Nathaniel followed him, scarcely believing his eyes, and sat himself in the stern, leaning comfortably against the knees of the man who took the tiller.  He felt a curious thrill pass through him when he discovered a moment later that this man was Jeekum.  Two men seized the oars amidships.  A fourth, with his rifle across his knees sat facing Neil.

For the first time Nathaniel found himself wondering what this voyage meant.  Were they to be rowed far down the shore to some secret fastness where no other ears would hear the sound of the avenging rifles, and where, a few inches under the forest mold, their bodies would never be discovered?  Each stroke of the oars added to the remoteness of this possibility.  The boat was heading straight out to sea.  Perhaps they were to meet a less terrible death by drowning, an end which, though altogether unpleasant, held something comforting in it for Captain Plum.  Two hours passed without pause in the steady labor of the men at the oars.  In those hours not a word was spoken.  The two men amidships held no communication.  The guard in the bow moved a little now and then only to relieve his cramped limbs.  Neil was absolutely motionless, as though he had ceased to breathe.  Jeekum uttered not a whisper.

It was his whisper that Nathaniel waited for, the signaling clutch of his fingers, the sound of his breath close to his ears.  Again and again he pressed himself against the sheriff’s knees.  He knew that he was understood, and yet there came no answer.  At last he looked up, and Jeekum’s face was far above him, staring straight and unseeing into the darkness ahead.  His last spark of hope went out.

After a time a dark rim loomed slowly up out of the sea.  It was land, half a mile or so away.  Nathaniel sat up with fresh interest, and as they drew nearer Jeekum rose to his feet and gazed long and steadily in both directions along the coast.  When he returned to his seat the boat’s course was changed.  A few minutes later the bow grated upon sand.  Still voiceless as specters the guards leaped ashore and Neil roused himself to follow them, climbing over the gunwale like a sick man.  Nathaniel was close at his heels.  With a growing sense of horror he saw two ghostly stakes thrusting themselves out of the beach a dozen paces away.  He looked beyond them.  As far as he could see there was sand—­nothing but sand, as white as paper, scintillating in a billion flashing needle-points in the starlight.  Instinctively he guessed what the stakes were for, and walked toward them with the blood turning cold in his veins.  Neil was before him and stopped at the first stake, making no effort to lift his eyes as Nathaniel strode past him.  At the second, a dozen feet beyond, Nathaniel’s two guards halted, and placed him with his back to the post.  Two minutes later, bound hand and foot to the stake, he shifted his head so that he could look at his companion.

Neil was similarly fastened, with his face turned partly toward him.  There was no change in his attitude.  His head hung weakly upon his chest, as if he had fainted.