“Yes,” he said again, mockingly, “Commodore Junk! Well, Humphrey Armstrong, what mad fit is this?”
“Mad fit!” cried Humphrey, quickly recovering himself. “You allowed me to be at liberty, and I am exploring the place.”
The buccaneer looked in his eyes, with the mocking smile growing more marked.
“Is this Captain Humphrey Armstrong, the brave commander sent to exterminate me and mine, stooping to make a miserable excuse—to tell a lie!”
“A lie!” cried Humphrey, fiercely, as he took a step in advance.
“Yes, a lie!” said the buccaneer, without moving a muscle. “You were trying to find some way by which you could escape.”
“Well,” cried Humphrey, passionately, “I am a prisoner. I have refused to give my parole; I was trying to find some way of escape.”
“That is more like you,” said the buccaneer, quietly. “Why? What do you require? Are you not well treated by my men?”
“You ask me why,” cried Humphrey—“me, whom you have defeated—disgraced, and whom you hold here a prisoner. You ask me why!”
“Yes. I whom you would have taken, and, if I had not died sword in hand, have hung at your yard-arm, and then gibbeted at the nearest port as a scarecrow.”