That was the price that he would pay. None the less, he found the occasion to wash away the stains of battle, and in fresh linen and hose became less offensive to the sight. When he sought the deck there was no sign of a vessel upon any side. Cornbury he found at the after-hatch, puffing upon a pipe. “Ochone, dear Iron Arm,” the Irishman began, “ye’re the anomalous figure of a _pirato_, to be sure. One minute your form is painted broad upon the horizon with a cutlass in your teeth, an’ glistenin’ pikes in both your fists. I’ the next ye’re playin’ the hero part of ‘Vartue in Distress.’” Bras-de-Fer smiled. “Oh, ye may laugh. But in truth ’tis all most irregular. Ye violate every tradition of the thrade. By the laws, ye’re no dacent figure of a swashbuckler at all at all.” “What would ye have then, _mon ami_?” “Ah, he’s clean daffy! What would I have? Bah! ye know my misliking for the sex, and ye ask me what would I have? Egad! a walk on the plank, and a little dance on nothing would not be amiss for _her_. ’Tis the simplest thing in the world. The least bit of a rope, three ten-pound shot, a shove of the arm, and _spsh!_ your troubles are sunk in a mile of sea. To England, a treaty of peace with Captain Ferrers, and, _voilà!_ ye’re a French viscount, with a fortune beyond the dreams of avarice, and an out-at-the-knees-and-elbows of an Irishman to help ye spend it. Man, ’tis a squanderin’ waste of opportunity.” He growled, and puffed upon his pipe, sending crabbed, sour glances at his captain. “Oh, ye may laugh. Instead of this, what do ye do? Ye have my lady aboard the ship to the pervarsion of all dacent piratical society, give her _my_ bed and board, and _my_ particular niggar for waiting-man. Ye’re sowin’ the seeds of ripe mutiny, me handsome picaroon, an’ a red-headed Irishman will be there to aid in the blossomin’.” “Nay, Cornbury,” said Bras-de-Fer. “We do but go a short cruise to Port Royal. I’ve set my mind on seeing my lady safe in English hands.” “There ye are,” fumed the Irishman. “_There ye are!_ Ye’ll kill the golden goose. Ye’ll jeopardize your callin’ again, all for that same finical bundle of superficialities. Slapped once in the face, ye turn your cheek with new avidity for more. Zoons! I’ve no patience with such shilly-shallyin’.” And, as Bras-de-Fer was silent, he sent forth a quick succession of smoke puffs which chased madly down the wind. “Ask Jacquard,” he growled again; “he likes it no more than I. There’s a mutterin’ forward. ’Tis discipline--the lack of drink and an unequal partitionin’ of the spoils--” “_Pardieu!_” interrupted the Frenchman at last, his eyes flashing in a fury. “Do they growl? Let them do it in the forecastle. No man, no, not even you, shall beard me on my quarter-deck!” Cornbury did not arise or show the least sign of a changed countenance. “Ask Jacquard,” he repeated again. Bras-de-Fer swung hotly on his heel and went below. CHAPTER XIII MONSIEUR LEARNS SOMETHING