y de
sword, shall be slain by de sword, demselbes,' Yes! I tell you, dose dat
ties oders up, is goin' to be tied up demselbes, Yes!"

"What are you doin' here?" demanded Leborge, with an oath.

"I's a minister ob de gospel," said the preacher, standing his ground
without a quaver, in face of the threatening aspect of the giant
Haitian, "an' I tell you"--he pointed a finger accusingly--"dat, for
ebery oath you make hyar in de face ob de sun, you is goin' to pay, an'
pay heabily, before dat sun go down!

"You's a big nigger," the preacher went on, his voice taking the high
drone of prophetic utterance, "an' you's all cobered wit' gol' lace. De
Good Book say--'Hab no respec' for dem dat wears fine apparel.' No!
'Deir garments shall be mof-eaten, deir gol' an' silver shall be
cankered, an' de worm'--hear, you nigger!--'de worm, shall hab 'em'!"

Leborge, superstitious like all the Haitian negroes, cowered before the
preacher who advanced on him with shaking finger.

But Manuel was of another stripe.

He strode forward, put a lean but sinewy hand on the preacher's shoulder
and twisted him round, with a gesture as though he would hurl him into
the water, when there came a sharp,

"Spat!"

The Cuban's hat leaped from his head and fluttered slowly to the ground,
a bullet-hole through the crown.

Manuel stared at it, his jaw dropping.

"White man----" the preacher began.

The Cuban took no heed. The shot, he figured, could have come from no
one but the negro in the boat, and he wheeled on him, flashing his
revolver. As he turned to the sea, however, he saw a motor boat coming
at terrific speed into the harbor. He took one glance at it.

"We've got to get rid of the boy before he comes!" he cried.

Leborge, with a wide grin, gave a nod of approval, and Manuel's gun came
slowly to the shoulder, for cat-like, he wanted to torture the boy
before he fired.

Quicker than his grave manner would have seemed to forecast, the
preacher stepped fairly between the Cuban and his victim.

"De Good Book say----" he began, but Manuel gave him a push. There was a
slight struggle and a flash.

The preacher fell.

Manuel turned on Stuart, who had tried to catch the falling man,
forgetting for the instant that his hands were tied. He stumbled, and
the pistol centered on his heart.

Came another,

"Spat!"

A shrill scream rang out. Manuel's gun fell to the ground, suddenly
reddened with blood. The Cuban's hand had been shot