_A great crowd surging along_, _pushing_, _fighting_, _and hallooing in the rear of a compact body of Rovers or freebooters_, _well armed_, _bringing with them a band of Spanish prisoners_, _captured in a ship in the channel_, _bound from Cadiz to the Low Countries_, _with a rich cargo of Silks_, _Wines_, _and other such articles of value_, _besides a quantity of money_, _for the payment of the Troops there_. _Among the captives_, _Soldiers of rank, Noblemen_, _Great Merchants_. _Some are hauled along in irons_, _screaming for mercy_, _to be kept prisoners till ransomed_. _A group of three_, _the assumed property of one party_, _are about being put up to auction_. _A Sailor stands upon a barrel with an axe in his hand for a hammer_, _as auctioneer_. _Jews and Spectators in front_, _ready to bid_, _and chaffing the extemporized Auctioneer_. SEVERAL VOICES. Why don’t you go on, Bill Sayers! go on! go on! put one of the Hidalgos up. (_Laughter_.) _Whilst the chief is bargaining with a rich Jew aside_, _a Ruffian grasps at one of the Spanish Captives_. RUFFIAN. I should like one of those gold buttons. _The leader_, TOM COBHAM, _turning from the Jew_, _brandishes his axe not very particular whether or not it lopped off an arm_. TOM COBHAM, (_fiercely_.) Back varlet! on your life, I’ll cleave the first man, to the brisket, who dares to lay hand on one of them! (_Sweeps round him with his terrible weapon_, _the crowd fall back_. _Turning to the Jew again_) I’ll tell you what, Isaac! We cannot deal! ISAAC. They’re not worth an Angel more. There’s not an Hidalgo among them. Only traders like myself. TOM COBHAM. You Jews can jabber all the languages in the world. But I have robbed Churches, sacked towns along the coast of Spain, from Cadiz to Finisterra, have plundered her gold ships, and seized her Merchantmen (_he pauses musing_) ever since the execution of Sir Thomas Wyatt, and I can talk Spanish as well as you. They are Nobles, every one of them. ISAAC (_whispering in his ear_.) There now! I will do no more. TOM COBHAM (_turning away indignant_.) Two thousands Rials! Not even Sovereigns! We only count in Sovereigns, you old screw! You mean to rob. It’s not the price of the gold lace and buttons on their coats, not to speak of the jewels, silk, and velvet. Speak up, or be off! I know what to do with them. ISAAC (_again whispering_). There now! That’s because you are a friend, Tom. By the Holy Moses and all the Prophets, I’ll not advance another Rose Noble.