“Throw him into the water!” cried one.
“Put him back in the boat!” cried another.
“Best to make an end of him!” said a tall, dark man, who spoke with an air of authority. And he made as if to draw his sword.
“No! no!” cried the shrill treble. “Do not kill him. See, he is only a little boy, a child. Give him to me, father.”
There was a burst of laughter from the men, and the shrill treble, as if encouraged, again cried, “Give him to me, father.”
“What would you do with him, darling?”
“I know not, father, but spare him. You promised before we set out from Clew Bay to give me whatever I might ask of you, if it was in your power. And now I ask his life. Give him to me, father.”
There was a silence for a short space, and I opened my weary, fear-haunted eyes, gazing dazed and distracted about me. Then I saw a small, ruddy-cheeked, black-haired maid on the deck of a ship, while around her and me was grouped a band of sun-browned, unkempt, and savage-looking sailors, clad in garments not very different from those of my own people. In the midst of them was the man whom the maid addressed as father. I, the little boy, the child of whom she had spoken, was lying bound at her feet.
My mind was distraught and overwhelmed with the terror and horror of what I had already undergone. Hungry and thirsty, and bruised and sore, I cared but little what might happen to me, thinking that death itself could hold no greater suffering than that I had just passed through. But the sight of the maid among these men of the sea awoke my boyish curiosity. As I gazed at her, a great wave carried the vessel up on its crest, and had she not put forth her hand and caught me by the thongs of deer with which I was bound, I would have rolled like a helpless log into the hissing waters.