To inspect them, drawn up there on the mole, came Governor Steed,
a short, stout, red-faced gentleman, in blue taffetas burdened by
a prodigious amount of gold lace, who limped a little and leaned
heavily upon a stout ebony cane. After him, in the uniform of a
colonel of the Barbados Militia, rolled a tall, corpulent man who
towered head and shoulders above the Governor, with malevolence
plainly written on his enormous yellowish countenance. At his side,
and contrasting oddly with his grossness, moving with an easy
stripling grace, came a slight young lady in a modish riding-gown.
The broad brim of a grey hat with scarlet sweep of ostrich plume
shaded an oval face upon which the climate of the Tropic of Cancer
had made no impression, so delicately fair was its complexion.
Ringlets of red-brown hair hung to her shoulders. Frankness looked
out from her hazel eyes which were set wide; commiseration repressed
now the mischievousness that normally inhabited her fresh young
mouth.
Peter Blood caught himself staring in a sort of amazement at that
piquant face, which seemed here so out of place, and finding his
stare returned, he shifted uncomfortably.
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