, expressing himself in a similar manner.

Hernandez next--for the four Spaniards have all ascended to the hill.

But Striker does not wait to hear what Hernandez may have to say.
Dropping the tarpauling, he strides up to him, and, _sans ceremonie_,
jerks the instrument out of his fingers. Then bringing it to his eye,
sights for himself.

Less than twenty seconds suffice for him to determine the character of
the vessel. Within that time, his glance taking in her hull, traversing
along the line of her bulwarks, and then ascending to the tops of her
tall smooth masts, he recognises all, as things with which he is well
acquainted.

He, too, almost lets drop the telescope, as, turning to the others, he
says in a scared, but confident voice:

"_By God, its the Condor_!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

A VERY NEMESIS.

Striker's announcement, profanely as emphatically made, thrills the
hearts of those hearing it with fear. Not fear of the common kind, but
a weird undefinable apprehension.

"_Caspitta_!" exclaims Padilla. "The _Condor_! that cannot be. How
could it?"

"It's her for all that," returns Striker. "How so, I don't understan'
any more than yourselves. But that yonder craft be the Chili barque, or
her ghost, I'll take my affydavy on the biggest stack o' Bibles."

His words summon up strange thoughts which take possession of the minds
of those listening. For how can it be the _Condor_, scuttled, sent to
the bottom of the sea? Impossible!

In their weak state, with nerves unnaturally excited, they almost
believe it an illusion--a spectre! One and all are the prey to wild
fancies, that strike terror to their guilty souls. Something more than
mortal is pursuing--to punish them. Is it the hand of God? For days
they have been in dread of God's hand; and now they seem to see it
stretched out, and coming towards them! Surely a Fate--an avenging
Nemesis!

"It's the barque, beyond doubt!" continues Striker, with the glass again
at his eye. "Everythin' the same, 'ceptin' her sails, the which show
patched-like. That be nothin'. It's the Chili craft, and no other.
Yonner's the ensign wi' the one star trailin' over her taffrail. Her,
sure's we stan' heer!"

"_Chingara_!" cries Gomez. "Where are they who took charge of the
scuttling? _Did_ they do it?"

Remembering the men, all turn round, looking for them. They are not
among the group gathered around the staff. Blew has long ago gone down
the