is England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is in sore case. He may
not be moved without peril to his life."

Captain Hobart was amused.

"Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood!
Do you think it's to benefit his health we're taking him? There's
gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater,
and he'll serve for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke'll
learn these nonconforming oafs something they'll not forget in
generations."

"You're hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it's mistaken I am.
We're in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs."

The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over
from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He
noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the
air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized
soldier. The Captain's eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.

"Who the hell may you be?" he exploded."

"My name is Blood, sir - Peter Blood, at your service."

"Aye - aye! Codso! That's the name. You were in French service
once, were you not?"

If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.