“Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!”
Again the weird laughter sounded, and it seemed to the excited imagination of the diggers, to come from the pit they had made.
But that revolver was menacing them, and they dared not leap to the surface and take to their heels, although it was certain they wished to do so.
Again and again that laugh rang out. Then a deep, sepulchral voice was heard to say:
“Fools, do ye think to rob me now that I am dead? You shall find I guard my blood-stained gold! Not a single piece shall you touch!”
That was quite enough to frighten any sailor. Again the men in the pit dropped the pick and spade, but they seemed paralyzed with fear, and stood there, staring about with bulging eyes.
“Avaunt!” cried the hollow voice. “Flee from my wrath, or ye shall feel the touch of my dead hands—the touch of doom! That touch means death!”
A wild shriek broke from the lips of one of the diggers.
“I feel it!” he screamed. “He has touched me! I am a dead man! I am doomed!”
Then, shrieking with terror, he leaped out of the pit and fled.