Aboard the Heart of the West, Ouenwa had just pointed out to Kingswell the dashing figure of Pierre d'Antons.
"I take it that this is his last play," remarked the young captain, with a grim smile.
For another hour the merchantman sailed about the pirate at her will, pouring broadside after broadside into hull and rigging, and sustaining but little damage herself. Now and then musket-shots were exchanged. Two of Kingswell's men were wounded, and were promptly carried below, where their hurts were tenderly bandaged by Mistress Kingswell and Maggie Stone.
In a lull of the firing, the cook came running to the poop, with word that Trowley was in a fair way to make matchwood of his surroundings.
"What ails him now?" inquired Kingswell.
"He be shoutin' for a chance at the Frenchers," replied the cook. Kingswell considered the matter, with a calculating eye on the enemy. "Cast him loose," said he, "and give him a chance to prove himself an English sailor man."
Trowley appeared on deck just as a shot from the Cristobal struck the teakwood rail of the Heart of the West amidships. A flying splinter whirred past his head. He brandished his cutlass, and bawled a threat across the rocking water. The men at the guns welcomed him with laughter and cheers.
"Ye be in for the kill, master," cried one.
Kingswell beckoned the ex-commander aft, and met him at the top of the ladder. Trowley looked guiltily this way and that.
"I have let you up, my man," said the captain, "that you may bear a hand in the fight. I am willing to forget your knaveries of the past, and remember only your actions of to-day."