ment. The black rose with clenched fists as though prepared to strike him.
“Priscilla ahoy!” shrieked Waldo Emerson. “Help! Help!”
The negro grinned. There was no response from the white yacht. Then the men told Thandar that they had captured the vessel several weeks before, and were holding her crew prisoners upon land awaiting the return of the chief who had been unaccountably absent for a long time. When Waldo Emerson told them that the yacht belonged to his father the black was glad that he had not killed him, for he should bring a fat ransom.
It was dark when they landed, and Thandar and Nadara were forced into squalid huts that lay side by side with several others just above the beach. For a long time the man could not sleep. His mind was occupied with doubts as to the fate of his father and mother. Nadara had told him that both had been aboard the Priscilla. She had said nothing of the treatment accorded her by Mrs. Smith-Jones, but Waldo had guessed near the truth, and he had seen that the sight of the Priscilla had awakened no enthusiasm or happiness in the girl.
After a while he dozed only to be awakened by the sound of movement outside his hut. There was something sinister in the stealthiness of the sound. Silently Thandar rose and crept to the door. The
