Nor was he likely, on account of it, to allow himself to run to rust in the security of Tortuga.

For what he had suffered at the hands of Man he had chosen to make Spain the scapegoat.

Thus he accounted that he served a twofold purpose: he took compensation and at the same time served, not indeed the Stuart King, whom he despised, but England and, for that matter, all the rest of civilized mankind which cruel, treacherous, greedy, bigoted Castile sought to exclude from intercourse with the New World.
One day as he sat with Hagthorpe and Wolverstone over a pipe and a bottle of rum in the stifling reek of tar and stale tobacco of a waterside tavern, he was accosted by a splendid ruffian in a gold-laced coat of dark-blue satin with a crimson sash, a foot wide, about the waist.
"C'est vous qu'on appelle Le Sang ?" the fellow hailed him.
Captain Blood looked up to consider the questioner before replying.
The man was tall and built on lines of agile strength, with a swarthy, aquiline face that was brutally handsome.

A diamond of great price flamed on the indifferently clean hand resting on the pummel of his long rapier, and there were gold rings in his ears, half-concealed by long ringlets of oily chestnut hair.
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.