“A golden goblet, master, studded with precious gems. See—I have it here! I saved it for you, master, and thought perhaps that you might give me promotion—”
Barbados looked at the goblet, struck by the light from the nearest torch. It glowed and glistened like some live thing. The pirate chief recoiled.
“Away with it!” he cried. “I do not want to touch it—do not wish to see it! It is a thing of ill-omen, the thing that old fray was trying to protect!”
“But, master—”
“Ill-luck will follow the man who has it. It is some sort of holy thing! Away with it! Keep it for yourself. Gamble it away, and the sooner you get rid of it the better. You may be struck down for taking it. I had a friend once who robbed a church and struck a priest, and I do not care to remember what happened to him! Are you going to take it away?”
The man gasped, astonished, and put the golden goblet beneath his shirt.
“I may have it all for myself?” he asked.
“Sí! I would not touch the thing! I call upon the saints to witness that I never touched it!”
So, through all the ages, have wicked men, in moments of fear, called upon the gods they have pretended to scorn.