loodhounds on the sea. But Mackenzie, who was still
at large, had drunk too deeply of the wine of a wild, free life. He did
not return to lay down his arms, but began on a course of shameless
piracy. He lived only a few months under the black flag, until he went
down on the Isle of Haut. The events of that brief and thrilling period
are unfortunately obscure, with only a ray of light here and there. But
the story of his passing is the most weird of all the strange yarns
that are spun about the "Island of the Dead."

In May, 1865, a gruesome discovery was made off the coast of Maine,
which sent a chill of fear through all the seaport towns of New England.
A whaler bound for New Bedford was coming up Cape Cod one night long
after dark. There was no fog, and the lights of approaching vessels
could easily be discerned. The man on the lookout felt no uneasiness at
his post, when, without any warning of bells or lights, the sharp bow of
a brigantine suddenly loomed up, hardly a ship's length in front.

"What the blazes are you trying to do?" roared the mate from the bridge,
enraged at this unheard-of violation of the right of way. But no voice
answered his challenge, and the brigantine went swinging by, with all
her sails set to a spanking breeze. She bore directly across the bow of
the whaler, which just grazed her stern in passing.

"There's something rotten on board there," said the mate.

"Ay," said the captain, who had come on the bridge, "there's something
rotten there right enough. Swing your helm to port, and get after the
devils," he ordered.

"Ay, ay, sir!" came the ready response, and nothing loth the helmsman
changed his course to follow the eccentric craft. She was evidently
bound on some secret mission, for not otherwise would she thus tear
through the darkness before the wind without the flicker of a light.

The whaler was the swifter of the two ships, and she could soon have
overhauled the other; but fearing some treachery, the captain refrained
from running her down until daylight. All night long she seemed to be
veering her course, attempting to escape from her pursuer. In the
morning, off the coast of Maine, she turned her nose directly out to
sea. Then a boat was lowered from the whaler, and rowed out to intercept
the oncoming vessel. When they were directly in her course, they lay on
their oars and waited. The brigantine did not veer again, but came
steadily on, and soon the whalemen were alongside,