Blood and his officers were summoned a week later to a council which sat to determine their operations against Spain.  M. de Rivarol laid before them a project for a raid upon the wealthy Spanish town of Cartagena.  Captain Blood professed astonishment.  Sourly invited by M. de Rivarol to state his grounds for it, he did so with the utmost frankness.

“Were I General of the King’s Armies in America,” said he, “I should have no doubt or hesitation as to the best way in which to serve my Royal master and the French nation.  That which I think will be obvious to M. de Cussy, as it is to me, is that we should at once invade Spanish Hispaniola and reduce the whole of this fruitful and splendid island into the possession of the King of France.”

“That may follow,” said M. de Rivarol.  “It is my wish that we begin with Cartagena.”

“You mean, sir, that we are to sail across the Caribbean on an adventurous expedition, neglecting that which lies here at our very door.  In our absence, a Spanish invasion of French Hispaniola is possible.  If we begin by reducing the Spaniards here, that possibility will be removed.  We shall have added to the Crown of France the most coveted possession in the West Indies.  The enterprise offers no particular difficulty; it may be speedily accomplished, and once accomplished, it would be time to look farther afield.  That would seem the logical order in which this campaign should proceed.”

He ceased, and there was silence.  M. de Rivarol sat back in his chair, the feathered end of a quill between his teeth.  Presently he cleared his throat and asked a question.

“Is there anybody else who shares Captain Blood’s opinion?”

None answered him.  His own officers were overawed by him; Blood’s followers naturally preferred Cartagena, because offering the greater chance of loot.  Loyalty to their leader kept them silent.

“You seem to be alone in your opinion,” said the Baron with his vinegary smile.

Captain Blood laughed outright.  He had suddenly read the Baron’s mind.  His airs and graces and haughtiness had so imposed upon Blood that it was only now that at last he saw through them, into the fellow’s peddling spirit.  Therefore he laughed; there was really nothing else to do.  But his laughter was charged with more anger even than contempt.  He had been deluding himself that he had done with piracy.  The conviction that this French service was free of any taint of that was the only consideration that had induced him to accept it.  Yet here was this haughty, supercilious gentleman, who dubbed himself General of the Armies of France, proposing a plundering, thieving raid which, when stripped of its mean, transparent mask of legitimate warfare, was revealed as piracy of the most flagrant.

M. de Rivarol, intrigued by his mirth, scowled upon him disapprovingly.

“Why do you laugh, monsieur?”