They drew away sulkily. Don Lazarillo pulled off his hat to pass a large colored silk handkerchief over his forehead. He then stepped up to me. The cook posted himself close to him, and the sailors, with whom now was the negro boy, took up a station within easy earshot. Mariana translating, the dialogue took this form:—
"The men wish to know who is to pay them their wages?"
"Don Christoval is now dead," answered the Spaniard. "This adventure therefore terminates!"
"How?—terminates?" I cried. "We are still upon the high seas. We have still the young lady with us to restore to those from whom you and your friend stole her. No, no, this adventure has not yet terminated!"
"What do you mean to do?" he asked.
"That is no answer to my question. Who will pay those men for the work they have done, the risks they have run, and have yet to run?"
He put his hand to his brow, and, after a pause, said, "I must think."
The sailors fell a-shouting exclamations. The chorus was swelled by the voices of the man at the helm, and by the fellow below, who had got upon the cabin table, and stood with his head in the open skylight, listening.
"Silence!" I cried; "how am I to transact your business if you interrupt me? The men," I continued, addressing the Spaniard, "look to you for payment. They will not lose sight of you until you pay them. Have you money with you, or the equivalent of money?" I added, fixing my eyes upon his rings and brooch; "for I must be paid, Don Lazarillo, and they must be paid."