They were in a circular cavern from which three other tunnels like the one they had passed through, diverged.  The walls, lit up by fifty or sixty candles stuck at irregular intervals in crevices of the rock, were of glittering quartz and mica.  But more remarkable than all were the inmates of the cavern, who were ranged round the walls; men, who like their attendants, seemed to be of extra stature; who had blackened faces, wore red bandanna handkerchiefs round their heads and their waists, and carried enormous knives and pistols stuck in their belts.  On a raised platform made of a packing box, on which was rudely painted a skull and cross bones, sat the chief or leader of the band covered with a buffalo robe; on either side of him were two small barrels marked “Grog” and “Gunpowder.”  The children stared and clung closer to Polly.  Yet, in spite of these desperate and warlike accessories, the strangers bore a singular resemblance to “Christy Minstrels” in their blackened faces and attitudes that somehow made them seem less awful.  In particular, Polly was impressed with the fact that even the most ferocious had a certain kindliness of eye, and showed their teeth almost idiotically.

“Welcome,” said the leader.  “Welcome to the Pirate’s Cave!  The Red Rover of the North Fork of the Stanislaus River salutes the Queen of the Pirate Isle!” He rose up and made an extraordinary bow.  It was repeated by the others with more or less exaggeration to the point of one humourist losing his balance!

“O, thank you very much,” said Polly, timidly, but drawing her little flock closer to her with a small protecting arm; “but could you—­would you—­please—­tell us—­what time it is?”

“We are approaching the Middle of Next Week,” said the leader, gravely; “but what of that?  Time is made for slaves!  The Red Rover seeks it not!  Why should the Queen?”

“I think we must be going,” hesitated Polly, yet by no means displeased with the recognition of her rank.

“Not until we have paid homage to your Majesty,” returned the leader.  “What ho! there!  Let Brother Step-and-Fetch-It pass the Queen around that we may do her honour.”  Observing that Polly shrank slightly back, he added:  “Fear nothing, the man who hurts a hair of Her Majesty’s head, dies by this hand.  Ah! ha!”

[Illustration]

The others all said, ha! ha! and danced alternately on one leg and then on the other, but always with the same dark resemblance to Christy Minstrels.  Brother Step-and-Fetch-It, whose very long beard had a confusing suggestion of being a part of the leader’s buffalo robe, lifted her gently in his arms and carried her to the Red Rovers in turn.  Each one bestowed a kiss upon her cheek or forehead, and would have taken her in his arms, or on his knees, or otherwise lingered over his salute, but they were sternly restrained by their leader.  When the solemn rite was concluded, Step-and-Fetch-It paid his own courtesy with an extra squeeze of the curly head, and deposited her again in the truck—­a little frightened, a little astonished, but with a considerable accession to her dignity.  Hickory and Patsey looked on with stupefied amazement.  Wan Lee alone remained stolid and unimpressed, regarding the scene with calm and triangular eyes.