“But you told me he was dead!”

“Did I?  Well, perhaps I did.  That was to keep your spirits up.  But now I don’t mind tellin’ you that I’m not sure.  He ought to be dead by this time; but ’tis a question if the likes of him ever die.  He’s own cousin to the devil, I tell you; and if he’s anywhere alive, like as not he’s watching us at this moment.”

Whatever this meant, it appeared to rouse Jim Lucky, and start him in a panic.  I heard him sob as he helped to lower their burden upon the beach.  All this time they had been standing immediately beneath me, and I dared not lift my head for a look.  But now, as they went staggering down the beach, I parted the creepers, and stared in their wake.  They carried a heavy sea-chest between them, but my eyes were neither for the chest nor for Jim Lucky, but for his companion, the man he called Bill.

I knew him before I looked; and as I had recognized his voice, so now I recognized his narrow, foxy head, and sloping shoulders.

It was Aaron Glass.

The two men carried the chest along at a rate that perhaps came easily enough to Jim Lucky, who was a young giant of a seaman, but was astonishing for a thin, windlestraw of a man such as Glass.  He ploughed his way across the sands like a demon, and had scarcely set down the chest, a little above the water’s edge, before he was tugging at the boat.  I heard him call to Lucky to help, and the pair heave-y-hoe’d together as they strained at the gunwale to lift her and run her down.

From this ridge, as yet, came no sign.

Presently from the boat—­they had pulled her down to the water, and were both stooping over her with their shoulders well inside, busy in arranging her bottom board—­I heard a fearful oath; an oath that rose in a scream, as the two men faced each other, scared, incredulous.

“Scuttled, by God!”

It was Glass who screamed it out, and with the sound of it a host of sea-birds rose from the neighbouring rocks, whitening the sky.  But Jim Lucky cast up both hands and ran.

“Stop, you fool!  Stop!”

I think the poor creature had no notion whither he ran; that he was merely demented.  But, in fact, he headed straight for the ridge, not turning his head.  Twice Glass called after him; then, in a sudden fury, whipped out a pistol and fired.  For the moment I supposed that he had missed, for the man ran for another six strides without seeming to falter, then his knees weakened, and he pitched forward on his face.

I believe, on my word, that Glass had either fired in blind passion or with intent to stop the man rather than to kill him.  He stood and stared; and, while the pistol yet smoked in his hand, I saw Dr. Beauregard step forth from his shelter, step delicately past the corpse, and raise his musket; and heard his clear, resonant voice call out—­

“Both hands up, Mr. Glass, if you please!”