Nor were they as vigilant as they should have been, or else they must have observed the two wherries that under cover of the darkness came gliding from the wharf, with well-greased rowlocks, to bring up in silence under the great ship's quarter.
From the gallery aft still hung the ladder by which Don Diego had descended to the boat that had taken him ashore.

The sentry on guard in the stern, coming presently round this gallery, was suddenly confronted by the black shadow of a man standing before him at the head of the ladder.
"Who's there ?" he asked, but without alarm, supposing it one of his fellows.
"It is I," softly answered Peter Blood in the fluent Castillan of which he was master.
"Is it you, Pedro ?" The Spaniard came a step nearer.
"Peter is my name; but I doubt I'll not be the Peter you're expecting." "How ?" quoth the sentry, checking.
"This way," said Mr.Blood.
The wooden taffrail was a low one, and the Spaniard was taken completely by surprise.

Save for the splash he made as he struck the water, narrowly missing one of the crowded boats that waited under the counter, not a sound announced his misadventure.

Armed as he was with corselet, cuissarts, and headpiece, he sank to trouble them no more.
"Whist!" hissed Mr.Blood to his waiting rebels-convict.

"Come on, now, and without noise." Within five minutes they had swarmed aboard, the entire twenty of them overflowing from that narrow gallery and crouching on the quarter-deck itself.