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Captain Blood took the pipe-stem from between his lips.
"My name," he said, "is Peter Blood. The Spaniards know me for Don
Pedro Sangre and a Frenchman may call me Le Sang if he pleases."
"Good," said the gaudy adventurer in English, and without further
invitation he drew up a stool and sat down at that greasy table.
"My name," he informed the three men, two of whom at least were
eyeing him askance, "it is Levasseur. You may have heard of me."
They had, indeed. He commanded a privateer of twenty guns that had
dropped anchor in the bay a week ago, manned by a crew mainly
composed of French boucanhunters from Northern Hispaniola, men who
had good cause to hate the Spaniard with an intensity exceeding that
of the English. Levasseur had brought them back to Tortuga from an
indifferently successful cruise. It would need more, however, than
lack of success to abate the fellow's monstrous vanity. A roaring,
quarrelsome, hard-drinking, hard-gaming scoundrel, his reputation as
a buccaneer stood high among the wild Brethren of the Coast.


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