ught up the lantern, leapt on
board with the painter, fastened it, and crept swiftly towards the
poop.

He gained the hatch, and paused to turn the slide of his lantern.
The shaft of light fell down the companion as into a pitch-dark well.
He could feel his heart thumping against his ribs as he began the
descent, and jumping with every creak of the rotten boards, while
always behind his fright lurked a sickening sense of the guilty
foolishness of his errand.

At the ladder's foot he put his hand to his damp brow, and peered
into the cabin.

In a moment his blood froze. A hoarse cry broke from him.

For there--straight ahead--a white face with straining eyes stared
into his own!

And then he saw it was but his own reflection in a patch of mirror
stuck into the panel opposite.

But the shock of that pallid mask confronting him had already
unnerved him utterly.

He drew his eyes away, glanced around, and spied a black portmanteau
propped beside a packing-case in the angle made by the wall and the
flooring. In mad haste to reach the open air, but dimly remembering
Geraldine's caution, he grasped the handles, flung a look behind him,
and clambered up the ladder again, and out upon deck.

The worst was over; but he could not rest until again in his boat.
As he untied the painter, he noticed the ray of his lantern dancing
wildly up and down the opposite bank with the shaking of his hand.
Cursing his forgetfulness, he turned the slide, slipped the lantern
into his pocket, and, lowering himself gently with the portmanteau,
dropped, seized the paddles, and rowed away as for dear life.

He had put three boats' lengths between him and the hull, and was
drawing a sigh of relief, when a voice hailed him, and then--

A tongue of flame leapt out, and a loud report rang forth upon the
night. He heard something whistle by his ear. Catching up the
paddles again, he pulled madly out of the creek, and away for the
opposite bank of the river; ran his boat in; and, seizing the
portmanteau, without attempt to ship the oars or fasten the painter,
leapt out; climbed, slipped, and staggered over the slippery stones;
and fled up the hill as though a thousand fiends were at his heels.

CHAPTER XIX.

THAT A SILVER BULLET HAS VIRTUE: WITH A WARNING TO COMMODORES.

"Well, sir," remarked Caleb at ten o'clock that evening, after an
hour's watching had passed and brought no sign of a ghost, "I wish
this 'ere sperrit, ef sper