over the blue water by which he had so fondly hoped soon to be
travelling back to freedom.

The great red ship had drawn considerably nearer shore by now.
Slowly, majestically, she was entering the bay. Already one or two
wherries were putting off from the wharf to board her. From where
he stood, Mr. Blood could see the glinting of the brass cannons
mounted on the prow above the curving beak-head, and he could make
out the figure of a seaman in the forechains on her larboard side,
leaning out to heave the lead.

An angry voice aroused him from his unhappy thoughts.

"What the devil are you doing here?"

The returning Colonel Bishop came striding into the stockade, his
negroes following ever.

Mr. Blood turned to face him, and over that swarthy countenance
- which, indeed, by now was tanned to the golden brown of a
half-caste Indian - a mask descended.

"Doing?" said he blandly. "Why, the duties of my office."

The Colonel, striding furiously forward, observed two things. The
empty pannikin on the seat beside the prisoner, and the palmetto
leaf protecting his back. "Have you dared to do this?" The veins
on the planter's forehead stood out like cords.

"Of course I have." Mr. Blood's tone was one of faint surprise.