know.  Black Pedro spread terror into far corners of the ocean, where neither his father nor grand-father had ever been heard of.  They would have been proud indeed, if they could have seen their son.  He wore a black velvet suit, with a red sash, just like his grand-father before him.  That had become the official costume in the family.  He had made no change in it, except to add one or two more pistols in the sash.

“One autumn, after Black Pedro the Third had been captain for about a dozen or fifteen years, ‘The Angel of Death’ had a terrible fight with the biggest galleon she had ever tackled,—­ ‘The Santa Maria Sanctissima,’ a ship so huge that she towered far above the pirate vessel.  While the great guns were roaring, and the cannon-balls flying, Black Pedro stood amid the smoke, in his velvet suit, his black beard bristling with rage, and his face bearing an expression ten times more ferocious than his grand-father’s at its worst.  He noted carefully the precise moment when the scuppers were running with blood, and then gave the signal for boarding.  ‘The Santa Maria Sanctissima’ was so high that they had to use scaling-ladders to reach her deck, but the pirates soon swarmed on board, the captain was slain by Black Pedro, the rest of the crew walked The Plank, and ‘The Angel of Death’ sailed back to Rum Island with her booty.

“It was the richest she had ever captured.  ’The Santa Maria Sanctissima’ carried an enormous cargo of gold, intended for a great castle in Spain, and it took four days to unload the treasure at the pirates’ lair, and six more days to bury it in the ground.  Think how they felt when the last shovelful of earth was put in, how the sense of work well done filled their breasts with satisfaction!  But on that very day disaster of the most terrible kind was hanging over them, and less than twenty-four hours lay between them and dire calamity.

“Early in the evening, on the day after they had buried the last gold bar, Black Pedro sat on the veranda of his cottage, smoking his pipe.  This cottage was his regular dwelling place, while he was at Rum Island.  From the veranda he could look out over the bay, where ‘The Angel of Death’ lay at anchor.  The men’s quarters were down the hill, near the beach.

“Black Pedro noticed that the men seemed unusually quiet that night.  He did not hear the customary yells and cries.  Suddenly he was surprised to see old Aaron Halyard, the bo’s’n, come over the top of the hill, leaning on his cane.  Behind him walked the entire crew of the ‘Angel,’ two by two.  They were heading toward their Captain’s cottage.  This was not only astonishing, but it was strictly against the rules, as all interviews with the Captain, while on shore, were limited to the hours from 4 to 6 P. M. It was now 7.30.  Black Pedro leaped to his feet in surprise.  The men formed a line in front of the cottage—­thirty-four of them—­while old Aaron tottered forward.

“‘Cap’n,’ he said, ‘we’d like to have a word with you.’