With the assistance of one of the negroes sent to the shed for the purpose, he was in the act of setting a broken leg, when a deep, gruff voice, that he had come to know and dislike as he had never disliked the voice of living man, abruptly challenged him.

“What are you doing there?”

Blood did not look up from his task.  There was not the need.  He knew the voice, as I have said.

“I am setting a broken leg,” he answered, without pausing in his labours.

“I can see that, fool.”  A bulky body interposed between Peter Blood and the window.  The half-naked man on the straw rolled his black eyes to stare up fearfully out of a clay-coloured face at this intruder.  A knowledge of English was unnecessary to inform him that here came an enemy.  The harsh, minatory note of that voice sufficiently expressed the fact.  “I can see that, fool; just as I can see what the rascal is.  Who gave you leave to set Spanish legs?”

“I am a doctor, Colonel Bishop.  The man is wounded.  It is not for me to discriminate.  I keep to my trade.”

“Do you, by God!  If you’d done that, you wouldn’t now be here.”

“On the contrary, it is because I did it that I am here.”

“Aye, I know that’s your lying tale.”  The Colonel sneered; and then, observing Blood to continue his work unmoved, he grew really angry.  “Will you cease that, and attend to me when I am speaking?”

Peter Blood paused, but only for an instant.  “The man is in pain,” he said shortly, and resumed his work.

“In pain, is he?  I hope he is, the damned piratical dog.  But will you heed me, you insubordinate knave?”

The Colonel delivered himself in a roar, infuriated by what he conceived to be defiance, and defiance expressing itself in the most unruffled disregard of himself.  His long bamboo cane was raised to strike.  Peter Blood’s blue eyes caught the flash of it, and he spoke quickly to arrest the blow.

“Not insubordinate, sir, whatever I may be.  I am acting upon the express orders of Governor Steed.”

The Colonel checked, his great face empurpling.  His mouth fell open.

“Governor Steed!” he echoed.  Then he lowered his cane, swung round, and without another word to Blood rolled away towards the other end of the shed where the Governor was standing at the moment.

Peter Blood chuckled.  But his triumph was dictated less by humanitarian considerations than by the reflection that he had baulked his brutal owner.

The Spaniard, realizing that in this altercation, whatever its nature, the doctor had stood his friend, ventured in a muted voice to ask him what had happened.  But the doctor shook his head in silence, and pursued his work.  His ears were straining to catch the words now passing between Steed and Bishop.  The Colonel was blustering and storming, the great bulk of him towering above the wizened little overdressed