But from the passing remarks of the Skeleton Crew, he almost wished that he had been dead, for he trembled to think what tortures and unearthly agony they intended to make all such as he was, undergo. “What an unlucky devil I am,” sighed Tim. “I no sooner get out of one trouble than I fall into another; it’s out of the frying pan into the fire with me always. I wonder what star I was born under, for there’s no good fortune ever befalls me. Heigho! just hear those grim monsters talking. Why, the smugglers were gentlemen, compared to such fiendish devils as these.” Tim crouched still more closely in his hiding-place. “How many dead men have the smugglers left behind?” asked Death-wing, when they had all been counted and thrown overboard. “Over a dozen,” was the reply. “Good,” said Death-wing, with a chuckle. “Just hear him,” groaned Tim. “I do believe, if there had only been three dozen he’d jump for joy. Oh! horrors upon horrors accumulate.” “How many wounded?” “We have found six.” “Only half a dozen, that is not a great number,” said Death-wing; “there ought to be three or four dozen, at least.” “Yes, so there would have been, Death-wing; but those who were slightly wounded jumped into the water, or into their boats, at the hazard of drowning or breaking their necks, rather than remain in our hands.” “Ha!” said the grim chief. “They know us of old.” “Hark! how the villain sighs,” said poor Tim. “I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t got tears in his eyes over it because they wouldn’t stay behind to be skinned alive, poor devils.” “I wish we had but one sound man among the six prisoners,” said Death-wing. “I should like to make an example of him on the spot.” “Oh-h!” groaned Tim, “I’m in for it this time; they’ll cut me limb from limb; but it’s better to die here like a rat in this barrel than to get into their hands.” Tim, up to the present moment had not dared to poke his long nose out of his hiding-place, yet, out of curiosity, he now did, so as to see what they were about to do with their wounded prisoners. The moment his head appeared, one of the crew with a loud shout of joy jumped towards him and seized him by the scurf of the neck. In a second the poor fellow was dragged out of the hogshead, and pulled along the deck towards where Death-wing stood. “What, another of ’em,” said the grim chief, with a loud laugh of mockery, “and armed to the teeth, I perceive! This must be one of the head leaders, I think; disarm him.” In the twinkling of an eye, Tim’s blunderbuss, pistols, dagger, knife and cutlass were taken from him, and he knelt before the chief, trembling and quaking. Around him danced several dozen skeletons in wild joy, snapping their fingers and making the most horrible noises. “I think I have seen this rascal’s face before,” said Death-wing, with an oath. “So do I.” “Yes, that’s him.” “Are you not one of my worst enemy’s followers,—Wildfire Ned?”