"Ten or fifteen minutes back."
"We'll see soon enough, sir," put in Forsythe. "The wind is driving it down to the south'ard."
Sullenly, reluctantly, the forbidding mass moved across the headland. All glasses were bent upon it. Without taking his binocular from his eyes, Trendon began to ruminate aloud.
"If he could have got to the beach. … No vapour there. … Signal, though. … Perhaps he hadn't time. … And I'd hate to risk good men on that hell's cauldron. … Just as much risk here, perhaps. Only it seems"
"There it is," cried Forsythe. "Look. The highest point."
Dull, gray wisps of murk, the afterguard of the gaseous cloud, were twisting and spiraling in a witch-dance across the landscape, and, seen by snatches and glimpses through it, something flapped darkly in the breeze. Suddenly the veil parted and fled. A flag stood forth in the sharp gust, rigid, and appalling. It was black.
"The Jolly Roger, by God! They've come back!" exclaimed Forsythe.
"And set up the sign of their shop," added Barnett.
"If they stuck to their flag—good-bye," observed Trendon grimly.
"Dr. Trendon," said Captain Parkinson, "you will arm yourself and go with me in the gig to make a landing."
"Yes, sir," responded the surgeon.
"Mr. Barnett."
