—-her! Curse——"
He died.
Bartolommeo, standing beyond the galley's single mast, raised his visor.
"Is he sped?" he called.
"Ay. Prepare to follow him."
"Mayhap, but not alone."