“Only over my dead body do you take it! I am not afraid to die to protect holy things! But you—you will fear to die, if you do this thing!”
“Slit his throat!” cried one in the throng. “Are we here to argue? The work is not done!”
Once more they surged forward. The light of the torches sent rays of fire shooting from the ornaments on the altar. Their lust for loot consumed them.
Fray Felipe braced himself, seized the nearest, raised him half from the floor, and hurled him back against his fellows.
“The fray shows fight!” one cried. “Use your knives, you in the front! A stab between the ribs, and let us go!”
Again they rushed, and Fray Felipe prepared for one more feeble attempt, the one he deemed would be the last. He made the sign of the cross and waited calmly—waited until they were upon him, until he could feel their hot breathing upon his face, until the stench of their perspiration was in his nostrils.
But, even as a man raised a cutlass to strike, there came an interruption. The bellowing voice of Barbados rang out above the din.
“Stop!” he shrieked. There was something terrifying in the sudden and unexpected command. The pirates stopped, fell back. Barbados charged through them and to Fray Felipe’s side. The pirate’s face showed white in the light of the torches.
“Back!” he commanded. “This fray is not to be harmed! Out, fools and devils! There is one rich house yet to be robbed. Let us not tarry here!”
“There is loot—” one began.