Panschavar took the glass and surveyed the island. It rose abruptly to a conical peak, a thousand feet high at least. There was a narrow space of green turf at the summit, with a few trees about it; the rest was covered with jungle. The sides of the mountain came down very steeply, and to a certain height they were terraced like the rice-fields in some parts of the South Sea.

As the schooner ran closer, though, he could see a cluster of old wooden buildings nestled at the base of the cliffs. There was something strange about them; they looked deserted.

"There's something wrong here," said Tasufin. "My guess is that there's black magic at work. It's no use going closer yet. We'll stand off in the channel till morning. There's bound to be a cave or two among those cliffs."

Panschavar looked with misgivings towards the cliffs. The rocks were sheer and forbidding, and the cliffs were dark even in the sunlight. There was no sign of a way up, but he could see several dark, yawning holes.

“Well, we'll anchor here for the night, my lads,” said the captain. The schooner rolled on the smooth water in the lee of the island, and the anchor was dropped.

That night Panschavar had a hard time of it. The wind was still strong, and the schooner swung around on the anchor rope, plunging and rolling so much that he was kept awake most of the night.

In the morning, the wind was blowing fresher than ever, and the whitecaps raced across the sea. Panschavar went on deck, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stared about for a moment before his mind was fully awake.

The first thing he noticed was that the village had disappeared. He looked with surprise in every direction, but could see only the cliffs, now standing out more distinctly in the light than they had done the previous evening, when the sun was already setting behind them.

“Where’s the village?” said he. “It was there last night, and now it's gone. It's the devil's work, if you ask me.”