It startled him for a moment, in his complete assurance that he had been alone.
“Who’s there?” the voice repeated, querulously to add: “What black hell be this? Where am I?”
And now he recognized the voice for Jasper Leigh’s, and marvelled how that latest of his recruits to the ranks of Mohammed should be sharing this prison with him.
“Faith,” said he, “you’re in the forecastle of the Silver Heron; though how you come here is more than I can answer.”
“Who are ye?” the voice asked.
“I have been known in Barbary as Sakr-el-Bahr.”
“Sir Oliver!”
“I suppose that is what they will call me now. It is as well perhaps that I am to be buried at sea, else it might plague these Christian gentlemen what legend to inscribe upon my headstone. But you—how come you hither? My bargain with Sir John was that none should be molested, and I cannot think Sir John would be forsworn.”
“As to that I know nothing, since I did not even know where I was bestowed until ye informed me. I was knocked senseless in the fight, after I had put my bilbo through your comely brother. That is the sum of my knowledge.”
Sir Oliver caught his breath. “What do you say? You killed Lionel?”