"No," said the king. "Let us go up and die like men."
But he wouldn't go until the gentleman had to use a little force with him. Tirant honored them like kings because he was such a humane knight.
He had them sit while he stood, but with the wound in his thigh he could not remain standing long, so he had to sit down.
And very kindly, he said:
"Your cruelty has been very great, and the most cruel death would not be enough for what you deserve—and especially you, Grand Caramany, for you have killed your daughter and other Moorish women so cruelly and with such inhumanity. They would have fallen into the hands of a man who would have given them their freedom. And although you are not worthy of forgiveness, the emperor is such a man that he will spare your lives."
And he said no more.
The Grand Caramany replied:
"You say I killed my daughter. I don't have to answer for that to you or to anybody. I would rather see her dead than dishonored by you or any of your men. And I don't want anyone enjoying my jewelry or my treasure. And don't think you're going to sway my heart, because I'm ready to throw my body into the bitter sea or give it up to the earth before I would do anything you told me to."
Instead of answering the Grand Caramany, Tirant politely asked them to go on board his ship, and they had to do it in spite of themselves. When the captain had them inside, he divided up the few men he had left between the two ships, and they set sail. He unplugged the ship's scuppers, and such a gush of blood came pouring out that it seemed as though the ship was full of it. On the Turk's ship there wasn't a living soul except for the two kings. And on the captain's ship, out of four hundred eight men, only fifty-four survived, and sixteen of those were wounded.