On that he swung on his heel, and strode out of the stockade, his negroes following.

Pitt had heard him, as we hear things in our dreams.  At the moment so spent was he by his cruel punishment, and so deep was the despair into which he had fallen, that he no longer cared whether he lived or died.

Soon, however, from the partial stupor which pain had mercifully induced, a new variety of pain aroused him.  The stocks stood in the open under the full glare of the tropical sun, and its blistering rays streamed down upon that mangled, bleeding back until he felt as if flames of fire were searing it.  And, soon, to this was added a torment still more unspeakable.  Flies, the cruel flies of the Antilles, drawn by the scent of blood, descended in a cloud upon him.

Small wonder that the ingenious Colonel Bishop, who so well understood the art of loosening stubborn tongues, had not deemed it necessary to have recourse to other means of torture.  Not all his fiendish cruelty could devise a torment more cruel, more unendurable than the torments Nature would here procure a man in Pitt’s condition.

The slave writhed in his stocks until he was in danger of breaking his limbs, and writhing, screamed in agony.

Thus was he found by Peter Blood, who seemed to his troubled vision to materialize suddenly before him.  Mr. Blood carried a large palmetto leaf.  Having whisked away with this the flies that were devouring Jeremy’s back, he slung it by a strip of fibre from the lad’s neck, so that it protected him from further attacks as well as from the rays of the sun.  Next, sitting down beside him, he drew the sufferer’s head down on his own shoulder, and bathed his face from a pannikin of cold water.  Pitt shuddered and moaned on a long, indrawn breath.

“Drink!” he gasped.  “Drink, for the love of Christ!” The pannikin was held to his quivering lips.  He drank greedily, noisily, nor ceased until he had drained the vessel.  Cooled and revived by the draught, he attempted to sit up.

“My back!” he screamed.

There was an unusual glint in Mr. Blood’s eyes; his lips were compressed.  But when he parted them to speak, his voice came cool and steady.

“Be easy, now.  One thing at a time.  Your back’s taking no harm at all for the present, since I’ve covered it up.  I’m wanting to know what’s happened to you.  D’ ye think we can do without a navigator that ye go and provoke that beast Bishop until he all but kills you?”

Pitt sat up and groaned again.  But this time his anguish was mental rather than physical.

“I don’t think a navigator will be needed this time, Peter.”

“What’s that?” cried Mr. Blood.

Pitt explained the situation as briefly as he could, in a halting, gasping speech.  “I’m to rot here until I tell him the identity of my visitor and his business.”

Mr. Blood got up, growling in his throat.  “Bad cess to the filthy slaver!” said he.  “But it must be contrived, nevertheless.  To the devil with Nuttall!  Whether he gives surety for the boat or not, whether he explains it or not, the boat remains, and we’re going, and you’re coming with us.”