And then they came rattling and clanking into the stone-flagged hall — a round dozen jack-booted, lobster-coated troopers of the Tangiers Regiment, led by a sturdy, black-browed fellow with a deal of gold lace about the breast of his coat.

Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife and daughter shrank away in renewed fear.  Mr. Blood, at the head of the day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the invaders.

The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an attentive halt, then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the pummel of his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved.  He announced his authority to the yeoman.

“I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke’s dragoons.  What rebels do you harbour?”

The yeoman took alarm at that ferocious truculence.  It expressed itself in his trembling voice.

“I...  I am no harbourer of rebels, sir.  This wounded gentleman....”

“I can see for myself.”  The Captain stamped forward to the day-bed, and scowled down upon the grey-faced sufferer.

“No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds.  A damned rebel, and that’s enough for me.”  He flung a command at his dragoons.  “Out with him, my lads.”

Mr. Blood got between the day-bed and the troopers.

“In the name of humanity, sir!” said he, on a note of anger.  “This is England, not Tangiers.  The gentleman is in sore case.  He may not be moved without peril to his life.”

Captain Hobart was amused.

“Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels!  Odds blood!  Do you think it’s to benefit his health we’re taking him?  There’s gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he’ll serve for one of them as well as another.  Colonel Kirke’ll learn these nonconforming oafs something they’ll not forget in generations.”

“You’re hanging men without trial?  Faith, then, it’s mistaken I am.  We’re in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”

The Captain considered him with a kindling eye.  He looked him over from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig.  He noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier.  The Captain’s eyes narrowed.  Recognition went further.

“Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.”

“My name is Blood, sir — Peter Blood, at your service.”

“Aye — aye!  Codso!  That’s the name.  You were in French service once, were you not?”

If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.

“I was.”

“Then I remember you — five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers.”

“That is so.  I knew your colonel.”

“Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance.”  The Captain laughed unpleasantly.  “What brings you here, sir?”