"Take that, you swab," cried Joe Basalt, dashing his fist in his face.
"They are greater curs than yourself," yelled Hunston; "such witnesses would swear away your own life for a glass of grog—witnesses indeed—"
He stopped short.
His glance fell upon two forms standing close by—young Jack and Harry Girdwood.
Both were dressed as he had last seen them in the mountain haunt of the brigands.
Hunston was still in ignorance of the rescue of the boys.
For all he knew, their bodies were rotting in their mountain grave in Greece.
They bent upon him the same sad and stern look which had been so efficacious before, and he cowered before them.
Appalled at the horrible phantoms come to mock him at his last moments, he clapped his hand to his eyes in the vain endeavour to shut out the sight.
Vain, indeed, for the sight possessed a horrible fascination for him, which no pen can describe.