Like the old mill, the residence was in darkness.
Not a light shone, nor was there a sound to be heard.
"This eerie stretch of ground makes one think of a graveyard," thought Darrin, with a comical little shiver, as his left hand gripped his sword scabbard tightly to prevent it clanking against his left heel.
He turned to look behind him.

Riley and twelve armed seamen were following him like so many unsubstantial spectres.
Past the mill, and down the road to the house strode Darrin, but his moving feet made hardly a sound.
A little before the house ran a line of flowering tropical hedge.
Darrin gained this, and was about to pass in through an opening in the hedge when a figure suddenly appeared in the darkness right ahead of him.
A rifle was leveled at the young ensign's breast, and in a steady voice came the hail that set the young ensign's heart to beating fast: "_Quien vive_" It was the Spanish challenge---"Who goes there ?".