The tempestuous Mars, however, was beyond the range of scorn. He kept one stubborn purpose before him. “We go back to the ship, or”–he took breath where he meant to put a handsome oath–“or–it’s a fight!”
25“There, there,” said Jacqueline gently. “Besides, are you not to go with me just the same?”
Ney turned to the stranger. “I ask you to withdraw, sir, both yourself and your offers, because you’re only meddling here.”
The intruder grew rigid straightway. “I am not one to take back an offer,” he stated loftily. His voice was weighted to a heavier guttural, and in the deep staccatos harshly chopped off, and each falling with a thud, there was a quality so ominous and deadly that even Jacqueline had her doubts. But she would not admit them, to herself least of all. “And I, Monsieur Ney,” she said, “have decided to accept,” though she had not really, until that very moment.
Ney turned to the one sailor with him. “Run like fury!” he whispered. “Bring the others!”
“Oh, very well,” said the Mexican.
As he doubtless intended, Fra Diavolo’s words sounded like the low growl of an awakening lion, and at the same time he brought forth the reed whistle and put it to his lips. The note that came was faint, like that of a distant bird in the forest.
Ney smiled. It seemed inadequate, silly. Lately he had become familiar with the sonorous foghorn, and besides, he was not a woodsman and knew nothing of the penetration of the thin, vibrant signal. When the sailors should come, he would take the troublesome fellow to the commander of the garrison on the hill. But then a weight fell on him from behind, and uncleanliness and garlic and the sweating of flesh filled his nostrils. Bare arms around his neck jerked up his chin, according to the stroke of Père François. Other writhing arms twined about his waist, his legs, his ankles; and hands clutched after his sabre and pistol. But at last he stood free, and glared about him, disarmed and helpless. Jacqueline’s infernal Fra Diavolo was surveying him from the closed door 26of the Café, behind which he had swept the two women. His stiff pose had relaxed, and he was even smiling. He waved his hand apologetically over his followers. “His Exceeding Christian Majesty’s most valiant contra guerrillas,” he explained.
The so-called contra guerrillas were villainous wretches, at the gentlest estimate. Their scanty, ragged and stained cotton manta flapped loosely over their skin, which was scaly and as tough as old leather. Most of them had knives. A few carried muskets, long, rusty, muzzle-loading weapons that threw a slug of marble size.
Almost at once the burly French sailors appeared, but Fra Diavolo’s little demons closed in behind them and around them and so kept them from reaching Ney. Thus both sides circled about and moved cautiously, waiting for the trouble to begin in earnest. Michel only panted, until at last he bethought himself that there was such a thing as strategy.