"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."
The gate opened and closed, the leaders vanished from sight, and the common men of both parties resumed their silent surveillance of each other.
On the broad stair above the hall, Françoise and Tina crouched, ignored by the men below. Henri, Gallot, Villiers and Harston sat about the broad table. Except for them the hall was empty.
Harston gulped wine and set the empty goblet on the table. The frankness suggested by his bluff countenance was belied by the lights of cruelty and treachery in his wide eyes. But he spoke bluntly enough.
"We all want the treasure da Verrazano hid somewhere near this bay," he said. "Each has something the others need. D'Chastillon has laborers, supplies, a stockade to shelter us from the savages. You, Villiers, have my map. I have a ship."
"If you had the map all these years," said Villiers, "why didn't you come after the loot sooner?"
"I didn't have it. It was Piriou who knifed the old miser in the dark and stole the map. But he had neither ship nor crew, and it took him more than a year to get them. When he did come after the loot, the Indians prevented his landing, and his men mutinied and made him sail back to the Main. One of them stole the map, and later sold it to me."
"That was why Piriou recognized the bay," muttered Henri.
"Did that dog lead you here? I might have guessed it. Where is he?"
"Slain by Indians, evidently while searching for the treasure."
"Good!" approved Harston heartily. "Well, I don't know how you knew my mate was carrying the map. I trusted him, and the men trusted him more than they did me, so I let him keep it. But this morning he wandered in and got separated from the rest, and we found him sworded to death near the beach, and the map gone. The men accused me of killing him, but we found the tracks left by the man who killed him, and I showed the fools my feet wouldn't fit them. There wasn't a boot in the crew that made that sort of track. Indians don't wear boots. So it had to be a Frenchman.
"You've got the map, but you haven't got the treasure. If you had it, you wouldn't have let me in the fort. I've got you penned up here. You can't get out to look for the loot, and no ship to carry it away, anyhow.
"Here's my proposaclass="underline" Villiers, give me the map. And you, Count, give me fresh meat and supplies. My men are nigh to scurvy after the long voyage. In return I'll take you three men, the Lady Françoise and her girl, and set you ashore at some port of the Atlantic where you can take ship to France. And to clinch the bargain, I'll give each of you a handsome share in the treasure."
The buccaneer tugged his mustache meditatively. He knew that Harston would not keep any such pact, if made. Nor did Villiers even consider agreeing to the proposal. But to refuse bluntly would be to force the issue into a clash of arms, and Villiers was not ready for that. He wanted the War-Hawk as avidly as he desired the jewels of Montezuma.
"What's to prevent us from holding you captive and forcing your men to give us your ship in exchange for you'?" he asked.
Harston laughed at him.
"Do you think I'm a fool? My men have orders to heave up the anchors and sail hence at the first hint of treachery. They wouldn't give you the ship, if you skinned me alive on the beach. Besides, I have Henri's word."
"My word is not wind," said Henri somberly. "Have done with threats, Villiers."
The buccaneer did not reply, his mind being wholly absorbed in the problem of getting possession of Harston's ship; of continuing the parley without betraying the fact that he did not have the map. He wondered who in Satan's name did have the accursed map.
"Let me take my men away with me on your ship," he said. "I can not desert my faithful followers—"
Harston snorted.
"Why don't you ask for my cutlass to cut my throat with? Desert your faithful— bah! You'd desert your brother to the devil if it meant money in your pocket. No! You're not going to bring enough men aboard to mutiny and take my ship."
"Give us a day to think it over," urged Villiers, fighting for time.
Harston's heavy fist banged on the table, making the wine dance in the glasses.
"No, by Satan! Give me my answer now!"
Villiers was on his feet, his black rage submerging his craftiness.
"You English dog! I'll give you your answer—in your guts!"
He tore aside his cloak, caught at his sword hilt. Harston heaved up with a roar, his chair crashing backward to the floor. Henri sprang up, spreading his arms between them as they faced each other across the board.
"Gentlemen, have done! Villiers, he has my pledge—"
"The foul fiend gnaw your pledge!" snarled Villiers.
"Stand from between us, my lord," growled the pirate, his voice thick with the killing lust. "I release you from your word until I have slain this dog!"
"Well spoken, Harston!" It was a deep, powerful voice behind them, vibrant with grim amusement. All wheeled and glared open-mouthed. Up on the stair Françoise started up with an involuntary exclamation.
A man strode out from the hangings that masked a chamber door, and advanced toward the table without haste or hesitation. Instantly he dominated the group, and all felt the situation subtly charged with a new, dynamic atmosphere.
The stranger was as tall as either of the freebooters, and more powerfully built than either, yet for all his size he moved with a pantherish suppleness in his flaring-topped boots. His thighs were cased in close-fitting breeches of white silk, his wide-skirted sky-blue coat open to reveal a white silken shirt beneath, and the scarlet sash that girdled his waist. There were silver acorn- shaped buttons on the coat, and it was adorned with gilt-worked cuffs and pocketflaps, and a satin collar. A broad brimmed, plumed hat was on the stranger's head, and a heavy cutlass hung at his hip.
"Vulmea!" ejaculated Harston, and the others caught their breath.
"Who else?" The giant strode up to the table, laughing sardonically at their amazement.