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He knocked,
but had to knock again and yet again before he was answered. Then
it was by a voice from a window above.
"Who is there?" The voice was Miss Bishop's, a little tremulous,
but unmistakably her own.
Mr. Blood almost fainted in relief. He had been imagining the
unimaginable. He had pictured her down in that hell out of which
he had just come. He had conceived that she might have followed
her uncle into Bridgetown, or committed some other imprudence, and
he turned cold from head to foot at the mere thought of what might
have happened to her.
"It is I - Peter Blood," he gasped.
"What do you want?"
It is doubtful whether she would have come down to open. For at
such a time as this it was no more than likely that the wretched
plantation slaves might be in revolt and prove as great a danger as
the Spaniards. But at the sound of her voice, the girl Mr. Blood
had rescued peered up through the gloom.
"Arabella!" she called. "It is I, Mary Traill."
"Mary!" The voice ceased above on that exclamation, the head was
withdrawn.


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