The Spaniard, realizing that in this altercation, whatever its
nature, the doctor had stood his friend, ventured in a muted voice
to ask him what had happened. But the doctor shook his head in
silence, and pursued his work. His ears were straining to catch
the words now passing between Steed and Bishop. The Colonel was
blustering and storming, the great bulk of him towering above the
wizened little overdressed figure of the Governor. But the little
fop was not to be browbeaten. His excellency was conscious that
he had behind him the force of public opinion to support him.
Some there might be, but they were not many, who held such ruthless
views as Colonel Bishop. His excellency asserted his authority.
It was by his orders that Blood had devoted himself to the wounded
Spaniards, and his orders were to be carried out. There was no
more to be said.

Colonel Bishop was of another opinion. In his view there was a
great deal to be said. He said it, with great circumstance, loudly,
vehemently, obscenely - for he could be fluently obscene when moved
to anger.

"You talk like a Spaniard, Colonel," said the Governor, and thus
dealt the Colonel's pride a wound that was to smart resentfully
for many a week. At the moment it struck him silent, and sent him
stamping out of the shed in a rage for which he could find no words.

It was two days later when the ladies of Bridgetown, the wives and
daughters of her planters and merchants, paid their first visit of
charity to the wharf, bringing their gifts to the wounded seamen.

Again Peter Blood was there, ministering to the sufferers in his