they made
little noise, was negligible. Beyond locking them all into that stockade
at night, there was no great precaution taken. Where, after all, could
any so foolish as to attempt escape hope to conceal himself in that
island? The chief risk lay in discovery by those of their companions
who were to be left behind. It was because of these that they must go
cautiously and in silence.

The day that was to have been their last in Barbados was a day of hope
and anxiety to the twelve associates in that enterprise, no less than to
Nuttall in the town below.

Towards sunset, having seen Nuttall depart to purchase and fetch
the sloop to the prearranged moorings at the wharf, Peter Blood came
sauntering towards the stockade, just as the slaves were being driven
in from the fields. He stood aside at the entrance to let them pass, and
beyond the message of hope flashed by his eyes, he held no communication
with them.

He entered the stockade in their wake, and as they broke their ranks
to seek their various respective huts, he beheld Colonel Bishop in talk
with Kent, the overseer. The pair were standing by the stocks, planted
in the middle of that green space for the punishment of offending
slaves.

As he advanced, Bishop turned to regard him, scowling. "Where have you
been this while?" he bawled, and although a minatory note was normal to
the Colonel's voice, yet Blood felt his heart tightening apprehensively.

"I've been at my work in the town," he answered. "Mrs. Patch has a fever
and Mr. Dekker has sprained his ankle."

"I sent for you to Dekker's, and you were not there. You are given to
idling, my fine fellow. We shall have to quicken you one of these days
unless you cease from abusing the liberty you enjoy. D'ye forget that
ye're a rebel convict?"

"I am not given the chance," said Blood, who never could learn to curb
his tongue.

"By God! Will you be pert with me?"

Remembering all that was at stake, growing suddenly conscious that
from the huts surrounding the enclosure anxious ears were listening, he
instantly practised an unusual submission.

"Not pert, sir. I... I am sorry I should have been sought...."

"Aye, and you'll be sorrier yet. There's the Governor with an attack of
gout, screaming like a wounded horse, and you nowhere to be found. Be
off, man--away with you at speed to Government House! You're awaited,
I tell you. Best lend him a horse, Kent, or the lout'll be all night
getting there."

The