“You are to be treated just as this gentleman sees fit,” answered the man.
As he spoke, he pointed to a newcomer who came sauntering coolly along, his eyes turned seaward upon the Ranger, which was dressing her yards and about to put to sea.
“Danvers!” exclaimed Ethan, instantly recognizing the jetty hair and the remarkable pallor.
The man turned and darted a swift, searching look at the boy as the cry reached his ears. Then his face lighted up in triumph and he laughed in a short, sharp way that bespoke malicious satisfaction.
“So, it is you, my young friend, is it?” he cried, advancing toward them. “I had heard that my men had made a capture, but had no idea that it was any one but a brace of seamen.” He stood looking down at them, a smile showing his white, even teeth, and one hand tapping the hilt of his sword. “So,” he went on after a pause, “you have joined with the Lascar, have you?”
“Joined with him,” repeated Ethan in surprise.
“Ay, and don’t seek to deceive me. I am not Monsieur Fochard.”
Ethan and the Irish dragoon laughed at this, and Danvers glowered at them blackly.
“You have seen Monsieur Fochard, then,” smiled the young American.
“Less than a half hour after you had gone. Your trick was a most clever one; I am an admirer of cleverness, even when it is displayed against me, and I beg of you to accept my congratulations.”