"Kirby keeps to the Summer Isles," said the second. "'T is n't often
now that he swoops down as far as the Indies."
The man with the broken head laughed. "When he does, there's a
noise in that part of the world."
"And that's gospel truth, too," swore the other, with an oath of
admiration.
By this the score or more who had come in the two boats were
halfway up the beach. In front, side by side, as each conceding no
inch of leadership, walked three men: a large man, with a
villainous face much scarred, and a huge, bushy, dark red beard; a
tall dark man, with a thin fierce face and bloodshot eyes, the
Spaniard by his looks; and a slight man, with the face and bearing
of an English gentleman. The men behind them differed no whit
from the two gravediggers, being as scoundrelly of face, as great of
strength, and as curiously attired. They came straight to the open
grave, and the dead man beside it. The three who seemed of most
importance disposed themselves, still side by side, at the head of
the grave, and their following took the foot.
"It's a dirty piece of work," said Red Gil in a voice like a raven's,
"and the sooner it's done with, and we are aboard again and
booming back to the Indies, the better I'll like it. Over with him,
brave boys!"
"Is it yours to give the word?" asked the slight man, who was
dressed point-device, and with a finical nicety, in black and silver.
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