“Avast, ye lubber!” returned the stern tones of the staunch Richard. “Here are a white man and a nigger at your service, if you’ve need of a spit.”
“Two more of the gang!” continued the General aiming a blow that threatened to immolate the topman as he spoke.
A dark half-naked form was interposed to receive the descending blade, which fell on the staff of a half-pike and severed it as though it had been a reed. Nothing daunted by the defenceless state in which he found himself, Scipio made his way to the front of Wilder, where, with a body divested to the waist of every garment, and empty handed, he fought with his brawny arms, like one who despised the cuts, thrusts and assaults, of which his athletic frame immediately became the helpless subject.
“Give it to ’em, right and left, Guinea,” cried Fid: “here is one who will come in as a backer, so soon as he has stopped the grog of the marine.”
The parries and science of the unfortunate General were at this moment set at nought, by a blow from Richard, which broke down all his defences, descending through cap and skull to the jaw.
“Hold, murderers!” cried Wilder, who saw the numberless blows that were falling on the defenceless body of the still undaunted black. “Strike here! and spare an unarmed man!”
The sight of our adventurer became confused, for he saw the negro fall, dragging with him to the deck two of his assailants; and then a voice, deep as the emotion which such a scene might create, appeared to utter in the very portals of his ear,—“Our work is done! He that strikes another blow makes an enemy of me.”
Chapter XXXI.
“Take him hence;
The whole world shall not save him.”
Cymbeline