“Is that you, Tom?” I called.  Thank God, the old chap was not dead at all events.

“Thank the Lord, it’s you, sar,” he cried.  “I’m all right, but I’ve had a bad fall—­and I can’t seem able to move.”

“Hold on and keep up your heart—­I’ll be with you in a minute,” I called down to him.

“Mind yourself, sar,” he called cheerily, and, indeed, it was a problem to get down to him without precipitating the loose earth and rock that were ready to make a landslide down the hole, and perhaps bury him for ever.

But, looking about, I found another natural tunnel in the side of the hill.  Into this I was able to worm myself, and in the dim light found the old man, and put my flask to his lips.

“Anything broken, do you think?”

Tom didn’t think so.  He had evidently been stunned by his fall, and another pull at my flask set him on his feet.  But, as I helped him up, and, striking a light, we began to look around the hole he had tumbled into, he gave a piercing shriek, and fell on his knees, jabbering with fear.

“The ghosts! the ghosts!” he screamed.

And the sight that met our eyes was certainly one to try the nerves.  We had evidently stumbled upon a series of fairly lofty chambers hollowed out long ago first by the sea, and probably further shaped by man—­caverns supported here and there by rude columns of the same rock, and dimly lit from above in one or two places by holes like mine shafts, down one of which fell masses of snake-like roots of the fig tree, a species of banyan.

Within the circle of this light two figures sat at a table—­one with his hat tilted slightly, and one leaning sideways in his chair in a careless sort of attitude.  They seemed to be playing cards, and they were strangely white—­for they were skeletons.

I stood hushed, while Tom’s teeth rattled at my side.  The fantastic awe of the thing was beyond telling.  And, then, not without a qualm or two, which I should be a liar to deny, I went and stood nearer to them.  Nearly all their clothes had fallen away, hanging but in shreds here and there.  That the hat had so jauntily kept its place was one of those grim touches Death, that terrible humorist, loves to add to his jests.  The cards, which had apparently just been dealt, had suffered scarcely from decay—­only a little dirt had sifted down upon them, as it had into the rum glasses that stood too at each man’s side.  And, as I looked at the skeleton jauntily facing me, I noticed that a bullet hole had been made as clean as if by a drill in his forehead of bone—­while, turning to examine more closely his silent partner, I noticed a rusty sailor’s knife hanging from the ribs where the lungs had been.  Then I looked on the floor and found the key to the whole story.  For there, within a few yards, stood a heavy sailor’s chest, strongly bound around with iron.  Its lid was thrown back, and a few coins lay scattered at the bottom, while a few lay about on the floor.  I picked them up.