“Gracious!” gasped Ralph, as he looked at the strange spectacle. There was a touch on his arm. He started in spite of himself and turned quickly.
Malvin was at his elbow. He was pointing at the green, blazing craft ahead of them.
“It’s—it’s the Lost Voyageur!” he exclaimed, in trembling tones. “Don’t chase it any more, sir! The legend is, that it means death to those who see that boat and pursue it.”
By this time Ralph had recovered his equanimity. His sturdy common sense asserted itself. He listened impatiently while Harry exclaimed triumphantly:
“There; what did I tell you! That’s the boat I heard about! The boat in which a party of the old voyageurs committed all sorts of outrages on the St. Lawrence Indians. In revenge for their cruelties the Indians attacked the boat one night and massacred the whole party. Ever since, at times, the ghost craft has been seen on the river, and death has followed every one who has tried to chase it or inquire into its mystery.”
“Oh, dry up!” snapped Ralph. “Malvin, get forward where you belong instantly.”
“But, sir——”
The man appeared genuinely frightened, but somehow Ralph had an idea that he was not so scared as he seemed.
“See here, Malvin, obey my orders. I am in command of the River Swallow. Get forward at once and keep a bright lookout. As for you, Harry, I’m more than astonished at your being foolish enough to believe such a pack of children’s stories.”
As Malvin left the bridge, seemingly with reluctance, Harry spoke up: