He advanced upon Don Diego suddenly, and Don Diego, step by step, fell back.  “Shall I tell you what land it is?  Shall I?” His fierce assumption of knowledge seemed to dazzle and daze the Spaniard.  For still Don Diego made no answer.  And then Captain Blood drew a bow at a venture — or not quite at a venture.  Such a coast-line as that, if not of the main itself, and the main he knew it could not be, must belong to either Cuba or Hispaniola.  Now knowing Cuba to lie farther north and west of the two, it followed, he reasoned swiftly, that if Don Diego meant betrayal he would steer for the nearer of these Spanish territories.  “That land, you treacherous, forsworn Spanish dog, is the island of Hispaniola.”

Having said it, he closely watched the swarthy face now overspread with pallor, to see the truth or falsehood of his guess reflected there.  But now the retreating Spaniard had come to the middle of the quarter-deck, where the mizzen sail made a screen to shut them off from the eyes of the Englishmen below.  His lips writhed in a snarling smile.

“Ah, perro ingles!  You know too much,” he said under his breath, and sprang for the Captain’s throat.

Tight-locked in each other’s arms, they swayed a moment, then together went down upon the deck, the Spaniard’s feet jerked from under him by the right leg of Captain Blood.  The Spaniard had depended upon his strength, which was considerable.  But it proved no match for the steady muscles of the Irishman, tempered of late by the vicissitudes of slavery.  He had depended upon choking the life out of Blood, and so gaining the half-hour that might be necessary to bring up that fine ship that was beating towards them - a Spanish ship, perforce, since none other would be so boldly cruising in these Spanish waters off Hispaniola.  But all that Don Diego had accomplished was to betray himself completely, and to no purpose.  This he realized when he found himself upon his back, pinned down by Blood, who was kneeling on his chest, whilst the men summoned by their Captain’s shout came clattering up the companion.

“Will I say a prayer for your dirty soul now, whilst I am in this position?” Captain Blood was furiously mocking him.

But the Spaniard, though defeated, now beyond hope for himself, forced his lips to smile, and gave back mockery for mockery.

“Who will pray for your soul, I wonder, when that galleon comes to lie board and board with you?”

“That galleon!” echoed Captain Blood with sudden and awful realization that already it was too late to avoid the consequences of Don Diego’s betrayal of them.

“That galleon,” Don Diego repeated, and added with a deepening sneer:  “Do you know what ship it is?  I will tell you.  It is the Encarnacion, the flagship of Don Miguel de Espinosa, the Lord Admiral of Castile, and Don Miguel is my brother.  It is a very fortunate encounter.  The Almighty, you see, watches over the destinies of Catholic Spain.”