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"Tender, eh?" said the stranger. He took Don Diego's wrist between
thumb and second finger. And then, at last, the intrigued Spaniard
spoke.
"Are you a doctor?"
"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.


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