THE PIRATES’ BARBECUE.

A moment of ghastly hush prevailed, then the Grove shook from sward to tree-tops — pandemonium broke loose and all were in turmoil.

No need now to wait for the verdict of the wax image; no further shifting of brazen glances, or winking of knowing eyes. Shrill voices of terrified blacks, hoarse bellowings of the hardiest rascals who had ever kissed a dripping cutlas, the throaty roar of men who had played willing lieutenants to the ringleader: all pealed up to high heaven for the culprit to come forth and taste of the queen’s justice rather than wait for her vengeance.

“Rufe! Yellow Rufe!” they howled. They howled it until the forest echoed with the word.

“Peace, Devilspawn!”