The second Initiate spoke. “This young man has placed himself in the protection of the domain of Mancherei. Before he is delivered for trial there is required proof of a wrong-doing that would merit sentence. Is there such proof?”
“Why, damme, yes!” said the mate. “I saw the fellow do it; I heard him refuse my order. Here are two of my crew to say as much.” He swept a hand toward the Kjermanash, who began to cackle at once, but the first Initiate merely nodded to the writer, who laid the pen down and clicked at the pair in their own tongue. When they had answered, he said; “They declare it is true that Ser—” he consulted his sheet “—Bergelin was ordered to repair a mast, and he refused.”
The Initiate looked at Rodvard (and not a thing could he read behind those cold eyes, though they seemed to pierce him through), saying, “The evidence is sufficient for a trial unless you can contradict it.”
Said Rodvard; “I could not make the repair. I did not know how.”
The Initiate; “That is a question for the trial to determine; no reason for not hearing the case.”
The mate guffawed. Cried Rodvard, in despair; “But sers, this captain—I pray you . . . it is not for this . . . he is . . .”
“You shall clearly speak your trouble; for it is the will of love that nothing is to be hidden.”
Rodvard felt the rosy flush light up his cheek. “Well, then, it is not for any failure of duty that this captain pursues me, but because I would not be the partner of his unnatural lust.”
With an exclamation, the ambassador of Dossola brought his hand down on the table, and the hard-faced mate gave a growl, but the Initiates were as unmoved as mountains. One of them said; “No lust is more natural or less so than another, since all are contrary to the law of love, and the soul in which love runs full tide may and should give to this unreal world of matter all that it desires, without imputation of sin. Yet we do find that if the wrong cause for this trial has been stated, there is a basis of appeal to our law. We would hear of this further.”
He signed; the writer spoke to the Kjermanash, while the mate glared venom at them, his glances darting from one to the other. The seamen seemed hesitant, especially the fat young one, to whom the writer chiefly addressed himself. Though Rodvard could not understand a word, the voice-lilt told clearly enough how the tale was going. Now the lad began to catch at his breath and sniffle, saying a few more words. The mate’s head turned slowly round (hardest murder staring from his eyes), while his hand slid, slid toward belt and knife—