th' winepipe o' th' dog as
says disrespect to th' queen."

And so the rascals trooped down to their hut-village. Noisily,
profanely, full of horseplay and ear-burning jests; but never a voice
spoke any word that failed in its homage when Dolores was the theme.

Snugly settled around the great rock door, the pirates' village looked
out from a broad level platform over the darkening evening sea. In the
center, its rear abutting on the rock itself, stood the great council
hall and the dwelling of Dolores. In front of this black slaves busily
heaped a great bonfire; torches were thrust into iron rings on doorpost
and tree-trunk; noisy ruffians tramped into a cool cave in the rock and
trundled forth casks and horn cups; while Sancho, the Spaniard, bent
over a whetstone, giving his knife a final edge against the arrival of
the meat.

A venomous devil was this Sancho, and his contorted face, with the
missing eye covered by a black patch, worked demoniacally in the
gathering darkness with each leaping flame of the ignited torches. The
hand that clutched the knife was a thing of horror; two fingers and half
the thumb remained from some drunken brawl to serve the Spaniard in
future play for work or debauch; and the man, crouching low over his
stone, made a picture of incarnate hate that had no humor in it.

"Where's th' flesh?" screamed Sancho, looking up, his mutilated thumb
running creepily along the knife-edge.

"Whet your tusks, lads, here's the blessed manna!" squealed Caliban, a
hunchbacked terror, who kept his maimed carcass secure by virtue of his
viperish temper, coupled with an uncanny skill of the cutlas. "Milo's
our man! Huzza for Milo!"

Out from the trees stalked the giant Abyssinian, and the shadows and
torchlight distorted him to grotesque proportions. He walked as if his
weight was nothing; yet on his great shoulders he bore a half-grown ox,
its feet hobbled, its tongue hanging from its panting mouth. Straight to
the fire he stepped and cast his burden down, turning again without a
word and going back to the rock portals.

"Meat for men!" screamed Sancho, crouching again, knife in hand.

"For men!" echoed Caliban ferociously, and whipped his cutlas out.
"Stand clear!" he howled, and Sancho dodged aside. The little terror's
blade sang through the air with a wicked whistle; it curved high over
Sancho, then flashed down and plunged through the throat of the ox,
pinning the beast to the earth. And when he r