Captain Bassett’s yacht-like schooner did not sail that night. Long after the camp fire of the spongers on the beach had fallen into a glow, the Englishman and Andy were in talk in the owner’s cabin. On the chart before them the compasses were often in play between a dot marked “Timbado Key” and the unnamed indentation in a long island, where the boy had written in pencil “Palm Tree Cove.”

At seven o’clock the next morning, two of the black men had brought up the unloaded can of gasoline. Andy had been taken ashore to the Pelican, two of the more intelligent spongers had been detailed to assist him, and the schooner was heading out of the cove, its owner on the after deck waving his Panama to the boy on shore.

A box of cloth, screws, wire, a hammer and saw, candles, tin pans, and three bamboo fishing poles had been sent ashore with the young aviator. Before the schooner had rounded the point and laid a course to the west, the operator[203] of the aeroplane was busy. His shirt sleeves rolled up, barefooted and hatless, the boy did not seem to mind the semi-tropic sun. After a solitary luncheon he was at his task again. At three o’clock he paused—the Pelican a weird and picturesque sight, her tanks newly filled, her oil cups freshly primed. Whatever her new mission, she was undoubtedly ready for another flight.

Andy’s fishermen assistants viewed the altered machine with silent awe. When they had helped to wheel it into an advantageous location for a new start and had been dismissed, they hurried away, and the boy was alone. From his actions, the hours were dragging. Four and five o’clock passed with no signs of a new flight. The impatient Andy made constant references to the sun and his watch, with now and then little alterations in the aeroplane’s new equipment.

Frequently the boy also consulted a slip of paper.

“North, northwest,” he would repeat, “and twenty-five miles. At a minute and a half a mile, that’s thirty-seven and one-half minutes.”

Thirty-eight minutes before Captain Bassett’s[204] calculation of sundown, at 6:35 P.M., the eager boy at last sprang into his seat, set his brake, turned on his power, and in thirty seconds the low-hanging palm leaves behind him, fluttering before his propellers, the now picturesque Pelican was skimming over the wide reach of Palm Tree Cove.

At one o’clock that afternoon Captain Bassett’s schooner was tacking off Timbado Key. When it dropped anchor off the makeshift of a beach village that its navigator had visited six years before, a few blacks emerged from the hovels. But no one on the schooner came ashore, and in the boat there were no signs of activity. The white-costumed Englishman sat and smoked under the awning. By mid-afternoon the beach was thick with a curious group.

When the sun was low in the west, a few minutes before seven o’clock, a small boat shot out from the idle, anchored schooner. As it grounded on the beach, the semi-savage blacks who had watched the strange boat all afternoon, moved forward. Captain Bassett, in spotless white, sprang ashore. He paused only to light a fresh cigar, and then, ignoring the motley straggling group, he walked quickly to the steps leading to the plateau.
 
Here, with only a glance over the sloping sides of the basin and the stagnant pool at its bottom—its heavy waters already iridescent in the dying sun—he strode rapidly toward the stockade. As he had seen it before, the king’s home still stood—the signs of decay more evident, but the totem palm trunks still erect.

No one blocked his passage, but he did not enter the gate. Still swaying on the palm trunks, he saw that which sent a chill through him. He also saw, almost above, but apparently guarding the gate, the big black who had accosted him on the beach years before. The man was heavier, there was a brutish kind of fear on his face, but he yet carried in his belt the one revolver the Englishman had seen on the island.

“Tell the great thief Cajou the white man is here.”

Captain Bassett uttered these words in a tone that made the big black start.

“Him no walk,” was the answer in a hesitating voice.

“Tell the great thief Cajou that the white man brings death.”

“Him sick,” faltered the swarthy guardian.

Within the shadow of the filthy stockade[206] court, other men could now be seen. The white man could see the glare of eyes as if beasts were crouching in the fast-gathering night.

“Tell the great thief Cajou,” went on the white man—his tone unchanged, cold and imperative, “that to-night comes the Bird of Death. He who was robbed of his pearl, to-night brings fetich; to-night, the white man brings death to the women and children of thieves; to-night, out of the south, he commands the Bird of Death.”

As he spoke, the Englishman observed almost concealed behind those in the enclosure, the old African. He was bent now, and as the silent assembly fell back to give the grizzled savage space, the white man saw that all he had said had been heard and understood. Two women supported the ruler of Timbado. Shaking them aside, he felt his way to the gate on his cane.

“White man come—white man go. No come—no go more.”

“The great thief Cajou hears,” interrupted the unmoving man in white. “To-night, the white man brings fetich; to-night, out of the sky, he brings death to those who steal and lie and to the women and children of those who lie—”
 
The tottering chief lunged forward on his stick as if to grasp the white man. But the latter did not move.

“Cajou no thief,” snarled the black. “Him no white man pearl.”

Throwing his head back, the Englishman placed his hands to his mouth and called loudly into the now shadowed night.

“Come, Bird of Death,” he cried. Then, with a sweep of his right arm toward the south, he shouted: “Behold!”

Sweeping majestically toward the palm totems out of the already starry night, came an object with the whirr of a flock of vultures. Like a great bird, the descending shape already spread its monstrous wings over the black pool. Its long tail could be seen moving against the starry sky, while the eyes and throat of its far-extended head seemed to belch fire and smoke.

Back upon each other crowded those about Cajou. Alone stood the old man, shaking and aghast. Then out of the mouth of the giant bird came a cry of rage and the hiss of a snake. Wails and cries of fear rent the air; groveling on their knees, the occupants of the stockade tried to hide their heads; even the great black threw himself behind the wall. Then the angry[208] blood-red eyes of the Bird of Death struck toward the group, and even the doughty Cajou reeled backward.

“Stop!” shouted the white man. “Stop, Bird of Death! Go!” he cried.

As if balked of its prey, the great creature of the air seemed to pause. Then, with an almost human snarl, it shot to the left, circled over the pool and began to mount the skies in apparent flight.

For a moment the sobs and cries of the prostrate were all that could be heard. The ruler of the tropic key still stood, but shaking in terror.

“White man go,” he mumbled at last. But his defiance was gone. “Cajou no got white man’s pearl.”

“You lie!” exclaimed the Englishman. Then he held out his hand. “Give!” he commanded. His tone seemed to wound the black man. “No?” he added fiercely, as Cajou only cringed.

“Cajou no pearl, no thief,” at last began the African.

“Come, Bird of Death,” cried the white man once more. “Eat the women and children of the great thief. Come!”
 
“Come, Bird of Death!”
 
As he spoke, he could see the blood-red eyes turned toward him again; then he saw the points of fire dip, and he knew the indistinguishable object was once more hurtling toward the stockade.

There were new cries of terror. Then the hiss and snarl high above sounded again. Bigger grew the glaring eyes of the Bird of Death, and the............