Bridgetown, or committed some other imprudence, and he turned cold from head to foot at the mere thought of what might have happened to her.
“It is I—Peter Blood,” he gasped.
“What do you want?”
It is doubtful whether she would have come down to open. For at such a time as this it was no more than likely that the wretched plantation slaves might be in revolt and prove as great a danger as the Spaniards. But at the sound of her voice, the girl Mr. Blood had rescued peered up through the gloom.
“Arabella!” she called. “It is I, Mary Traill.”
“Mary!” The voice ceased above on that exclamation, the head was withdrawn. After a brief pause the door gaped wide. Beyond it in the wide hall stood Miss Arabella, a slim, virginal figure in white, mysteriously revealed in the gleam of a single candle which she carried.
Mr. Blood strode in followed by his distraught companion, who, falling upon Arabella’s slender bosom, surrendered herself to a passion of tears. But he wasted no time.
“Whom have you here with you? What servants?” he demanded sharply.
The only male was James, an old negro groom.
“The very man,” said Blood. “Bid him get out horses. Then away with you to Speightstown, or even farther north, where you will be safe. Here you are in danger—in dreadful danger.”
“But I thought the fighting was over...” she was beginning, pale and startled.
“So it is. But the deviltry’s only beginning. Miss Traill will tell you as you go. In God’s name, madam, take my word for it, and do as I bid you.”
“He... he saved me,” sobbed Miss Traill.
“Saved you?” Miss Bishop was aghast. “Saved you from what, Mary?”
“Let that wait,” snapped Mr. Blood almost angrily. “You’ve all the night for chattering when you’re out of this, and away beyond their reach. Will you please call James, and do as I say—and at once!”
“You are very peremptory....”
“Oh, my God! I am peremptory! Speak, Miss Trail!, tell her whether I’ve cause to be peremptory.”
“Yes, yes,” the girl cried, shuddering. “Do as he says—Oh, for pity’s sake, Arabella.”
Miss Bishop went off, leaving Mr. Blood and Miss Traill alone again.
“I... I shall never forget what you did, sir,” said she, through her diminishing tears. She was a slight wisp of a girl, a child, no more.
“I’ve done better things in my time. That’s why I’m here,” said Mr. Blood, whose mood seemed to be snappy.
She didn’t pretend to understand him, and she didn’t make the attempt.
“Did you... did you kill him?” she asked, fearfully.
He stared at her in the flickering candlelight. “I hope so. It is very probable, and it doesn’t matter at all,” he said. “What matters is that this fellow James should fetch the horses.” And he was stamping off to accelerate these preparations for departure, when her voice arrested him.
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here alone!” she cried in terror.
He paused. He turned and came slowly back. Standing above her he smiled upon her.
“There, there! You’ve no cause for alarm. It’s all over now. You’ll be away soon—away to Speightstown, where you’ll be quite safe.”
The horses came at last—four of them, for in addition to James who was to act as her guide, Miss Bishop had her woman, who was not to be left behind.
Mr. Blood lifted the slight weight of Mary Traill to her horse, then turned to say good-bye to Miss Bishop, who was already mounted. He said it, and seemed to have something to add. But whatever it was, it remained unspoken. The horses started, and receded into the sapphire starlit night, leaving him standing there before Colonel Bishop’s door. The last he heard of them was Mary Traill’s childlike voice calling back on a quavering note—
“I shall never forget what you did, Mr. Blood. I shall never forget.”
But as it was not the voice he desired to hear, the assurance brought him little satisfaction. He stood there in the dark watching the fireflies amid the rhododendrons, till the hoofbeats had faded. Then he sighed and roused himself. He had much to do. His journey into the town had not been one of idle curiosity to see how the Spaniards conducted themselves in victory. It had been inspired by a very different purpose, and he had gained in the course of it all the information he desired. He had an extremely busy night before him, and must be moving.
He went off briskly in the direction of the stockade, where his fellow-slaves awaited him in deep anxiety and some hope.
CHAPTER IX.
THE REBELS-CONVICT
There were, when the purple gloom of the tropical night descended upon the Caribbean, not more than ten men on guard aboard the Cinco Llagas, so confident—and with good reason—were the Spaniards of the complete subjection of the islanders. And when I say that there were ten men on guard, I state rather the purpose for which they were left aboard than the duty which they fulfilled. As a matter of fact, whilst the main body of the Spaniards feasted and rioted ashore, the Spanish gunner and his crew—who had so nobly done their duty and ensured the easy victory of the day—were feasting on the gun-deck upon the wine and the fresh meats fetched out to them from shore. Above, two sentinels only kept vigil, at stem and stern. Nor were they as vigilant as they should have been, or else they must have observed the two wherries that under cover of the darkness came gliding from the wharf, with well-greased rowlocks, to bring up in silence under the great ship’s quarter.
From the gallery aft still hung the ladder by which Don Diego had descended to the boat that had taken him ashore. The sentry on guard in the stern, coming presently round this gallery, was suddenly confronted by the black shadow of a man standing before him at the head of the ladder.
“Who’s there?” he asked, but without alarm, supposing it one of his fellows.
“It is I,” softly answered Peter Blood in the fluent Castillan of which he was master.
“Is it you, Pedro?” The Spaniard came a step nearer.
“Peter is my name; but I doubt I’ll not be the Peter you’re expecting.”
“How?” quoth the sentry, checking.
“This way,” said Mr. Blood.
The wooden taffrail was a low one, and the Spaniard was taken completely by surprise. Save for the splash he made as he struck the water, narrowly missing one of the crowded boats that waited under the counter, not a sound announced his misadventure. Armed as he was with corselet, cuissarts, and headpiece, he sank to trouble them no more.
“Whist!” hissed Mr. Blood to his waiting rebels-convict. “Come on, now, and without noise.”
Within five minutes they had swarmed aboard, the entire twenty of them overflowing from that narrow gallery and crouching on the quarter-deck itself. Lights showed ahead. Under the great lantern in the prow they saw the black figure of the other sentry, pacing on the forecastle. From below sounds reached them of the orgy on the gun-deck: a rich male voice was singing an obscene ballad to which the others chanted in chorus:
“Y estos son los usos de Castilla y de Leon!”
“From what I’ve seen to-day I can well believe it,” said Mr. Blood, and whispered: “Forward—after me.”
Crouching low, they glided, noiseless as shadows, to the quarter-deck