“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.