Mr. Blood knocked the ashes from his pipe, and drew back to close his window.  As he did so, his glance travelling straight across the street met at last the glance of those hostile eyes that watched him.  There were two pairs, and they belonged to the Misses Pitt, two amiable, sentimental maiden ladies who yielded to none in Bridgewater in their worship of the handsome Monmouth.

Mr. Blood smiled and inclined his head, for he was on friendly terms with these ladies, one of whom, indeed, had been for a little while his patient.  But there was no response to his greeting.  Instead, the eyes gave him back a stare of cold disdain.  The smile on his thin lips grew a little broader, a little less pleasant.  He understood the reason of that hostility, which had been daily growing in this past week since Monmouth had come to turn the brains of women of all ages.  The Misses Pitt, he apprehended, contemned him that he, a young and vigorous man, of a military training which might now be valuable to the Cause, should stand aloof; that he should placidly smoke his pipe and tend his geraniums on this evening of all evenings, when men of spirit were rallying to the Protestant Champion, offering their blood to place him on the throne where he belonged.

If Mr. Blood had condescended to debate the matter with these ladies, he might have urged that having had his fill of wandering and adventuring, he was now embarked upon the career for which he had been originally intended and for which his studies had equipped him; that he was a man of medicine and not of war; a healer, not a slayer.  But they would have answered him, he knew, that in such a cause it behoved every man who deemed himself a man to take up arms.  They would have pointed out that their own nephew Jeremiah, who was by trade a sailor, the master of a ship — which by an ill-chance for that young man had come to anchor at this season in Bridgewater Bay — had quitted the helm to snatch up a musket in defence of Right.  But Mr. Blood was not of those who argue.  As I have said, he was a self-sufficient man.

He closed the window, drew the curtains, and turned to the pleasant, candle-lighted room, and the table on which Mrs. Barlow, his housekeeper, was in the very act of spreading supper.  To her, however, he spoke aloud his thought.

“It’s out of favour I am with the vinegary virgins over the way.”

He had a pleasant, vibrant voice, whose metallic ring was softened and muted by the Irish accent which in all his wanderings he had never lost.  It was a voice that could woo seductively and caressingly, or command in such a way as to compel obedience.  Indeed, the man’s whole nature was in that voice of his.  For the rest of him, he was tall and spare, swarthy of tint as a gipsy, with eyes that were startlingly blue in that dark face and under those level black brows.  In their glance those eyes, flanking a high-bridged, intrepid nose, were