The song really appeared to come from the sky itself, and in the sky Cassia-bud evidently believed it was.
"O Mac," he said tremblingly; "I'se dreffully frightened. I'se as pale as def (death) with fear. Po massa! dat song he lub so much when he libin', and now, Mac, he am dead and is singin' same song in hebbin. Po massa!"
The music ceased at last, and there was a pause; then it once more rose on the air, but higher and nearer, and a song of a different sort. "Auld lang syne," to wit.
"And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,
As sure as I'll be mine;
And we'll spend the evenin' thinking, boys,
Of auld lang syne."
"No Kash," cried Mac joyfully; "it aint in heaven they are. 'T aint blessed likely there'd be pint stoups in heaven. And I don't think they're ghosts at all."
He jumped to his feet.
"Speak, Bob, speak, boy;" he said to the great dog.
Hurricane Bob required no two tellings; he barked till reefs and hills re-echoed back the sound.
Then cheering was heard from seaward, which Magilvray and Cassia-bud gladly returned, and soon something dark appeared in the reef gap, and in about five minutes more our lost stingaree hunters were standing on the beach, receiving the congratulations of their friends, whom they had never expected to see again in life.
"Oh, Kashie is so glad now, massa!" cried the nigger boy. "I jes want to run and shout all de while. And you is sure you is alive, massa?"