Hoots and curses erupted from the schooner's crew, more wine was poured by their youthful employers, as the six remaining prisoners off the prize ship were fetched up the narrow and steep companionway ladder from the schooner's foetid orlop. Stumbling and sickly reeling, their eyes blindfolded and their arms bound, they were unable to help themselves.

"Time to die, bastards!" Helio de Guilleri taunted in English, though his intent was spoiled by tittering at his own wit and putting stress on the second syllable of "bastards."

"Go game, lads! Go game!" one of the older captives urged his mates. "They're nought but prinkin' Frogs an' Dons! Buck up, young sir!" he added as the youngest began to mewl and gasp in dread.

"Fack th' bloody lot o' ye!" another doughtier prisoner cried, head swivelling as if trying to see. "And th' Shee's undyin' cess be on yair black damn' souls."

"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not… Britons never never never shall be…!" others wavered.

"Shut the Devil… up\" Capitaine Lanxade bellowed, drawing a long-barrelled pistol from his waistband and firing into the air. "Christ, you damned noisy sons of dogs! Once we leave, you can scream all you wish. Stuff your faces with bird shit, drink your own piss… drink the sea and go even madder, for all we care. Loose their hands, men."

"But, Capitaine," one of the de Guilleris objected.

"They cannot climb down into the boat, else," Lanxade snapped back. "Their blindfolds, aussi… take them off. Let them see what a fine estate we give them, ha ha!"

A mutual gasp of bleak realisation wheezed from the doomed men as they beheld the islet, providing even more amusement for the captors.

And with much eager poking, prodding, and shoving, the prisoners were forced to the entry-port, to lower themselves into the centre of the launch, where extra hands with pistols and daggers waited to receive them. Balfa and his oarsmen got down into the boat with them and steered towards the shore.