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when the same voice broke out again--not this time singing, but in
a faint distant hail that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the

“Darby M’Graw,” it wailed--for that is the word that best
describes the sound--”Darby M’Graw! Darby M’Graw!” again and
again and again; and then rising a little higher, and with an oath
that I leave out: “Fetch aft the rum, Darby!”

The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes
starting from their heads. Long after the voice had died away they
still stared in silence, dreadfully, before them.

“That fixes it!” gasped one. “Let’s go.”
“They was his last words,” moaned Morgan, “his last words
above board.”

Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been
well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among
bad companions.

Still Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his
head, but he had not yet surrendered.

“Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby,” he muttered;
“not one but us that’s here.” And then, making a great effort:
“Shipmates,” he cried, “I’m here to get that stuff, and I’ll not be
beat by man or devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by
the powers, I’ll face him dead. There’s seven hundred thousand
pound not a quarter of a mile from here. When did ever a
gentleman o’ fortune show his stern to that much dollars for a
boozy old seaman with a blue mug--and him dead too?”

But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers,
rather, indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.

“Belay there, John!” said Merry. “Don’t you cross a sperrit.”

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