With a loud and ringing cheer, there dashed in upon them fifty bold British tars, pistol and sword in hand, led on by Lieutenant Garnet and Wildfire Ned!

Death-wing (for such the Skeleton Chief was called), with a sudden bound, leaped from his high seat, sword in hand.

“Treachery!” he cried, and dashed upon Wildfire Ned, with bitter curses on his lips.

The conflict on all sides was dreadful.

Lieut. Garnet and his men did all that men could do, and performed prodigies of valour.

But their weapons did not seem to make any impression upon the Skeleton Crew.

Guns and pistols were fired at them, but all in vain.

The clash of swords and the gleam of daggers was heard and seen on every hand.

More than one of the gallant sailors was struck down by their ghostly foes.

“Death to them all, and spare not!” shouted Death-wing, the Skeleton Chief, with a loud laugh of triumph.

His ponderous sword swept through the air like a lightning flash.

On all sides he cut with unerring aim; but though he assailed Wildfire Ned with the fury of a demon, he could not slay him.

In rage and disappointment he growled, “This brat must have a charmed life; on to him, men, on to him, cut him limb from limb!”

With a shout of defiance Wildfire Ned met the onslaught of more of the Skeleton Crew.

But he handled his sword with such quickness and precision that he gallantly beat them back.

The tide of battle ebbed and flowed.

Success for a moment attended the Skeleton Crew, and they drove the sailors to the wall.

In an instant, however, and as if by magic, Wildfire Ned dashed again to the front.

“They are beaten!” he cried; “they give ground! Down with the demons! scatter their ghastly bones! Follow me!”

It was quite true.

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