Messer Nicholas shook his head stubbornly.
"I would rather chance that than certain death and torture. And we are not giving you up. It is only that we cannot protect you."
The galley still kept abreast of the cog, gradually narrowing the distance between them. Her commander hailed impatiently.
"Well, what say you, English dogs?" he cried. "Death and torment—by the Prophet's Beard, I will flay you alive, inch by inch!—or a fair bargain?"
"We ag——"
Messer Nicholas broke off his acceptance, as Matteo appeared on the poop, with a flaming torch in his hand.
"The Saracen does well to call you English dogs," shouted the jongleur scornfully. "Dogs you would be to give up your own countrymen to the Paynim hounds! See you this torch? With it—and what I have by me—I could kindle your ship in flames at one stroke. I give you a new choice: fight off the corsairs or else prepare to perish like rats. I swear I will put this torch to the cog, an you refuse to stand by us."
A new chorus of protests went up at this threat. Messer Nicholas fell upon his knees, hands raised imploringly.
"Spare my beautiful ship, fair sir," he begged. "Bethink you, is it not more Christian to give up your own few lives and save ours, than to drag us all down to death together?"
"You fools!" snapped Matteo. "Do you believe the Saracens would keep the bargain, if you made it? They would come aboard, and once aboard they would massacre all at will. Stand to your arms, and fight like men. We will aid you, an you do as I say. We shall beat the corsairs yet."