Mr.Blood reassured them.
"Why, what's to fear ?" he said.

"It's a Christian country, this, and Christian men do not make war upon the wounded, nor upon those who harbour them." He still had, you see, illusions about Christians.
He held a glass of cordial, prepared under his directions, to his lordship's lips.

"Give your mind peace, my lord.

The worst is done." And then they came rattling and clanking into the stone-flagged hall--a round dozen jack-booted, lobster-coated troopers of the Tangiers Regiment, led by a sturdy, black-browed fellow with a deal of gold lace about the breast of his coat.
Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife and daughter shrank away in renewed fear.

Mr.Blood, at the head of the day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the invaders.
The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an attentive halt, then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the pummel of his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved.