‘The young cock cackles louder than the old cock ever crowed,’ he said; but he said it more good-humouredly than sneeringly, and it was evident that he was more than willing to propitiate Lancelot. ‘We ought to make terms, for we are both at a loose end here, and might at least agree not to annoy each other. For you see, Lieutenant—if you will take that title—that as you judge you shall be judged. If you have no terms for us we will have no terms for you.’
It was a proof of his own vanity that he thus thrust a title upon Lancelot, thinking to please him, for when Lancelot, calling him by his surname, told him again that he had no terms to make with him, he drew himself up with an offended air and said:
‘I call myself Captain Jensen, if you please.’
‘It does not please me,’ Lancelot retorted, ‘to call you anything but a pirate and a rogue. Go back to your brother rogues at once!’
To my surprise, Jensen kept his temper, and seemed only hurt instead of angry at Lancelot’s attack.
‘Hot words,’ he said quietly, ‘hot words. Upon my honour, you do me wrong, Lieutenant Amber, for I persist in respecting the courtesies of war. I wish with all my heart that we could agree, but if we cannot we cannot, and there’s an end of it. But there is another matter I wish to speak about.’ He paused, as if waiting for permission, and when Lancelot bade him be brief, he went on: ‘We have one among us who is more inclined to your party than to mine. I mean your reverend friend Parson Ebrow.’
For my part I was glad to hear that the poor man was still alive, for I feared that the pirates had killed him after their first attempt. But I saw Lancelot’s face flush with anger, and his voice shook as he called out that if any harm came to Mr. Ebrow he would hold every man of the gang responsible for his life.
‘Harm has come to him already,’ Jensen answered; ‘but not from us, but from you, his friends. He was hurt in the boats last night by your fire.’
At this Lancelot gave a groan, and we all felt sick and sorry, while Jensen, who knew that we could hear, though he could only see Lancelot, smiled compassionately.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ he said. ‘The godly man is not mortally wounded. Only his face, which was always far from comely, has not been bettered by a shot that travelled across the side of the left cheek from jaw to ear. Now, another man in my place, Lieutenant, knowing the store you set by the parson, might very well use him to drive a bargain with you. He is no friend of ours, and the use upon him of a little torture might induce you to think better of the terms you deny.’