“Come,” said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out; “this won’t do.  Stand by to go about.  This is a rum start, and I can’t name the voice, but it’s someone skylarking—­someone that’s flesh and blood, and you may lay to that.”

His courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the colour to his face along with it.  Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this encouragement and were coming a little to themselves, when the same voice broke out again—­not this time singing, but in a faint distant hail that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.

“Darby M’Graw,” it wailed—­for that is the word that best describes the sound—­“Darby M’Graw!  Darby M’Graw!” again and again and again; and then rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out:  “Fetch aft the rum, Darby!”

The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from their heads.  Long after the voice had died away they still stared in silence, dreadfully, before them.

“That fixes it!” gasped one.  “Let’s go.”

“They was his last words,” moaned Morgan, “his last words above board.”

Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly.  He had been well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.

Still Silver was unconquered.  I could hear his teeth rattle in his head, but he had not yet surrendered.

“Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby,” he muttered; “not one but us that’s here.”  And then, making a great effort:  “Shipmates,” he cried, “I’m here to get that stuff, and I’ll not be beat by man or devil.  I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I’ll face him dead.  There’s seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a mile from here.  When did ever a gentleman o’ fortune show his stern to that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug—­and him dead too?”

But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers, rather, indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.

“Belay there, John!” said Merry.  “Don’t you cross a sperrit.”

And the rest were all too terrified to reply.  They would have run away severally had they dared; but fear kept them together, and kept them close by John, as if his daring helped them.  He, on his part, had pretty well fought his weakness down.

“Sperrit?  Well, maybe,” he said.  “But there’s one thing not clear to me.  There was an echo.  Now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow; well then, what’s he doing with an echo to him, I should like to know?  That ain’t in natur’, surely?”

This argument seemed weak enough to me.  But you can never tell what will affect the superstitious, and to my wonder, George Merry was greatly relieved.

“Well, that’s so,” he said.  “You’ve a head upon your shoulders, John, and no mistake.  ’Bout ship, mates!  This here crew is on a wrong tack, I do believe.  And come to think on it, it was like Flint’s voice, I grant you, but not just so clear-away like it, after all.  It was liker somebody else’s voice now—­it was liker—­”