"Don't look at me like that, my queen—today you belong to me, tomorrow you'll belong to someone else—, that's war, that's life. Do you think I ought to mourn and mumble prayers like a priest over the corpse of my friend? If we were on the shore of the Ligurian Sea, we'd weave roses and myrtle into our hair to celebrate the beauty of the night! In the name of vengeance, in the name of victory, come into my arms, you wanton beggar woman, come and be mine, you pretty heretic."
With a shrill cry Myga van Bergen clung to the post of the bed on which the pale and bloody body of Antonio Valani lay outstretched. She sought the protection of a dead man! But with a raucous cry Leone della Rota gathered up the unfortunate woman into his arms. He covered her mouth and her naked shoulders with burning kisses. Then there was a thud over his head, so that the lamp hanging from the ceiling shook with it. A shout! The sound of a struggle. A second thud. The stamping and tramping of several feet. A wild scream. The loud report of a musket. A fearsome, unsettling cry:
"The beggars! The beggars! The beggars on board! Treachery!
Treachery! All'arme! All'arme!"
"What's that? Diavolo!" shouted Leone, letting go of the girl and reaching for his sword. Once more, from his bloody resting place, the body of Antonio Valani raised itself, once more his eyes opened wide to stare at his friend:
"Protect the ship. Traitor! Vile good-for-nothing!"
A stream of dark blood shot out of his mouth and Antonio Valani sank back. Now death truly had him in its grip.
On deck the turmoil after the fall of the first sentry became ever more widespread and loud. The bewildered crew rushed out with the first weapons that had come to hand.
"To arms! Treachery! The beggars!"
The sound of oaths, groans, cries for mercy.
Myga van Bergen fell to her knees once again, while Leone, as he unsheathed his sword, rushed up the cabin stairs. Once on deck his foot bumped against corpses and the wounded. The fight was heaving wildly to and fro and a roar of triumph from the Dutch and the terrific war cry of the beggars: "Sultan before Pope!" were already beginning to drown out the battle cries of the so rudely awoken men of Genoa.