“If you will be good enough to prove that, we can talk comfortably.”
Dyke, with a contemptuous smile, stood up, opened his garments, slapped his large breeches pockets, showed them the tops of his boots, and satisfied them that he was without means of defence.
“That is quite satisfactory.”
“But I notice,” said Dyke, “that you don’t return the compliment.”
“Ah, no. With us it is different,” said the captain, and he picked up one of the candles, and sauntered towards the bed.
Dyke was there before him and stood in his way.
“What do you want?”
“Only another peep at the boy—the wonderful boy. No, I will not wake him—not yet. I will attend to him later. But soon.” Mistily and vaguely, the man moved his disengaged hand as though sketching in the air the shape of the recumbent form. Then he went back to the table and invited Dyke to sit down again. He himself sat down, drew one of his long knives from its sheath, and laid it across his knees.
“Martinez, the wine. Get some wine ready”; and he sat looking at Dyke over the table until, after a minute or two, Martinez returned with a small tray, three glasses, and two flasks of wine. “No, not on the table. Put it on that stool.”