There was no question this time about arming the crew with rifles, for every one felt that success on the part of Villarayo’s men would mean no quarter.
“Then you mean this to be a regular fight?” Fitz whispered to Poole, after watching what was going on for some time.
“Why, of course! Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t like the idea of killing people,” said Fitz, wrinkling up his forehead.
“Well, I don’t,” said Poole, laughing. “I don’t like killing anything. I should never have done for a butcher, but I would a great deal rather kill one of Villarayo’s black-looking ruffians than let him kill me.”
“But do you think they really would massacre us?” said Fitz. “They can’t help looking ruffianly.”
“No, but they have got a most horribly bad character. Father and I have heard of some very ugly things that they have done in some of their fights. They are supposed to be civilised, and I dare say the officers are all right; but if you let loose a lot of half-savage fellows armed with knives and get their blood up, I don’t think you need expect much mercy. They needn’t come and interfere with us unless they like, but if they come shouting and striking at us they must take the consequences.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Fitz; “but it seems a pity.”
“Awful,” replied Poole; “but there always has been war, and people take a deal of civilising before they give it up. And they don’t seem to then,” said the lad, with a dry smile.
“No,” said Fitz; and the little discussion came to an end.