“Maybe,” said Blueneck stubbornly. “But whoever fired that shot would die by—the knife.”
“Ah! that’s tremendous likely,” sneered the other; “him on his back with a good ounce of lead in that wicked head of his.”
Blueneck shrugged his shoulders.
“You can laugh now, Mat Turnby,” he said, “but you won’t always laugh at what I tell you. No, not by a long way, that you won’t.”
He hugged his knees to his chin, and let the heavy lids fall over his eyes.
This apparent indifference seemed to irritate Mat more than words for, bringing his hand down on his knee with a mighty slap, he swore loudly for several seconds. Then suddenly breaking off short he burst into a short, sharp laugh.
“Well!” he said. “It’s time the Spanish swine knew that there’s someone aboard who ain’t afraid of him, no, neither him nor his knife. S’truth! am I to cower down to a Spaniard?”
He stretched his huge limbs and showed his large yellow teeth as he smiled rather sourly.
“No, by the Lord, not I,” he went on. “Let him cross me if he dare, and he’ll see good Suffolk blood is a match for thin Spanish sap any day. Ho! ho! ho! let him cross me if he dare. Ho! ho!”
The laugh died away on his lips as from just behind his ear came another. It was soft, rich, musical, and wholly unpleasant.