“My good men,” said the priest, “forbear: consider where we are, and under what circumstances we are placed; pray, do no not endeavour to cause any quarrel.”
“Mind your own business, parson, will you?” shouted a bolder sailor than the others, “it is you who already prevents us going any faster; so, if you don’t wish to be sent to Davy Jones, hold your tongue.”
The priest became now quite alarmed:
“Do not answer them,” he whispered to the fisherman.
“Hollo! there; ready about,” continued one of the sailors, apparently bent on provoking a quarrel, “ready about,” and he proceeded to let go the jib-sheet.
The master fisherman now quickly stood up, with the marks of anger already becoming visible in his eyes.
“Stop, or me kill you,” he cried, while he levelled one of the pistols, with which he was armed, at the audacious sailor.
“Kill him, will you,” simultaneously shouted two of the sailors, and rushed together towards the stern of the cutter, “kill him, will you, you cut-throat Spaniard?”
The master fisherman stood firm where he was. He now held both of the pistols, which Appadocca had given him, and raising them to a small distance before him, awaited the two men.