A shout of derisive laughter greeted Paul. Long Jim had been thrown down and held fast and the lad was confronted by none other than Alvarez himself, while Braxton Wyatt, smiling in malignant triumph, stood just behind him.
"Well, my young man of Kaintock," said Francisco Alvarez in his precise English, "we have taken you and at least one of your brother thieves. In good time we'll have the others, too. It was an evil day when you ventured on my plantation so near such a wonderful tracker as The Cat. Why, he detected them instinctively when your comrades ventured near us!"
The eyes of the stooping Natchez Indian flashed at the compliment but, in a moment, he resumed his immobility. All the blood rushed to Paul's face, and he could not contain his anger.
"Thief! how dare you call me a thief!" he said.
"This is my boat before me," replied Alvarez. "You stole it."
"Not so," replied Paul. "We captured it. You seized and held me a prisoner when I came to your camp on a friendly mission, and we took it in fair reprisal and for a good purpose. Moreover, you are plotting with that vile renegade there to destroy our people in Kentucky!"
"You are a thief," repeated Francisco Alvarez calmly, "you stole my boat. Why, the very sword that you hold in your hand is mine, stolen from me."
Paul glanced down. In his haste and excitement he had snatched up one of the beautiful small swords when he leaped from the boat, but he had been unconscious of it. He was yet free and he held a sword in his hand. One of the men who was holding Jim Hart suddenly kicked him to make him keep quiet, and Paul's wrath blazed up under the double incentive of the blow and the sneering face of Francisco Alvarez.
The lad rushed forward, sword in hand, and one of the soldiers raised his musket. Alvarez pushed the weapon down.
"Since this young rebel wants to fight, and has a stolen sword of mine in his hand," he said, "he can fight with me. I will give him that honor."