At first he thought it was a turtle-sloop, by its size and rig, but, as it came nearer, it looked more like a pilot-boat, and somehow the sight of it strongly reminded him of his old enemy, Juan Montes, the wrecker.
They were beating up toward the point where the schooner lay, and their object evidently was to land and take a look at the stranded vessel.
A sudden fear seized Frank. It might be wreckers in search of spoils, and, in that case, from the recent experience he had had among them, it were better perhaps for him to retire to his cave until he knew something more of their intentions.
This he quickly did, taking care, however, not to break or bend a feathery fern or crush a tuft of moss, as he hastened within his retreat.
Then he hurriedly pushed to its place the block of stone that served for a door—or, rather, a window, for the aperture was only just large enough to admit of Frank’s crawling through—and, when this was done, he took up his position at one of the two small loop-holes he had made, as a precautionary means when stormy weather might make it necessary to close the window.
Both lookouts commanded an unobstructed view of the sea and that part of the beach where the Sea Eagle lay.
Frank watched the slow approach of the sailboat, with bated breath and loudly-beating heart.
It was Juan Montes! and with him Dick Turpie, the mulatto, Sagasta and Chris Lamberton.
A chill of mortal fear crept over Frank, from head to foot. He could not speak nor stir—scarcely to breathe—so great was his surprise and terror.
He saw them haul down the sail, drop the anchor, all four jump into the small boat towing astern, cast off the line and pull for the shore.