“So, Master Salkeld,” said Nunez, “we meet again. You are doubtless on your way home to England to take vengeance on your cousin, Master Stapleton.”
I looked at him steadfastly. I was not going to be cowed by him, defenseless as I was.
“That may be, Senor,” said I. “It is a long way to England by the road we are taking, but I shall reach it if God wills that it should be so.”
“You do well to make that proviso,” said he. “For God gives His power to men, and at this moment I, as master of this vessel, and Frey Bartolomeo, as its chaplain, are his viceregents. Wherefore, Master Salkeld, I think your chances are not good.”
“We are in God’s hands,” said I; though indeed my heart turned faint and sick to think that these wretches had us in their power.
“At present, good Master Salkeld, you are in mine,” he answered, smiling mockingly upon me. “But then you know what a kind and considerate host I am. You did admit that, when I carried you across the Atlantic. Still, Master Salkeld, things are somewhat altered between us. I am not now paid to carry you to Mexico and get rid of you. Also, since then you have spat in my face. Ah, you remember that, do you? Dog, you shall remember it every day of your life! I will not kill you now, as I might, but I will kill you by inches, and you shall die at last at your bench and lie there to rot. That is the fate of the dog who spits in the face of a Spanish gentleman.”
So he turned away, but the man sitting next me put out his hand and plucked the monk’s cloak, bidding him remember that he had promised to find him a ship for England, and begging him to keep his plighted word. But Frey Bartolomeo shook him off.
“Thou art a heretic,” he said. “With heretics we keep no faith. To thy oar, Lutheran!”