“Once,” he chuckled. “Ay, but once.”
“Once these old rogues were to be feared, you mean?”
“Once, I was feared, as—by God!—I am yet to be feared. I’m master of my house, grandson, as I was master of my ship. Master of Blunt—any who’d do you hurt. You’ll stay!”—poking out his shaking hand, the red gems gleaming, “You’ll stay, as your father would have stayed by me, till the breath’s out of my body. Not so very long!” His tone was quavering and eager, “You’ll bear me company, and you’ll profit by it. I’ll soon be dead, and you’ll soon be rich. Would you have me think you care nothing to be rich?”
“Why, surely we all care.”
“Ay,” nodding his head. “I could tell of a treasure a man would sell his soul for”—lowering his tone, peering about him, and muttering. “You can come by it honestly, if that’s aught to you, and more than if only you come by it. D’ye see these red rings?”
“Like blood upon your hands,” I ventured, shrinking from him.
He laughed to himself, “Like blood! Rubies! I’ll show you yet—when it’s fitting—and tell you a tale.”
“Plundered treasure!”
“What of it? What gives a man the right to the treasure of the earth except the strength to take and hold it?”
“As any of the rogues about this house would take.”