aid the stranger. He took Don Diego's wrist between thumb
and second finger. And then, at last, the intrigued Spaniard spoke.

"Are you a doctor?"

"Among other things." The swarthy gentleman continued his study of the
patient's pulse. "Firm and regular," he announced at last, and dropped
the wrist. "You've taken no great harm."

Don Diego struggled up into a sitting position on the red velvet couch.

"Who the devil are you?" he asked. "And what the devil are you doing in
my clothes and aboard my ship?"

The level black eyebrows went up, a faint smile curled the lips of the
long mouth.

"You are still delirious, I fear. This is not your ship. This is my
ship, and these are my clothes."

"Your ship?" quoth the other, aghast, and still more aghast he added:
"Your clothes? But... then...." Wildly his eyes looked about him. They
scanned the cabin once again, scrutinizing each familiar object. "Am I
mad?" he asked at last. "Surely this ship is the Cinco Llagas?"

"The Cinco Llagas it is."

"Then...." The Spaniard broke off. His glance grew still more troubled.
"Valga me Dios!" he cried out, like a man in anguish. "Will you tell me
also that you are Don Diego de Espinosa?"

"Oh, no, my name is Blood--Captain Peter Blood. This ship, like this
handsome suit of clothes, is mine by right of conquest. Just as you, Don
Diego, are my prisoner."

Startling as was the explanation, yet it proved soothing to Don Diego,
being so much less startling than the things he was beginning to
imagine.

"But... Are you not Spanish, then?"

"You flatter my Castilian accent. I have the honour to be Irish. You
were thinking that a miracle had happened. So it has--a miracle wrought
by my genius, which is considerable."

Succinctly now Captain Blood dispelled the mystery by a relation of
the facts. It was a narrative that painted red and white by turns the
Spaniard's countenance. He put a hand to the back of his head, and there
discovered, in confirmation of the story, a lump as large as a pigeon's
egg. Lastly, he stared wild-eyed at the sardonic Captain Blood.

"And my son? What of my son?" he cried out. "He was in the boat that
brought me aboard."

"Your son is safe; he and the boat's crew together with your gunner and
his men are snugly in irons under hatches."

Don Diego sank back on the couch, his glittering dark eyes fixed upon
the tawny face above him. He composed himself. After all, he possessed
the stoicism proper to his