Rafael Sabatini

“ Don Diego sighed again, and stood up. "Let us say no more."
The light-blue eyes played over him like points of steel.
"You are not afraid to die, Don Diego?"
The Spaniard threw back his head, a frown between his eyes.
"The question is offensive, sir."
"Then let me put it in another way—perhaps more happily: You do not desire to live?"
"Ah, that I can answer. I do desire to live; and even more do I desire that my son may live. But the desire shall not make a coward of me for your amusement, master mocker." ”

“ Don Diego struggled up into a sitting position on the red velvet couch.
"Who the devil are you?" he asked. "And what the devil are you doing in my clothes and aboard my ship?"
The level black eyebrows went up, a faint smile curled the lips of the long mouth.
"You are still delirious, I fear. This is not your ship. This is my ship, and these are my clothes."
"Your ship?" quoth the other, aghast, and still more aghast he added: "Your clothes? But... then...." Wildly his eyes looked about him. They scanned the cabin once again, scrutinizing each familiar object. "Am I mad?" he asked at last. ”

“ If you will look from those windows, Don Diego, you will see what appears to be a cloud on the horizon. That is the island of Barbados well astern. All day we have been sailing east before the wind with but one intent—to set as great a distance between Barbados and ourselves as possible. But now, almost out of sight of land, we are in a difficulty. The only man among us schooled in the art of navigation is fevered, delirious, in fact, as a result of certain ill-treatment he received ashore before we carried him away with us. ”