Gripping the cutlass, Jasper Minalto followed the Third Officer into the open air, or rather to the edge of the belt of undergrowth that marked the fugitives' hiding-place.

This part of the island had undergone a complete transformation. Trees, scrub, and grass had vanished, leaving an expanse of blackened, still smouldering ashes. The lagoon, previously screened from the mouth of the cave, was fully exposed to an extent of almost a mile. On it, riding to a cable that hung perpendicularly from the hawse-pipe, was the schooner, with her sails lowered but loosely furled in a way that no self-respecting seaman would have been guilty of performing. There was the camp, too, with the shelter constructed from the wreckage of the life-boat lying upon the ground, and a fire still burning in the fire-place.

But what particularly attracted the attention of the two men was the sight of half a dozen or more motionless figures lying in strange attitudes upon the ground.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Burgoyne. "Minalto, my lad, your li'l ole cask has done us a good turn. They're all dead drunk. Two, four, six, eight of them. One's not accounted for. We'll risk that one. Stop here, and don't let yourself be seen. I'll go back and bring Mostyn along."

Burgoyne returned to the cave.

"Game for a big stunt, Peter?" he inquired.

"Rather, I'm on," replied Mostyn promptly. "What's doing?"

"Bring as much rope as you can carry," said Alwyn, "and come along. We've got them cold. Yes, and bring Minalto's spear. We may have to do a bit of gentle persuasion in the clubbing line."

The three men advanced cautiously upon the silent forms of the prostrate pirates, but it was not until they were within twenty paces of their intended prey that Burgoyne checked his companions.

No words were necessary. The three men could see for themselves what had happened.

There were eight pirates all dead. One, a Malay, was lying with his head and shoulders in the still-smouldering embers. The others, all bearing wounds of bullets or knives, had fought to a finish. Jasper's li'l ole cask had vindicated its existence. Unused to spirits for months past, the pirates had hailed the discovery of the keg with wild delight. The potent stuff had made them mad drunk, and in their beastly state of intoxication they had quarrelled, using knives and rifles to back up their senseless arguments until all had fallen. Apparently the Malay had survived the others, but had rolled helplessly into the fire.

"Sarve 'em right!" exclaimed Jasper.

None of the three men felt any sense but that of gratitude for their deliverance. Humane though they undoubtedly were, they had no pity for the ruffianly crew now lying dead almost at their feet.

"Now for the schooner!" exclaimed Peter, stooping and securing a rifle and ammunition that had belonged to one of the villainous dead—an example which Jasper was not slow to follow.

"Steady!" cautioned Burgoyne. "There are eight here; where is the ninth?"

"Black Strogoff?"

"Ay; he'll want watching. He's not on board."

"How do you know that?" asked Mostyn.

"The boat isn't alongside. Come on; we'll find her along the beach."

Skirting the shore of the little creek, they gained the beach fronted by the lagoon. Rather more than a stone's throw away was the schooner's boat with her bow a good twelve feet from the water's edge. Tugging and straining at the boat was Black Strogoff, trying in vain to anticipate the rising tide by launching the small but heavily-built dinghy into the water.

Revolver in hand, Burgoyne stealthily approached the pirate lieutenant. The latter, furtively turning his head, caught sight of the three men whose capture he had so ardently desired, and now as devotedly wished to avoid.

"Hands up, Strogoff!" ordered Burgoyne.

For answer the rogue whipped out an automatic, at the same time kneeling behind the boat and resting the muzzle of the weapon on the gunwale.

Without hesitation Mostyn and Jasper both raised their rifles and took rapid aim. Both weapons barked simultaneously, even as Black Strogoff wildly loosed ten rounds from his pistol. The next instant the automatic was violently wrenched from the pirate-lieutenant's hand, leaving Strogoff not only defenceless, but with a dislocated wrist and his face cut in half a dozen places by fragments of the splayed nickel bullet.

"Surrender!" shouted the Third Officer, brandishing his revolver as he leapt towards the pirate.

Strogoff had not the faintest desire to avail himself of the offer. He knew that capture meant death at the rope's end.

"Shoot away!" he replied tauntingly.

Burgoyne did nothing of the sort. It was one thing to exchange shots in hot blood with a criminal; another to strike a human being down in cold blood.

Strogoff saw the Englishman's hesitation and took his chance. Wading waist-deep, he began swimming for the schooner, which was lying at anchor less than four hundred yards distant.

"Don't fire!" cautioned Alwyn.

"Don't mean to," rejoined Peter, snapping the safety-catch of his rifle.

"Launch the boat," continued Burgoyne. "We'll nab him long before he gains the schooner."

It was a man-hunt with a vengeance. The excitement of the chase provided far greater scope than merely shooting the swimmer through the head. To effect a capture appealed to their sporting instincts. Taking human life, or any animal life for that matter, did not, unless there were ample justification for it.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Peter, when by the united efforts of the three men the boat was launched and the oars manned.

"Maroon him on the island," replied Burgoyne grimly. "He'll have the same chances as we did, anyway, and if he wins through——"

He stopped suddenly, let go the tiller, and sprang to his feet.

"Your rifle—quick, Peter!" he exclaimed hurriedly.

Mostyn handed over the weapon. The rowers laid on their oars and turned their heads to see what their companion was aiming at.

Black Strogoff was now only fifty yards ahead, swimming strongly in spite of his broken wrist, but close behind him was a dark, triangular-shaped object following the disturbed wake of the swimmer.

It was the dorsal fin of an enormous shark.

The pirate, unconscious of the dire peril that threatened him, swam steadily towards the schooner. Burgoyne, looking along the sights of the rifle, hesitated to fire, for the shark and the swimmer were in line with the muzzle. He might hit the shark, but the bullet would then ricochet and settle Strogoff into the bargain.

"Look out!" shouted the Third Officer. "Sharks!"

At the warning the pirate-lieutenant turned his head just in time to see the monster's dorsal fin disappear. The shark was turning on its back in order to seize its prey.

With a blood-curdling scream Black Strogoff threw up his arms and disappeared.

Thirty seconds later the boat was over the spot, where an ever-widening circle of ripples surrounded the blood-tinged patch that indicated the manner of Black Strogoff's death.

Burgoyne, pale under his tan, slipped the safety-catch of his rifle, laid the weapon in the stern-sheets, and resumed the tiller. As he did so he noticed that the boat's bottom boards and gratings were awash.

Kicking aside the stern-sheets grating, Alwyn felt for the plug. It was in position and jammed hard into the bung-hole.

"We've sprung a leak!" exclaimed Mostyn, stating an obvious fact; then, laying aside his oar, he quickly extracted a cartridge from one of the rifles, and inserted the bullet in a small hole just under the middle thwart.

Peter and Jasper exchanged meaning glances. One of the two had fired the shot that had completely penetrated both sides of the boat, although one of the holes was above water-line. Each, by that glance, tried to insinuate that the other was the culprit, at the same time proving that the shot that had disabled Black Strogoff was his.

"We'll appraise responsibility when we've finished the job," declared Burgoyne. "Now, steady all. Give way."

Keeping a keen watch on the apparently desert............