“I don’t intend to kill you, Peter,” he said, “but a goodly cut or two will let out some of your impertinent blood.”

“Thanks, captain, for so much saving grace, because I like to live.  I make you the same promise.  I don’t want your death on my hands, but there is poison in the veins of a man who is willing to be a slaver.  I will let it out, in order that its place may be taken by pure and wholesome blood.”

The captain frowned, and made a few swings with his cutlass.  Then he ran a finger along its keen edge, and he felt satisfied with himself.  A vast amount of rage and mortification was confined in his system, and not charging any of it to the storm, the full volume of his anger was directed against his cook’s former assistant, Peter Smith, who was entirely too jaunty and independent in his manner.  He could not understand Robert’s presumption in challenging him to a combat with swords, but he would punish him cruelly, while the two sailors looked on and saw it well done.

Robert put his pack, his greatcoat, his coat, and his belt with the pistols and ammunition in a heap, and looked carefully to the sword that he had taken from the captain’s cabin.  It was a fine weapon, though much lighter than the cutlass.  He bent the blade a little, and then made it whistle in curves about his head.  He had a purpose in doing so, and it was attained at once.  The captain looked at him with rising curiosity.

“Peter,” he said, “you don’t seem to be wholly unfamiliar with the sword, and you nothing but a cook’s helper.”

“It’s true, captain.  The hilt fits lovingly into my hand.  In my spare moments and when nobody was looking I’ve often stolen this sword of yours from the cabin and practiced with it.  I mean now to make you feel the result of that practice.”

The captain gazed at him doubtfully, but in a moment or two the confident smile returned to his eyes.  It was not possible that a mere stripling could stand before him and his cutlass.  But he took off his own coat which he had believed hitherto was a useless precaution.

There was a level space about thirty feet across, and Robert, sword in hand, advanced toward the center of it.  He had already chosen his course, which would be psychological as well as physical.  He intended that the battle should play upon the slaver’s mind as well as upon his body.

“I’m ready, captain,” he said.  “Don’t keep us waiting.  It’s winter as you well know, and we’ll both grow cold standing here.  In weather like this we need work quick and warm.”

The angry blood surged into the captain’s face, although it did not show through his tan.  But he made an impatient movement, and stepped forward hastily.

“It can’t be told of me that I kept a lad waiting,” he said.  “I’ll warrant you you’ll soon be warm enough.”

“Then we’re both well suited, captain, and it should be a fine passage at arms.”