"Bind that man," he said to the sailors.
The two men were grasping the sinewy Cuban and holding him so tight that he could not move. They almost crushed his wrists, and he dropped the knife with a hoarse cry of pain.
And Clif picked it up and glanced at it for a moment, then flung it far out into the sea.
After that he turned to Ignacio.
"You have met me once more, my friend," he said, "and this time you will not get away."
And that was all the conversation he had with him. Glancing about the deck he picked up a piece of rope and stepped toward the prisoner.
He did not strike the fellow, as the Spaniards seemed to think he would. But the sailors flung him to the deck and Clif carefully bound his feet together. Then, while he fairly fumed with rage and hatred, his hands were made fast and he was left lying there, shrieking curses in his native Spanish.
Clif turned to the captain of the vessel; the man was frightened nearly to death, and began protesting volubly.
"I did not know it, senor!" he cried. "Indeed, I did not know it! Santa Maria! I——"
"I don't suppose you did," said Clif, calmly. "You did not act like it. But you will have to suffer for it."