"I am Nicholas Dunning, shipman, of Dover. My cog, the _Alice_, lies in the harbour yonder, lordling. As for that rogue----" he gestured out the window toward the retreating form of the swart shipman--"my guess is that he is a pirate when he is not trading. An I were a citizen of Hastings I would take heed to my gates when he was about. There is no good in him, I'll warrant you, with his swaggering blackamoor crew." "Be that as it may, we are through with him," said Hugh, amused by the man's manner. "Now, what terms do you make to carry us to Rouen, sailing not later than the morrow?" The English shipman's lips shut tight. "I never make but the one offer, and that is an honest offer," he asserted. "Ten pennies I named it, and ten pennies I bide by. If there were more of you I might shave it down, but for your number that is a fair charge." Matteo leaned forward and whispered in Hugh's ear: "The fellow speaks truth. Moreover, he hath us at advantage, for save our friend of the galley, there is none here to compete with him." "Then shall we accept?" asked Hugh. Matteo shrugged his shoulders. "Hast any desire to sail with the Cypriot?" Hugh shook his head. "I know not why, yet----" Matteo leaned closer. "Dost mind what the greenwood man said as he died?" he whispered. A light of understanding leaped into Hugh's face. "'Twas a swart, pock-marked man from the sea hired them!" he exclaimed. "Ay!" Hugh drew a deep breath. "Then we must away from here," he said. He turned to Nicholas Dunning. "Messer Nicholas," he went on, "we accept your offer. An you start with the morn, it were best we came aboard your vessel to-night." "All shall be ready for you, lords," assented the shipman. "We sail with the morrow's tide. And you will be in honest English company, fair sirs, and not with slit-nosed mongrel scourings of the Inner Sea." He sniffed with contempt of his rival as he left the room. "A monstrous brave man, by Our Lady," remarked Ralph admiringly. CHAPTER VII THE SEA-WOLVES "The galley is gone!" exclaimed Matteo, as he emerged from the stern-castle. "Ay, and a good riddance," returned the master of the cog. Messer Nicholas was holding the tiller of his craft, steering her out of the harbour entrance. The spring breeze blew rich and warm off the land behind them. Below the little poop on which the comrades stood, the sailors ran to and fro about their duties, hauling at ropes, stacking cordage and dressing sails. Hastings port already was become a toy town set on the harbour's rim. "You seem not to like our Cypriot friend," remarked Hugh with a smile.