Onto this small beach, with no sound that could be heard, the boat-load of wraith-like figures debarked.
They seemed to be all white, like ghosts, in sheets or some sort of glimmeringly pale garments. They bent toward the boat in the glow that made them seem like luminous, greenish shapes of evil.
“Look!” breathed Tom, “they’re lifting a chest!”
They were! A chest or box of treasure was being shifted to the sand. Several others followed, still without answer to Mr. Neale’s repeated hail.
Sam, who had refused to leave his retreat in the stuffy cabin, began to whimper. Through a port-hole, at their captain’s hail, he had stolen one glance. It was enough!
Tom, too, was demoralized; but he dared not speak; only by the shaking of his hand on Nicky’s arm did his terror show.
On shore there seemed to be a ghostly argument—suddenly, in the greenish glow, knives flashed out, were lifted, were plunged into action! Yet no sound of a fight came across the water.
Figures dropped! Forms strove, hand in hand, knives upraised and driven downward!
And at one side, a little above the rest, and sharply silhouetted as a tall form in white, stood the one who must be the leader, his cutlass held ready, but making no move.
And then, all but one of the contending silent figures was down! The survivor of the battle turned and rushed toward his chief—the glow disappeared and the silence, the darkness, closed down more eerily than ever!