Peyrol nodded calmly and sipped from his mug.
“If I had met you anywhere else but looking at my tartane I would have done nothing to you. I would have permitted you to go back to your boat. Where was your damned boat?”
“How can I tell you? I can’t tell where I am. I’ve never been here before. How long have I been here?”
“Oh, about fourteen hours,” said Peyrol.
“My head feels as if it would fall off if I moved,” grumbled the other.... “You are a damned bungler, that’s what you are.”
“What for—bungler?”
“For not finishing me off at once.”
He seized the mug and emptied it down his throat. Peyrol drank too, observing him all the time. He put the mug down with extreme gentleness and said slowly:
“How could I know it was you? I hit hard enough to crack the skull of any other man.”
“What do you mean? What do you know about my skull? What are you driving at? I don’t know you, you white-headed villain, going about at night knocking people on the head from behind. Did you do for our officer, too?”