And well might this be the case. The past week had sadly weakened their nerves. This horrible reserve that had come over them since delving amidst the masses of gold, had rendered them doubly susceptible to superstitious influence.
They could no longer doubt. The shape, glowing with a ghastly light, was now vividly outlined.
Before them, at only a few rods' distance, stood a skeleton of fire!
A skeleton, perfect in the most minute detail. It seemed of gigantic size, as though the relic of some long since extinct race of giants.
The brainless skull, the eyeless sockets, the wide, ghastly-grinning mouth and blazing teeth, the body, the arms and legs, all were glowing with a strangely-weird luster, not unlike that produced by the use of phosphorus. One fleshless arm was slowly lifted until the dangling finger pointed directly at the spot where crouched the gold-hunters, awe-stricken and speechless.
And still the flaming skeleton advanced, more and more, the arm warningly outstretched, the skull wearing that horribly mocking grin.
Suddenly a low, taunting laugh echoed upon the still oppressive air—a laugh that seemed to issue from the fleshless lips.
Duplin shuddered, and bowing his head, covered his face as if to shut out the sickening object. Wythe and Tyrrel remained motionless, their eyes riveted upon the skeleton.
A voice uttering words followed the laugh. Deep yet low, something strangely impressive when coming from that ghastly spectacle, as it appeared.
"Blind fools! ye are trespassing here on holy ground. Depart while yet there is time. You hear—even the spirits of the air warn you. Obey their voice—flee—flee from the wrath to come! Take heed. 'Tis the last warning. Depart—or the morrow's sun shall shine down on your lifeless remains."