Peter Blood had no illusions.  He was not, and never would be, the complete pirate.  There was not another buccaneer in all the Caribbean who would have denied himself the pleasure of stringing Colonel Bishop from the yardarm, and by thus finally stifling the vindictive planter’s hatred have increased his own security.  But Blood was not of these.  Moreover, in the case of Colonel Bishop there was a particular reason for restraint.  Because he was Arabella Bishop’s uncle, his life must remain sacred to Captain Blood.

And so the Captain smiled into the sallow, bloated face and the little eyes that fixed him with a malevolence not to be dissembled.

“A safe voyage home to you, Colonel, darling,” said he in valediction, and from his easy, smiling manner you would never have dreamt of the pain he carried in his breast.  “It’s the second time ye’ve served me for a hostage.  Ye’ll be well advised to avoid a third.  I’m not lucky to you, Colonel, as you should be perceiving.”

Jeremy Pitt, the master, lounging at Blood’s elbow, looked darkly upon the departure of the Deputy-Governor.  Behind them a little mob of grim, stalwart, sun-tanned buccaneers were restrained from cracking Bishop like a flea only by their submission to the dominant will of their leader.  They had learnt from Pitt while yet in Port Royal of their Captain’s danger, and whilst as ready as he to throw over the King’s service which had been thrust upon them, yet they resented the manner in which this had been rendered necessary, and they marvelled now at Blood’s restraint where Bishop was concerned.  The Deputy-Governor looked round and met the lowering hostile glances of those fierce eyes.  Instinct warned him that his life at that moment was held precariously, that an injudicious word might precipitate an explosion of hatred from which no human power could save him.  Therefore he said nothing.  He inclined his head in silence to the Captain, and went blundering and stumbling in his haste down that ladder to the sloop and its waiting negro crew.

They pushed off the craft from the red hull of the Arabella, bent to their sweeps, then, hoisting sail, headed back for Port Royal, intent upon reaching it before darkness should come down upon them.  And Bishop, the great bulk of him huddled in the stem sheets, sat silent, his black brows knitted, his coarse lips pursed, malevolence and vindictiveness so whelming now his recent panic that he forgot his near escape of the yardarm and the running noose.

On the mole at Port Royal, under the low, embattled wall of the fort, Major Mallard and Lord Julian waited to receive him, and it was with infinite relief that they assisted him from the sloop.

Major Mallard was disposed to be apologetic.

“Glad to see you safe, sir,” said he.  “I’d have sunk Blood’s ship in spite of your excellency’s being aboard but for your own orders by Lord Julian, and his lordship’s assurance that he had Blood’s word for it that no harm should come to you so that no harm came to him.  I’ll confess I thought it rash of his lordship to accept the word of a damned pirate....”