Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolfert's
nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a
bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut was enough to
startle him. As they entered the confines of the garden, they
caught sight of a figure at a distance advancing slowly up one of
the walks, and bending under the weight of a burden. They paused
and regarded him attentively. He wore what appeared to be a woolen
cap, and, still more alarming, of a most sanguinary red.
The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stopped at the
very door of the sepulchral vault. Just before entering it he
looked around. What was the affright of Wolfert when he recognized
the grisly visage of the drowned buccaneer! He uttered an
ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly raised his iron fist and
shook it with a terrible menace. Wolfert did not pause to see any
more, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was
Sam slow in following at his heels, having all his ancient terrors
revived. Away, then, did they scramble through bush and brake,
horribly frightened at every bramble that tugged at their skirts,
nor did they pause to breathe until they had blundered their way
through this perilous wood, and fairly reached the highroad to the
city.
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