"Poor silly fools! Do ye think to alarm the dead by such actions? What care I for mortal weapons? You but precipitate your fate by such rashness. You scorned my first warning--and now you see the results. One of your number is dead--you two are doomed! Doomed to wander on through the bowels of the earth unceasingly, until death takes pity upon your sufferings and touches your hearts with his finger of ice. You were warned--why did you throw the chance behind you? You sealed your own fate. You are doomed--doomed! Ha! ha!" and again the chilling peal rung forth. And yet, strange as it may seem, these words gave Burr Wythe renewed courage. Though a partial believer in spiritualism, he did not believe that disembodied spirits could speak. The owner of this same voice had, at the camp, left a substantial proof behind it that scarcely befitted a ghost. And now _this_ voice admitted the identity. "'Tis some trick, Paley," he whispered in Duplin's ear. "Fire when I do, and we will have the clue in our hands. For poor Jack's sake, courage." "I will--touch me when you are ready," came the low, cautious response. "_Now!_" As he shouted aloud this word Wythe fired, and almost simultaneously Duplin's pistol spoke. And the effect exceeded their most sanguine expectations. High above the twin reports, there rose a human voice in a wild yell of pain, then came a rattling crash--then the sound of heavy, repressed footsteps. Instantly, on firing, Duplin and Wythe sprung aside, and recocked their pistols. But there was no need of a second shot. The victory was theirs. The glowing skeleton lay upon the ground, shattered to pieces. The skull, like a great ball of fire, was slowly rolling toward Wythe, who eyed it with a shudder of loathing. But all else was motionless and still. The fleeing footsteps that had momentarily caught their ear, was now gone. "Our spirit was Jack's trickster, after all," at length uttered Wythe. "We were fools, Burr," laughed Duplin, his natural courage returning. "It's a lesson that will never be forgotten by us; and it was one that I needed, too. I'm becoming a slave to my superstitions. But did you notice which way he went?" "No. Still, with lights, we can find out, I guess. That cry was one of pain. He must have been wounded." "He was; perhaps mortally, though I hope not, for that might lose us our hopes of finding Jack. But, come; we must find our torches. There is no time to lose unless we wish to make good that rascal's prediction, and die in here of thirst and starvation. This is the passage--just behind these bones." Carefully feeling along the passage, they soon succeeded in finding the dried fagots, dropped when they took a hasty flight. One--the torch--was still smoldering, and required but little coaxing before it again blazed up. By its light, the two friends exchanged glances. They were both thinking of the same thing.