“It’s a sword—” whispered Tom.
“No! A cutlass!” Cliff breathed.
The ghostly figure, its head tied up in some sort of cloth, its face a white blur under the white head covering, made a menacing gesture, as of one thrusting at them, with the implement in his hand.
Then he lifted the cutlass and with it pointed away toward the passage between the mangroves where they had come into the Sound.
“Go away, or you will suffer!” his gestures seemed to say.
His boat, still without a sound, like a wraith on the water, swung away toward the light.
Hardly breathing, the chums watched.
“Boat, ahoy!” called Mr. Neale.
There was no response. Like a craft of dreams the boat moved off and they saw it progress steadily to shore.
The light, green and gruesome, seemed to grow larger and brighter, and it turned slightly so that it lighted up the shelving bit of sand at the mouth of the inlet.