Captain Blood bared his head and bowed silently in a greeting which she returned composedly and formally.
“What is happening, Lord Julian?” she enquired.
As if to answer her a third gun spoke from the ships towards which she was looking intent and wonderingly. A frown rumpled her brow. She looked from one to the other of the men who stood there so glum and obviously ill at ease.
“They are ships of the Jamaica fleet,” his lordship answered her.
It should in any case have been a sufficient explanation. But before more could be added, their attention was drawn at last to Ogle, who came bounding up the broad ladder, and to the men lounging aft in his wake, in all of which, instinctively, they apprehended a vague menace.
At the head of the companion, Ogle found his progress barred by Blood, who confronted him, a sudden sternness in his face and in every line of him.
“What's this?” the Captain demanded sharply. “Your station is on the gun-deck. Why have you left it?”
Thus challenged, the obvious truculence faded out of Ogle's bearing, quenched by the old habit of obedience and the natural dominance that was the secret of the Captain's rule over his wild followers. But it gave no pause to the gunner's intention. If anything it increased his excitement.
“Captain,” he said, and as he spoke he pointed to the pursuing ships, “Colonel Bishop holds us. We're in no case either to run or fight.”
Blood's height seemed to increase, as did his sternness.