He was degenerating visibly, under the eyes of all.  He had entirely lost the almost foppish concern for his appearance, and was grown careless and slovenly in his dress.  He allowed a black beard to grow on cheeks that had ever been so carefully shaven; and the long, thick black hair, once so sedulously curled, hung now in a lank, untidy mane about a face that was changing from its vigorous swarthiness to an unhealthy sallow, whilst the blue eyes, that had been so vivid and compelling, were now dull and lacklustre.

Wolverstone, the only one who held the clue to this degeneration, ventured once — and once only — to beard him frankly about it.

“Lord, Peter!  Is there never to be no end to this?” the giant had growled.  “Will you spend your days moping and swilling ’cause a white-faced ninny in Port Royal’ll have none o’ ye?  ’Sblood and ’ounds!  If ye wants the wench, why the plague doesn’t ye go and fetch her?”

The blue eyes glared at him from under the jet-black eyebrows, and something of their old fire began to kindle in them.  But Wolverstone went on heedlessly.

“I’ll be nice wi’ a wench as long as niceness be the key to her favour.  But sink me now if I’d rot myself in rum on account of anything that wears a petticoat.  That’s not the Old Wolf’s way.  If there’s no other expedition’ll tempt you, why not Port Royal?  What a plague do it matter if it is an English settlement?  It’s commanded by Colonel Bishop, and there’s no lack of rascals in your company’d follow you to hell if it meant getting Colonel Bishop by the throat.  It could be done, I tell you.  We’ve but to spy the chance when the Jamaica fleet is away.  There’s enough plunder in the town to tempt the lads, and there’s the wench for you.  Shall I sound them on ’t?”

Blood was on his feet, his eyes blazing, his livid face distorted.  “Ye’ll leave my cabin this minute, so ye will, or, by Heaven, it’s your corpse’ll be carried out of it.  Ye mangy hound, d’ye dare come to me with such proposals?”

He fell to cursing his faithful officer with a virulence the like of which he had never yet been known to use.  And Wolverstone, in terror before that fury, went out without another word.  The subject was not raised again, and Captain Blood was left to his idle abstraction.

But at last, as his buccaneers were growing desperate, something happened, brought about by the Captain’s friend M. d’Ogeron.  One sunny morning the Governor of Tortuga came aboard the Arabella, accompanied by a chubby little gentleman, amiable of countenance, amiable and self-sufficient of manner.

“My Captain,” M. d’Ogeron delivered himself, “I bring you M. de Cussy, the Governor of French Hispaniola, who desires a word with you.”

Out of consideration for his friend, Captain Blood pulled the pipe from his mouth, shook some of the rum out of his wits, and rose and made a leg to M. de Cussy.