"Is that so difficult elsewhere?" she asked him, and she was very
grave.
"Men make it so."
"I see." She laughed a little, on a note of sadness, it seemed to
him. "I have never deemed Barbados the earthly mirror of heaven,"
she confessed. "But no doubt you know your world better than I."
She touched her horse with her little silver-hilted whip. "I
congratulate you on this easing of your misfortunes."
He bowed, and she moved on. Her negroes sprang up, and went
trotting after her.
Awhile Peter Blood remained standing there, where she left him,
conning the sunlit waters of Carlisle Bay below, and the shipping
in that spacious haven about which the gulls were fluttering
noisily.
It was a fair enough prospect, he reflected, but it was a prison,
and in announcing that he preferred it to England, he had indulged
that almost laudable form of boasting which lies in belittling our
misadventures.
He turned, and resuming his way, went off in long, swinging strides
towards the little huddle of huts built of mud and wattles - a
miniature village enclosed in a stockade which the plantation slaves
inhabited, and where he, himself, was lodged with them.
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