"What," said he, "are you still of the mind to carry yourself so?" Then, looking past Anthony, he roared with laughing. "So help me God!" he said, "it's mademoiselle! Well struck, sir! Mademoiselle, I congratulate you on a champion who keeps his pose, no matter how events point or carry."
Tarrant spoke, a bitter look in his face. Anthony could not hear the words, but the gesture motioned Blake into the boat, quite plainly. And the young men called across the place between the two vessels:
"Tarrant, if that man attempts to board me, I'll have his life."
With the same sneering, bitter look, Tarrant faced the ship for a moment, not stirring nor speaking; Blake, never heeding Anthony's words, leaped into the boat. Then a man appeared on the brig's after deck—a man who held his head well up and stepped with the sureness of a great cat. Anthony, the musket still on the bulwark before him, stared at sight of him.
"Captain Weir!" said mademoiselle. Her hand held tightly to Anthony's sleeve.
"How does he come aboard that vessel?" said the young man.
"He has ventured out, looking for us," said mademoiselle. "He is our friend."
There was a deep look in Anthony's eyes, as he frowned across the stretch of water between the two vessels.
"Yes, he is our friend," he said. "But still I ask, how does he come on board this ship, of all others?"
After a short word with Tarrant, Weir came to the brig's side and hailed the Stevens. Anthony replied.