“What are you about to do?” demanded Fawkes, observing that his companion no longer pulled at the oar.
“Shoot him,” replied Catesby. “Keep still, while I disengage my petronel.”
“It shall not be,” returned Fawkes, laying a firm grasp upon his arm. “Let him perish with the others.”
“If we suffer him to escape now, we may never have such a chance again," rejoined Catesby. “I will shoot him.”
“I say you shall not,” rejoined Fawkes. “His hour is not yet come.”
“What are you talking about, my masters?” demanded the Earl, who was shivering in his wet garments.
“Nothing,” replied Catesby, hastily. “I will throw him overboard,” he whispered to Fawkes.
“Again I say, you shall not,” replied the latter.
“I see what you are afraid of,” cried the Earl. “You are smugglers. You have got some casks of distilled waters on board, and are afraid I may report you. Fear nothing. Land me near the palace, and count upon my gratitude.”
“Our course lies in a different direction,” replied Catesby, sternly. “If your lordship lands at all, it must be where we choose.”