iving; yet when my God calls
me, I will go as to a gala day and triumph. You are a soldier, Captain
Percy, you and Diccon here, and know how to die. You too, my Lord
Carnal, are a brave man, though a most wicked one. For us four, we can
drink the cup, bitter though it be, with little trembling. But there is
one among us"--His great voice broke, and he sat staring at the table.

The King's ward uncovered her eyes. "If I be not a man and a soldier,
Master Sparrow," she said simply, "yet I am the daughter of many valiant
gentlemen. I will die as they died before me. And for me, as for you
four, it will be only death,--naught else." She looked at me with a
proud smile.

"Naught else," I said.

My lord started from his seat and strode over to the window, where he
stood drumming his fingers against the casing. I turned toward him. "My
Lord Carnal," I said, "you were overheard last night when you plotted
with the Spaniard."

He recoiled with a gasp, and his hand went to his side, where it found
no sword. I saw his eyes busy here and there through the cabin, seeking
something which he might convert into a weapon.

"I am yet captain of this ship," I continued. "Why I do not, even though
it be my last act of authority, have you flung to the sharks, I scarcely
know."

He threw back his head, all his bravado returned to him. "It is not I
that stand in danger," he began loftily; "and I would have you remember,
sir, that you are my enemy, and that I owe you no loyalty."

"I am content to be your enemy," I answered.

"You do not dare to set upon me now," he went on, with his old insolent,
boastful smile. "Let me cry out, make a certain signal, and they without
will be here in a twinkling, breaking in the door"--"The signal set?"
I said. "The mine laid, the match burning? Then 't is time that we were
gone. When I bid the world good-night, my lord, my wife goes with me."

His lips moved and his black eyes narrowed, but he did not speak.

"An my cheek did not burn so," I said, "I would be content to let you
live; live, captain in verity of this ship of devils, until, tired of
you, the devils cut your throat, or until some victorious Spaniard
hung you at his yardarm; live even to crawl back to England, by hook
or crook, to wait, hat in hand, in the antechamber of his Grace of
Buckingham. As it is, I will kill you here and now. I restore you your
sword, my lord, and there lies my challenge."

I flung my glove at his feet, and