Whistler called to Mr. MacMasters to show him this sign of human occupancy of their refuge.  Before the ensign arrived at the spot Torry made a second discovery.

“Look who’s here!” called the boy in a low voice.  “Here’s a Man Friday, sure enough!”

There was a light approaching through the forest path.  It was a torch, and before long the wavering brand revealed a strange figure—­no Man Friday but, as Whistler whispered, a Woman Friday!

She was a peculiar looking being, indeed, dressed in a single loose flowing garment, which covered her from neck to ankles.  She was barefooted and bareheaded, her iron-gray hair tossed about her weather-beaten face in wild elflocks.

Her eyes were as brilliant as coals.  Either she was not right in her mind or she assumed that manner.  At first she merely glowered at the two boys and the Navy officer, and said nothing in reply to the latter’s queries.

Her hands and fingers were gnarled from hard work.  She looked as tough as bale wire, to quote Torry.

When she finally spoke her voice was as deep and coarse as a man’s.  She said: 

“You-uns was blowed up in yon channel.  And you lost your boat, ain’t you?”

“Crickey!” gasped Torry to Whistler.  “She’s a German—­a German with a southern accent!  What do you know about that?”

Meanwhile Mr. MacMasters was interrogating her to some purpose.

“Have you seen others of our party?” he asked.  “There were fourteen men and boys on a raft.”

“Ain’t seen no stranger befo’ to-day, but you-uns,” she declared.  Her eyes seemed as lidless as a snake’s.  They did not blink at all.

“Then how did you know that our steamer was blown up?” the ensign queried.

“Old Mag knows a heap other folks don’t know,” croaked the woman.

The rest of the party came up and heard this statement.  Jemmy gave her one look and crossed his fingers.

“She’s a witch, and the banshees do her bidding,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Well,” said Mr. MacMasters, much puzzled, “is there any place where we can get dry—­and get some food?”

“I’ll take you all to my cabin,” she said.  “That’s what I come for.”

She turned around abruptly and strode back along the path.  There seemed nothing for the castaways to do but to follow her.  But they certainly did discuss the queer woman in whispers while they kept on her trail.

“She’s a witch sure enough,” repeated Jemmy.  “Sure you kin see that easy from the cut of her jib.  The ensign had better have no doin’s with her.  Maybe she’ll charm the whole of us with her evil eye.”

The island was half a mile or more across.  It was almost dark by the time the party of castaways with their strange leader came out upon the other shore.

Here the sound between the islands and the mainland was mist-enshrouded, and it was evident that a nasty night had shut down.  Whistler and Torry were terribly anxious about their friends who had been on the life raft.