“Wagh! that talk’s all very well, but what do we know of you or yer cargo?”
“Vaya! A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush.”
“He’s a trader. Who’s goin’ to take his word?”
“Rot his cargo! Scalps or cash, cash or scalps! that’s this niggur’s advice; an’ if ye don’t take it, boys, ye may leave it! but it’s all the pay ye’ll ever crook yer claws on.”
The men had tasted blood, and like the tiger, they thirsted for more. There were glaring eyes on all sides, and the countenances of some exhibited an animal ferociousness hideous to look upon. The half-robber discipline that hitherto ruled in the band seemed to have completely departed, and the authority of the chief to be set at defiance.
On the other side stood the females, clinging and huddling together. They could not understand the mutinous language, but they saw threatening attitudes and angry faces. They saw knives drawn, and heard the cocking of guns and pistols. They knew there was danger, and they crouched together, whimpering with fear.
Up to this moment Seguin had stood giving directions for the mounting of his captives. His manner was strangely abstracted, as it had been ever since the scene of meeting with his daughter. That greater care, gnawing at his heart, seemed to render him insensible to what was passing. He was not so.
As Kirker ended (for he was the last speaker) a change came over Sequin’s manner, quick as a flash of lightning. Suddenly rousing himself from his attitude of indifference, he stepped forward in front of the mutineers.
“Dare!” shouted he, in a voice of thunder, “dare to dishonour your oaths! By heavens! the first man who raises knife or rifle shall die on the instant!”
There was a pause, and a moment of deep silence.