“‘He ain’t complainin’; but, then, in life he warn’t a complainin’ sort.  Aw, sir, but a man must be over-nice ef a fun’ral like thes don’t satisfy ’n.  Phew! but ‘tes awful!’

“‘What’s awful?’

“‘The heat,’ answers Sam, moppin’ his forehead; ’but I s’pose you’m a traveller, an’ ‘customed to heat.’

“‘Why, iss,’ says t’other, ‘I do travel a purty passel to an’ fro ‘pon th’ earth.  Few folks travels more’n me.’

“Well, et kep’ gettin’ hotter an’ hotter; an’ Sam cussed an’ mopped, an’ mopped an’ cussed, an’ all the time the stranger were cool an’ aisy.  He kep’ axin’, too, ‘bout th’ ould Commodore an’ hes past life, an’ ‘peared to take interes’ in Sam, an’ altogither seemed a proper gen’l’m’n.  An’ all the time et kep’ gettin’ hotter an’ hotter, till Sam were fairly runnin’ to waste wi’ sweatin’.  At las’ he pops hes head out’n the windey for fresh air, an’ cries out—­

“‘Hulloa! here’s a stashun.’

“Well, the train pulls up, an’ Sam says to the stranger—­

“’Look ’ee here.  Wud ‘ee mind keepin’ your eye ‘pon th’ ould man while I runs out to get a drink?  I reckoned I knawed thirst afore this,’ he says, ‘but I were mistook.’

“The stranger was very willin’, and away Sam goes.

“He warn’t away more’n a minnit; but when he comes back an’ takes a look at the platform, my!  Sir! there warn’t no trace of the train to be seen—­not a vestment.  You see, they don’t blaw no whissle in Spain when the train goes; an’ there was poor Sam left stranded.

“Well, he tellygrafs o’ cou’se to the nex’ stashun, an’ in less ’n an hour back comes an answer to say as they searched the train when et stopped, an’ there warn’t no corpse there, nor chest, nor nuthin’.  An’ ef you’ll believe me, sir,” concluded Caleb, bending forward and touching his master’s knee, “th’ ould Commodore ha’n’t niver been found fro’ that day to this.  Et ‘most broke Sam’s heart; an’, as he said to me wan time, ’For all I knaws ’twas the devil; and for all I knaws th’ ould maaster be travellin’ roun’ Spain to this day; but ef so,’ says he, ’I reckon by this time he’s like Patty Ward’s pig—­no lavender.’”

“That’s a very curious tale,” said Mr. Fogo, as Caleb leant back in the window-seat and awaited its effect.

“‘Tes so true, sir, as I’m here—­or so Sam used to say.  An’ the moral goes agen talkin’ lightly o’ what a man don’t understand,” he added reflectively.  “But forebodin’ es so bad as witch-craf’, an’ ’tes more’n likely they won’t come to-night; but if they does, ’tes on’y fair to ax mun who they be dree times afore firin’.  What’s fair for man es fair—­”

He broke off and clutched his master by the arm.

“Look, sir—­look!”

About the deck of the old schooner a shaft of light was dancing fitfully—­now here, now there, up and down—­and all without visible source or guidance.

The two watchers leapt to their feet and peered out at the window.