“No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds. A damned rebel, and that's enough for me.” He flung a command at his dragoons. “Out with him, my lads.”
Mr. Blood got between the day-bed and the troopers.
“In the name of humanity, sir!” said he, on a note of anger. “This is England, not Tangiers. The gentleman is in sore case. He may not be moved without peril to his life.”
Captain Hobart was amused.
“Oh, I am to be tender of the lives of these rebels! Odds blood! Do you think it's to benefit his health we're taking him? There's gallows being planted along the road from Weston to Bridgewater, and he'll serve for one of them as well as another. Colonel Kirke'll learn these nonconforming oafs something they'll not forget in generations.”
“You're hanging men without trial? Faith, then, it's mistaken I am. We're in Tangiers, after all, it seems, where your regiment belongs.”
The Captain considered him with a kindling eye. He looked him over from the soles of his riding-boots to the crown of his periwig. He noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized soldier. The Captain's eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.
“Who the hell may you be?” he exploded.
“My name is Blood, sir—Peter Blood, at your service.”
“Aye—aye! Codso! That's the name. You were in French service once, were you not?”