“I suppose it would hardly do to take him with us?” pursued the commanding officer.

“If he is roused now, even for a moment, I won’t answer for the consequences, sir,” said the surgeon bluntly.

“Surely you can have him point out a landing place,” said the captain.

“On your responsibility,” returned the other, obstinately.  “He’s under opiate now.”

“Be it so,” said Captain Parkinson, after a time.

Going in, they saw no sign of life along the shore.  Even the birds had deserted it.  For the time the volcano seemed to have pretermitted its activity.  Now and again there was a spurtle of smoke from the cone, followed by subterranean growlings, but, on the whole, the conditions were reassuring.

“Penny-pop-pinwheel of a volcano, anyhow,” remarked Trendon, disparagingly.  “Real man-size eruption would have wiped the whole thing off the map, first whack.”

As they drew in, it became apparent that they must scale the cliff from the boat.  Farther to the south opened out a wide cove that suggested easy beaching, but over it hung a cloud of steam.

“Lava pouring down,” said Trendon.

Fortunately at the point where the cliff looked easiest the seas ran low.  Ropes had been brought.  After some dainty manoeuvring two of the sailors gained foothold and slung the ropes so that the remainder of the disembarcation was simple.  Nor was the ascent of the cliff a harsh task.  Half an hour after the landing the exploring party stood on the summit of the hill, where the black flag waved over a scene of utter desolation.  The vegetation was withered to pallid rags:  even the tiniest weedling in the rock crevices had been poisoned by the devastating blast.

In the midst of that deathly scene, the flag seemed instinct with a sinister liveliness.  Whoever had set it there had accurately chosen the highest available point on that side of the island, the spot of all others where it would make good its signal to the eye of any chance farer upon those shipless seas.  For the staff a ten-foot sapling, finely polished, served.  A mound of rock-slabs supported it firmly.  Upon the cloth itself was no design.  It was of a dull black, the hue of soot.  Captain Parkinson, standing a few yards off, viewed it with disfavour.

“Furl that flag,” he ordered.

Congdon, the coxswain of the gig, stepped forward and began to work at the fastenings.  Presently he turned a grinning face to the captain, who was scanning the landscape through his glass.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said.

“Well, what is it?” demanded Captain Parkinson.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, that ain’t rightly no flag.  That’s what you might rightly call a garment, sir.  It’s an undershirt, beggin’ your pardon.”

“Black undershirt’s a new one to me,” muttered Trendon.

“No, sir.  It ain’t rightly black, look.”

Wrenching the object from its fastenings, he flapped it violently.  A cloud of sooty dust, beaten out, spread about his face.  With a strangled cry the sailor cast the shirt from him and rolled in agony upon the ground.