fere while the
combat is in progress, nor will they do so afterward, if I win."

"They will not stir. Remain where you are, lads."

The two sailors settled themselves back comfortably, clasping their
knees with their hands, and Robert knew that he had nothing to fear
from them. Their confidence in the captain's prowess and easy victory
was sufficient assurance. They were not to be blamed for the belief,
as their leader's cutlass was heavy and his opponent was only a
youth. The captain was of the same opinion and his mood became light
and gay.

"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 me