hen he turned and strode off towards the stockade a half-mile
away, and a vision of her face went with him, tinted with a rising blush
and a sudden unusual shyness. He forgot in that little moment that he
was a rebel-convict with ten years of slavery before him; he forgot
that he had planned an escape, which was to be carried into effect
that night; forgot even the peril of discovery which as a result of the
Governor's gout now overhung him.

CHAPTER VII. PIRATES

Mr. James Nuttall made all speed, regardless of the heat, in his journey
from Bridgetown to Colonel Bishop's plantation, and if ever man was
built for speed in a hot climate that man was Mr. James Nuttall, with
his short, thin body, and his long, fleshless legs. So withered was
he that it was hard to believe there were any juices left in him, yet
juices there must have been, for he was sweating violently by the time
he reached the stockade.

At the entrance he almost ran into the overseer Kent, a squat,
bow-legged animal with the arms of a Hercules and the jowl of a bulldog.

"I am seeking Doctor Blood," he announced breathlessly.

"You are in a rare haste," growled Kent. "What the devil is it? Twins?"

"Eh? Oh! Nay, nay. I'm not married, sir. It's a cousin of mine, sir."

"What is?"

"He is taken bad, sir," Nuttall lied promptly upon the cue that Kent
himself had afforded him. "Is the doctor here?"

"That's his hut yonder." Kent pointed carelessly. "If he's not there,
he'll be somewhere else." And he took himself off. He was a surly,
ungracious beast at all times, readier with the lash of his whip than
with his tongue.

Nuttall watched him go with satisfaction, and even noted the direction
that he took. Then he plunged into the enclosure, to verify in
mortification that Dr. Blood was not at home. A man of sense might have
sat down and waited, judging that to be the quickest and surest way in
the end. But Nuttall had no sense. He flung out of the stockade again,
hesitated a moment as to which direction he should take, and finally
decided to go any way but the way that Kent had gone. He sped across
the parched savannah towards the sugar plantation which stood solid as
a rampart and gleaming golden in the dazzling June sunshine. Avenues
intersected the great blocks of ripening amber cane. In the distance
down one of these he espied some slaves at work. Nuttall entered the
avenue and advanced upon them. They eyed him dully, as he passed them.
Pi