"I—I dinna ken, sir."
"Answer me, fellow, at once; are these, or are they not, the caravels of Sir Andrew of Largo?"
"I am no free to say."
"Trifle not; answer me at once, or, by the head of King Henry, I will lash you at the gunner's daughter, and fling you overboard after!"
"I daurna trifle, noble sir, I who am but a pair fisherman, with you an armed knight; but I too can swear, and by the head of King James, I sall rather dee than tell ye."
"Then die, fellow!" said the knight, furiously; "Dick Selby, tie a ball to his heels, and trice him by the armpits up to the yard-arm; while there, he will have a better view of these coming craft. Knot the rope round in a fisherman's bend—he may like it the better."
It was all done in the time we have taken to write it; the ball of a carthoun—about thirty-six pounds in weight—was attached to his ankles, which were tied together; a rope was passed round his body, and he was run up to the arm of the maintopsail-yard, where he hung with outspread hands. A shudder, but partly subdued by anger at his obstinacy, passed over all on deck. A culverin was prepared, and the seamen in the waist, who had "triced" the poor fisherman up, held in their hands the line on which his life depended.
"Answer me now, Scot—are yonder craft the ships of Sir Andrew Wood?" cried Stephen Bull, who was a stern and uncompromising, as well as a cunning and reckless man; "answer!"
"Never," cried Gair, "though ye should wrench me bone frae bone!"
"You may as well tell the truth," said Howard, "and save your life, for it will be all the same for your admiral in the end."