“Indifferent to you?” said she.  “Why, no.  We have been good friends; we shall continue so, I hope, my lord.”

“Friends!  Good friends?” He was between dismay and bitterness.  “It is not your friendship only that I ask, Arabella.  You heard what I said, what I reported.  You will not say that Peter Blood was wrong?”

Gently she sought to disengage her hand, the trouble in her face increasing.  A moment he resisted; then, realizing what he did, he set her free.

“Arabella!” he cried on a note of sudden pain.

“I have friendship for you, my lord.  But only friendship.”  His castle of hopes came clattering down about him, leaving him a little stunned.  As he had said, he was no coxcomb.  Yet there was something that he did not understand.  She confessed to friendship, and it was in his power to offer her a great position, one to which she, a colonial planter’s niece, however wealthy, could never have aspired even in her dreams.  This she rejected, yet spoke of friendship.  Peter Blood had been mistaken, then.  How far had he been mistaken?  Had he been as mistaken in her feelings towards himself as he obviously was in her feelings towards his lordship?  In that case ...  His reflections broke short.  To speculate was to wound himself in vain.  He must know.  Therefore he asked her with grim frankness: 

“Is it Peter Blood?”

“Peter Blood?” she echoed.  At first she did not understand the purport of his question.  When understanding came, a flush suffused her face.

“I do not know,” she said, faltering a little.

This was hardly a truthful answer.  For, as if an obscuring veil had suddenly been rent that morning, she was permitted at last to see Peter Blood in his true relations to other men, and that sight, vouchsafed her twenty-four hours too late, filled her with pity and regret and yearning.

Lord Julian knew enough of women to be left in no further doubt.  He bowed his head so that she might not see the anger in his eyes, for as a man of honour he took shame in that anger which as a human being he could not repress.

And because Nature in him was stronger — as it is in most of us — than training, Lord Julian from that moment began, almost in spite of himself, to practise something that was akin to villainy.  I regret to chronicle it of one for whom — if I have done him any sort of justice — you should have been conceiving some esteem.  But the truth is that the lingering remains of the regard in which he had held Peter Blood were choked by the desire to supplant and destroy a rival.  He had passed his word to Arabella that he would use his powerful influence on Blood’s behalf.  I deplore to set it down that not only did he forget his pledge, but secretly set himself to aid and abet Arabella’s uncle in the plans he laid for the trapping and undoing of the buccaneer.  He might reasonably have urged — had he been taxed with it — that he conducted himself precisely as his duty demanded.  But to that he might have been answered that duty with him was but the slave of jealousy in this.