But the stranger smiled and shook his head.
The card-players on the beach had vanished now, and it was growing dark. The coast was clear and they sought their camp.
In spite of the golden fortune, Sally's sleep that night was as troubled as on the night after the visit to the cavern in the mountain. The same buzzard, mast-high, with fiery evil eyes that grew to the size of cartwheels, tore at her heart. The same gibbering shapes pursued her and the mountain spat fire, only its sparks changed into yellow ingots and coins, that rolled in a golden flood down the slopes and buried her, suffocated her.
From the dream, as before, she woke—it must have been almost three in the morning—to see, as she thought, five shadowy figures creeping over the sands towards the place where old Joe Bowling, on his watch, the last of the night, was standing guard over the chest.
She tried to scream, but could not. Her throat seemed paralyzed; a film swam before her eyes, pierced by sharp, whirring lightnings centred by the moon. A moment ago there had been seven.
But she heard one agonized cry—then all was still.
For some time she must have sat in this stupor, then the mists cleared.
Out on the cape all seemed peaceful and quiet in the lovely moonlight. And the rigid figure of the sentry still sat on the chest, motionless, his rifle resting on his arm.
Out in the open the sailors slept the heavy sleep of wearied toilers.
