Mr. Blood, greatly daring, ventured down at dusk into the town.  What he saw there is recorded by Jeremy Pitt to whom he subsequently related it — in that voluminous log from which the greater part of my narrative is derived.  I have no intention of repeating any of it here.  It is all too loathsome and nauseating, incredible, indeed, that men however abandoned could ever descend such an abyss of bestial cruelty and lust.

What he saw was fetching him in haste and white-faced out of that hell again, when in a narrow street a girl hurtled into him, wild-eyed, her unbound hair streaming behind her as she ran.  After her, laughing and cursing in a breath, came a heavy-booted Spaniard.  Almost he was upon her, when suddenly Mr. Blood got in his way.  The doctor had taken a sword from a dead man’s side some little time before and armed himself with it against an emergency.

As the Spaniard checked in anger and surprise, he caught in the dusk the livid gleam of that sword which Mr. Blood had quickly unsheathed.

“Ah, perro ingles!” he shouted, and flung forward to his death.

“It’s hoping I am ye’re in a fit state to meet your Maker,” said Mr. Blood, and ran him through the body.  He did the thing skilfully:  with the combined skill of swordsman and surgeon.  The man sank in a hideous heap without so much as a groan.

Mr. Blood swung to the girl, who leaned panting and sobbing against a wall.  He caught her by the wrist.

“Come!” he said.

But she hung back, resisting him by her weight.  “Who are you?” she demanded wildly.

“Will ye wait to see my credentials?” he snapped.  Steps were clattering towards them from beyond the corner round which she had fled from that Spanish ruffian.  “Come,” he urged again.  And this time, reassured perhaps by his clear English speech, she went without further questions.

They sped down an alley and then up another, by great good fortune meeting no one, for already they were on the outskirts of the town.  They won out of it, and white-faced, physically sick, Mr. Blood dragged her almost at a run up the hill towards Colonel Bishop’s house.  He told her briefly who and what he was, and thereafter there was no conversation between them until they reached the big white house.  It was all in darkness, which at least was reassuring.  If the Spaniards had reached it, there would be lights.  He knocked, but had to knock again and yet again before he was answered.  Then it was by a voice from a window above.

“Who is there?” The voice was Miss Bishop’s, a little tremulous, but unmistakably her own.

Mr. Blood almost fainted in relief.  He had been imagining the unimaginable.  He had pictured her down in that hell out of which he had just come.  He had conceived that she might have followed her uncle into Bridgetown, or committed some other imprudence, and he turned cold from head to foot at the mere thought of what might have happened to her.