He watched the men narrowly, yet with the cool confidence of one sure of his own strength.
“Five thousand crowns, sirs, for the head of Croquart the Fleming! Come, friend Tête Bois, five thousand crown-pieces would give you many merry months in the taverns, eh?”
The tanned war-dog looked restless, as though Croquart’s raillery was too cunning to be pleasant.
“We are your men, captain.”
“Good fellows! good fellows! You love me about as well as a whore loves a gentleman with a pocketful of gold. I shall take care, sirs, not to sleep till we unsaddle in the west. Five hundred gold pieces are easily earned by a stab in the dark, Tête Bois, eh? And, then, I am such a gay devil—my rings are worth a duke’s ransom,” and he glanced at his huge hands and then at the faces of his men.
“By St. George, captain—”
“Hallo, you are wondering how much money I have in my coffers at Morlaix. Good lads! I will remember to be generous.”
He understood the men and they him. It was a matter of money between them, a bribe that should out-bribe Beaumanoir’s bounty. Given fair play, the Fleming was more than a match for the three of them, and they knew it.
“No rat’s tricks, captain; we’ll take our oath on it.”
Croquart laid a hand significantly on his sword.