not even feel relief at her
going--yet because he was the Governor of Jamaica (really he was only
the Vice-Governor, but between the departure of the Royal Governor and
the arrival of another he held supreme power) he had been forced to keep
himself close on the day his wife died, by that public opinion to which
he was indifferent but which he could not entirely defy. Consequently he
had not been on the strand at Port Royal when the _Mary Rose_, frigate,
fresh from England, had dropped anchor in the harbor after her weary
voyage across the great sea. He did not even yet know of her arrival,
and therefore the incoming Governor had not been welcomed by the man who
sat temporarily, as he had in several preceding interregnums, in the
seats of the mighty.

However, everybody else on the island had welcomed him with joy, for of
all men who had ever held office in Jamaica Sir Henry Morgan, sometime
the chief devil of those nefarious bands who disguised their piracy
under the specious title of buccaneering, was the most detested. But
because of the fortunate demise of Lady Morgan, as it turned out, Sir
Henry was not present to greet My Lord Carlingford, who was to supersede
him--and more.

The deep potations the old buccaneer had indulged in to all outward
intent passed harmlessly down his lean and craggy throat. He drank
alone--the more solitary the drinker the more dangerous the man--yet
the room had another occupant, a tall, brawny, brown-hued, grim-faced
savage, whose gaudy livery ill accorded with his stern and ruthless
visage. He stood by the Vice-Governor, watchful, attentive, and silent,
imperturbably filling again and again the goblet from which he drank.

"More rum," said the master, at last breaking the silence while lifting
his tall glass toward the man. "Scuttle me, Black Dog," he added,
smiling sardonically at the silent maroon who poured again with steady
hand, "you are the only soul on this island who doesn't fear me. That
woman above yonder, curse her, shuddered away from me as I looked at her
dying. But your hand is steady. You and old Ben Hornigold are the only
ones who don't shrink back, hey, Carib? Is it love or hate?" he mused,
as the man made no answer. "More," he cried, again lifting the glass
which he had instantly drained.

But the maroon, instead of pouring, bent his head toward the window,
listened a moment, and then turned and lifted a warning hand. The soft
breeze of the evening, laden with the