“You think so—­hey!  Maybe so while he get you with heem.  Den he ze devil.  I know, M’sieur.  I see heem for long while on ze ocean; zat whar’ you fin’ out.”

I began eating slowly, exhibiting an indifference I was far from feeling, yet swiftly determining that no matter how much antagonism might exist between the two men, I would never trust the Creole.  Still I might use him to advantage; induce him to talk freely under the spur.

“What has he done to you?” I asked carelessly.

“By Gar!—­what!” firing up at the recollection.  “Get out o’ here, yer damn coon!” turning fiercely upon the steward, and then leaning across the table, lowering his voice, which yet trembled with passion.  “Sacre, M’sieur, it was I do his dirty work five—­seek—­year.  He no sailor, but I sail ze sheep for him—­see?  Tree, four time I sail ze sheep, an’ he make ze money.  Vat he geef me?  Maybe one hundred ze month—­bah! eet was to laugh.  Zen he fin’ zat Dutch hog, Herman, an’ make of heem ze furst officer.  He tell eet all me nice, fine, an’ I tink maybe eet all right.  You know he promise beeg profit—­hey! an’ I get ze monies.  Oui, it sound good.  But Herman big brute; he gif me ze ordaire, and I not like eet.  I tells ze Capitaine, an’ by Gar! he keep me tied up before ze port watch.  You stan’ zat, M’sieur?”

I shook my head, uncertain just what stand to take.

“Nevar!” he went on, barely pausing for breath.  “I show ze damn half-breed; you vait, I git heem.”

“What do you mean by half-breed, Broussard?” I questioned, surprised.

He laughed, but not pleasantly.

“He vas ze mongrel—­sure; you know not zat?  Sacre, I tell you zen.  What you zink him, white man?  Pah! you see hees mother—­she mulatto.  Ze damn dog!”

“How do you know that?”

“How I know!  I tell you I sail with heem long while.  He nevar tell, but I fin’ eet out.  I listen, I hear ze talk, but I say noddings, M’sieur.  Vat I care while he treat me right?  But now I show heem vat I know.  He not lord eet over me ven ol’ Sallie vas his mother—­by Gar! no!”

“Sallie!  You cannot mean that mulatto woman back on the plantation?”

“Sure, the ol’ rip.”

“Then his name is not Henley?”

“Why not, M’sieur?  The ol’ Judge was his father.”

The whole thing came to me in a flash, as I stared across at the mate, who scarcely realized yet the revelation made.  He was brooding over his wrongs, and how he was to be avenged.

“Good God!” I breathed, “so that ’s the way of it!”

Broussard looked up, a cunning smile on his face.  “By Gar, I forget,” he said softly.  “You vas after ze monies too, hey!  Bah! eet make no difference vat you know.  He haf you here all right, var’ you keep still or—­” and he drew the back of a knife across his throat.  “I vonder he not keel you furst, M’sieur; maybe he use you, an’ then, hav’ you shot in ze South.  Oui, zat be ze easy vay.  Why you ever cum down, an’ claim to be Philip Henley—­hey?”