A laugh slowly followed this speech, coming from the rude hut of bushes. It was from Jack Tyrrel, sounding strained, yet scornful.
"This mummery has gone far enough," he said, in a tone that told of rising anger. "It's my turn now. Whoever you are, you take warning. In just one minute, unless you drop that mask, I'll try if you are bullet-proof. Mark my words, now!"
"Don't, Jack—for God's sake don't!" gasped Duplin. "'Tis nothing earthly—it's a warning from the other world!"
"Bah! I've seen a skeleton doctored with phosphorus before now."
"Lift your arm against the dead, and it will drop withered to your side," solemnly added the voice.
"It will, eh? Here's to try it. Man or devil—here's greeting to you!" recklessly cried Tyrrel, as he raised and sighted his revolver.
Again came the laugh, hollow and unearthly. The fleshless face seemed to grin more horribly than before.
Once—twice the pistol spoke spitefully, the flash momentarily lighting up the little brush shanty, then leaving it in still deeper darkness from force of contrast. And yet the skeleton stood there, motionless, save that the arm appeared to move derisively.
The laugh again echoed forth, as the reverberating reports died away. Duplin sunk upon his face, groaning in terror. Wythe knelt as though petrified. Tyrrel turned a shade paler.
"Silly fool! you provoke your fate. When the sun rises you will be dead—dead."