"This is not the time of year for storms," he muttered. "It was not chance that brought that storm out of the deep to splinter the ship in which I meant to escape. Escape? Nay, we are all trapped rats."
"I don't know what you're talking about," snarled Villiers. "I've been unable to get any sense out of you since that flaxen-haired hussy upset you so last night with her wild tale of black men coming out of the sea. But I know that I'm not going to spend my life on this cursed coast. Ten of my men drowned with the ship, but I've got a hundred more. You've got nearly as many. There are tools in your fort and plenty of trees in yonder forest. We'll build some kind of a craft that will carry us until we can take a ship from the Spaniards."
"It will take months," muttered Henri.
"Well, is there any better way in which we could employ our time? We're here— and we'll get away only by our own efforts. I hope that storm smashed Harston to bits! While we're building our craft we'll hunt for da Verrazano's treasure."
"We will never complete your ship," said Henri somberly.
"You fear the Indians? We have men enough to defy them."
"I do not speak of red men. I speak of a black man."
Villiers turned on him angrily. "Will you talk sense? Who is this accursed black man?"
"Accursed indeed," said Henri, staring seaward. "Through fear of him I fled from France, hoping to drown my trail in the western ocean. But he has smelled me out in spite of all."
"If such a man came ashore he must be hiding in the woods," growled Villiers. "We'll rake the forest and hunt him out."
Henri laughed harshly.
"Grope in the dark for a cobra with your naked hand!"
Villiers cast him an uncertain look, obviously doubting his sanity.
"Who is this man? Have done with ambiguity."
"A devil spawned on that coast of hell, the Slave Coast—"
"Sail ho!" bawled the lookout on the north point.
Villiers wheeled and his voice slashed the wind.
"Do you know her?"
"Aye!" the reply came back faintly. "It's the War-Hawk!"
"Harston!" raged Villiers. "The devil takes care of his own! How could he ride out that blow?" His voice rose to a yell that carried up and down the strand. "Back to the fort, you dogs!"
Before the War-Hawk, somewhat battered in appearance, nosed around the point, the beach was bare of human life, the palisade bristling with helmets and scarf- bound heads. Villiers ground his teeth as a long-boat swung into the beach and Harston strode toward the fort alone.
"Ahoy the fort!" The Englishman's bull bellow carried clearly in the still morning. "I want to parley! The last time I advanced under a flag of truce I was fired upon! I want a promise that it won't happen again."
"All right, I'll give you my promise!" called Villiers sardonically.
"Damn your promise, you French dog! I want d'Chastillon's word."
A measure of dignity remained to the Count. There was an edge of authority to his voice as he answered: "Advance, but keep your men back. You will not be fired upon."
"That's enough for me," said Harston instantly. "Whatever a d'Chastillon's sins, once his word is given, you can trust him."
He strode forward and halted under the gate, laughing at the hate-darkened visage Villiers thrust over at him.
"Well, Guillaume," he taunted, "you are a ship shorter than when last I saw you! But you French never were sailors."
"How did you save your ship, you Bristol gutterscum?" snarled the buccaneer.
"There's a cove some miles to the north protected by a high-ridged arm of land that broke the force of the gale," answered Harston. "I lay behind it. My anchors dragged, but they held me off the shore."
Villiers scowled at Henri, who said nothing. The Count had not known of that cove. He had done little exploring of his domain, fear of the Indians keeping him and his men near the fort.
"I've come to make a trade," said Harston easily.
"We've naught to trade with you save sword-strokes," growled Villiers.
"l think otherwise," grinned Harston, thin-lipped. "You tipped your hand when you murdered Richardson, my first mate, and robbed him. Until this morning I supposed that d'Chastillon had da Verrazano's treasure. But if either of you had it, you wouldn't have gone to the trouble of following me and killing my mate to get the map."
"The map!" ejaculated Villiers, stiffening.
"Oh, don't dissemble!" Harston laughed, but anger blazed blue in his eyes. "I know you have it. Indians don't wear boots!"
"But—" began Henri, nonplussed, but fell silent as Villiers nudged him.
"What have you to trade?" Villiers demanded of Harston.
"Let me come into the fort," suggested the pirate. "We can talk there."
"Your men will stay where they are," warned Villiers.
"Aye. But don't think you'll seize me and hold me for a hostage!" He laughed grimly. "I want d'Chastillon's word that I'll be allowed to leave the fort alive and unhurt within the hour, whether we come to terms or not."
"You have my pledge," answered the Count.
"All right, then. Open that gate."
