Then it was by a voice from a window above.
"Who is there ?" The voice was Miss Bishop's, a little tremulous, but unmistakably her own.
Mr.Blood almost fainted in relief.

He had been imagining the unimaginable.

He had pictured her down in that hell out of which he had just come.

He had conceived that she might have followed her uncle into Bridgetown, or committed some other imprudence, and he turned cold from head to foot at the mere thought of what might have happened to her.
"It is I--Peter Blood," he gasped.
"What do you want ?" It is doubtful whether she would have come down to open.

For at such a time as this it was no more than likely that the wretched plantation slaves might be in revolt and prove as great a danger as the Spaniards.
But at the sound of her voice, the girl Mr.Blood had rescued peered up through the gloom.
"Arabella!" she called.