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his neck, and a little stream of blood ran from one sleeve.

“Here is a Spaniard, sir,” the leader said. “He came to the city bearing a white flag. Shall we respect the white flag, sir? He has silver on his saddle. Shall we kill him, sir? Perhaps he is a spy.”

Henry Morgan ignored the speech. Instead he pointed to the body in the chair.

“That is only a dead thing,” he announced. “That is not Cœur de Gris. I sent Cœur de Gris away. He will be back soon. But that is— I raised my hand like this—do you see?—like this. I know exactly how I did it; I have tried it again and again. But that is a dead thing. It will bring the flies to us.” He cried, “Oh, take it away and bury it in the earth!”

A buccaneer moved to lift the body.

“Don't touch him! Don't dare to touch him! Leave him where he is. He is smiling. Do you see him smile? But the flies— No, leave him. I will care for him myself.”

“This Spaniard, sir; what shall we do with him? Shall we kill him?”

“What Spaniard?”

“Why, this one before you, sir.” He shoved the man forward. Henry seemed to awaken from a deep dream.

“What do you want?” he asked harshly.

The Spaniard struggled with his fright.

“It—it is my wish and the wish of my padrone