“Of a verity, captain, well within it; but the work is tame. They stand no chance.”
“Mark you, no bloodshed if you can help it. And tell Hugh the same. At the sound of the whistle, then, some time before daybreak.”
“Thank you,” and Roger went his way.
“Wherefore does he thank you?” asked Marlowe.
“Oh, ’tis ever so; a thousand thanks when I give him work like this to do.” And for a moment the eyes of both followed Prat, whose rotund figure could be seen beneath the ship’s lanthorn. He was walking on tiptoe, which gave him a grotesque appearance, and the end of his long scabbard was just visible as he held it out behind him to prevent its chape from dragging on the deck. “A peculiar fellow,” remarked the poet, to whom all men were books demanding his perusal.
“A man!” said Vytal. And they waited for many minutes in silence.
“Let us make sure,” suggested Christopher, at last, “that the men are in their places.”
Vytal turned to him with a look of resentment, or, more accurately, an expression of wounded pride. “You know them not.”
“Yea, well. But plans miscarry.”