“You did not seem quite like the others.”

“I am not,” said he.

“Oh!” She stared at him, bridling a little.  “You have a good opinion of yourself.”

“On the contrary.  The others are all worthy rebels.  I am not.  That is the difference.  I was one who had not the wit to see that England requires purifying.  I was content to pursue a doctor’s trade in Bridgewater whilst my betters were shedding their blood to drive out an unclean tyrant and his rascally crew.”

“Sir!” she checked him.  “I think you are talking treason.”

“I hope I am not obscure,” said he.

“There are those here who would have you flogged if they heard you.”

“The Governor would never allow it.  He has the gout, and his lady has the megrims.”

“Do you depend upon that?” She was frankly scornful.

“You have certainly never had the gout; probably not even the megrims,” said he.

She made a little impatient movement with her hand, and looked away from him a moment, out to sea.  Quite suddenly she looked at him again; and now her brows were knit.

“But if you are not a rebel, how come you here?”

He saw the thing she apprehended, and he laughed.  “Faith, now, it’s a long story,” said he.

“And one perhaps that you would prefer not to tell?”

Briefly on that he told it her.

“My God!  What an infamy!” she cried, when he had done.

“Oh, it’s a sweet country England under King James!  There’s no need to commiserate me further.  All things considered I prefer Barbados.  Here at least one can believe in God.”

He looked first to right, then to left as he spoke, from the distant shadowy bulk of Mount Hillbay to the limitless ocean ruffled by the winds of heaven.  Then, as if the fair prospect rendered him conscious of his own littleness and the insignificance of his woes, he fell thoughtful.

“Is that so difficult elsewhere?” she asked him, and she was very grave.

“Men make it so.”

“I see.”  She laughed a little, on a note of sadness, it seemed to him.  “I have never deemed Barbados the earthly mirror of heaven,” she confessed.  “But no doubt you know your world better than I.”  She touched her horse with her little silver-hilted whip.  “I congratulate you on this easing of your misfortunes.”

He bowed, and she moved on.  Her negroes sprang up, and went trotting after her.

Awhile Peter Blood remained standing there, where she left him, conning the sunlit waters of Carlisle Bay below, and the shipping in that spacious haven about which the gulls were fluttering noisily.

It was a fair enough prospect, he reflected, but it was a prison, and in announcing that he preferred it to England, he had indulged that almost laudable form of boasting which lies in belittling our misadventures.

He turned, and resuming his way, went off in long, swinging strides towards the little huddle of huts built of mud and wattles — a miniature village enclosed in a stockade which the plantation slaves inhabited, and where he, himself, was lodged with them.