I can see them now as they stood there—the Skipper, his face beaming with good nature; the Bo's'n, bashful, but enjoying the privilege of drinking on an equality with his Captain; Cynthia, looking on, half amused. I see them against the background of that dim cavern, the sunlight flecking the floor and wall in spots, where it had pierced the lattice work of leaves. There was a human background also, composed of two figures, the sleeping lad, and Lacelle who hovered ever near her rescuer and protector. And behind all we were conscious of a presence, we knew not quite what, but a kindly personality, which aided us with unobtrusiveness and in a thousand thoughtful ways. With all the privations that we suffered, with all the anxieties and troubles that we had to bear, there is still something which fascinates and draws me back to much that I experienced in those days—dead this many a year. The sweetest odours were wafted in through the leaves, the mocking-bird sang as nothing but a mocking-bird can sing, the vines swayed to and fro in the open window. Glancing between, one perceived the wondrous blue water of the Caribbean Sea, dotted with the white caps of which the trade wind is ever lavish, and, above all the sounds of voices and singing of birds, there was the lap and swish of the fierce little waves as they rushed up over the shingle. It was May, the latter part of May, and the seasons, following round as our seasons at Belleville do, brought each their variety of leaf and flower. If one leaned out of the natural window in the blazing sun, with the fresh wind blowing the hair awry, one's eyes rested on a slope of brilliant tropic colour, where creepers hung from the trees or threaded under and over fallen forest giants, or crept down the hill and made beds and masses of bloom too beautiful to be credited. Great yellow velvet cups stood out from their background of green. Lilies of white and crimson drooped from stems which glowed with life. Had we been but free from care, and had Cynthia possessed but the ordinary comforts to which she had been wonted, I should have asked for nothing better than to pass the rest of our days in this enchanting spot.

We had drained our glasses dry. The Skipper looked directly at the Bo's'n's knees.

"What do you wear your trousers at half mast for, Bo's'n?" asked the Skipper.

The Bo's'n looked down and tugged at his shrunken cotton legs.

"For Captain Dacres, sir," replied he, with ready wit.

"We're through mourning for him," said the Captain. "Run 'em up or haul 'em down."

"They've shrunk to hell and gone, sir," said the Bo's'n, with superfluous explanation.

"And where's your toast, Mr. Jones?" asked the Skipper in his most enticing voice. His glass was empty.

"It's ready, sir, but my glass is dry."

We all took a finger more, and I, looking over the rim of my pewter cup at Cynthia, gave them "Sweethearts and Wives."

Cynthia expressed it as her conviction that we had all had quite enough, and replaced the bottle upon a ledge in the rock and then resumed her occupation of looking through the glass.

"Cynthy," said the Skipper suddenly, "you must get married."

Cynthia started as if a bombshell had exploded in the cavern. She dropped the glass, so that I feared it had been broken as it thumped upon the stone flooring.

"Married, Uncle? Are you insane? Married!"

"I mean it, Cynthy." The Skipper wagged his head and drained his glass dry.

Cynthia drew herself up to her full height. She was only a slight young girl, dressed in a blue dungaree not much the better for her stay ashore, but if I ever saw dignity personified, it was then.

"And to whom, Uncle? To one of the pirates, to the ghost of the cave, to the Minion, to this little English lad, or to yourself? I really don't see any one else I could possibly marry."

"It isn't any of those," said the Skipper, as if Cynthia was quite as forgetful of my presence as she seemed. "You've missed one, Cynthy; it's Jones here," and he indicated me with a jerk of his short stub thumb over his shoulder in my direction.

CHAPTER XII.
THE SKIPPER AGAIN ENACTS THE RÔLE OF CHAPLAIN.

"So—so—mor—ti—tified. Doesn't—ca—care—fo—for—me—at—atall. Don't ca—care—for—hi—hi—him." I flew through the passage, up over the hill, and down the eastern slope. There I found the Minion, still lying stupid and heavy. I bathed his hot head and moved him farther into the shade, whereupon he snarled at me, and asked me, as far as his limited vocabulary permitted, to attend to my own affairs. Finding myself unwelcome, I looked about for occupation, loitered miserably up the beach, feeling that Belleville was the place for me, after all. As I walked thus, gloomily thinking, I raised my eyes, and looking along the shore, I saw something white underneath a tree not a hundred feet away. I quickened my pace, and there, at the foot of an immense ironwood, I discovered a necktie. I at once recognised it as the Bo's'n's. So this was the tree that he had climbed when he asked me not to look. There above me was desposited a part or the whole of our splendid treasure. I scanned the tree with curiosity. I saw some scratches upon the bark, and was pleased with myself to feel what a keen insight I possessed into the ways of man from the traces which I could procure in this way. I had heard of the Bow Street detectives, and I felt all at once that I might rank with the most clever among them. There were several large deserted nests in the tree, and I at once decided that these contained our hidden fortune. Well, it was a very good place, for no one would ever dream that jewels were hidden up there in the ironwood. I was puzzled as to how the Bo's'n had managed to get himself up the tree, but that he was a good climber I knew, going up any kind of rigging at all hours of the day or night and in any weather, and I felt that what would be a matter of much difficulty to most men would be merely child's play for the cat-like Bo's'n. I stuffed the necktie into my pocket, with a good mind to give the Bo's'n a few words of advice when we met. He had been careless beyond words, and if he must climb to hide the treasure, and if he must remove his neckerchief, why not put it into his own pocket, instead of forcing me to put it into mine? There was small need for the Bo's'n to array himself in a neckerchief. In the first place, it was hot weather, and then a man with both shirt sleeves gone has no need of beautifying. I felt very cross toward the Bo's'n for his carelessness as I wandered, not knowing where to go. I glanced toward the westward, and saw that the little boat was still there. She had been washed sideways against the beach. The heavy rock attached to the painter had held her there. I scanned the ocean; there was nothing to be seen but a small portion of the deck of the Yankee Blade standing up out of the water. This, of course, we could not see while the smoke hung round the wreck, and lately there had been so much to claim our attention that we had not thought of looking seaward.

I crossed the stream on the great tree and ran down the beach toward the place where the boat lay. I was glad to see her again. I walked into the water and pushed and pulled and twisted her round, until finally I got her afloat. I climbed over the gun'l and paddled idly about, hardly knowing what to do with myself. I did not like to return to the cave. From Cynthia's last words, I felt that she wanted never to see me again. I was very wretched and extremely mortified. I landed the boat in the cove and went slowly up the hill, and sat myself down under a tree in a most dejected frame of mind. I had been there but a few minutes when I heard a tramping through the underbrush, and the puffing of some animal, brute or human. I pulled out my pistol and looked to the priming, but in a moment I heard a snort which I knew, and saw the Skipper making toward me as fast as his short legs could carry him.

"Don't shoot!" said the Skipper; adding, with neither breath nor grammar, "It's me," Another gasp to get his breath, and then the words, "She's consented."

"Whose consented to what?" roared I.

"Why, Cynthy. She's consented to be married to you."

"Oh, she has, has she? Well, then, Captain Schuyler, you can go and tell your niece that it usually takes two to make a bargain."

"That's polite," returned the Skipper. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself after all the fuss I've had to get her to come round?"

"Ashamed!" returned I. "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself to propose such a thing;" and then, my feelings being too strong for me, I subsided with the brilliant exclamation, "The idea!"

The Skipper looked sheepish.

"Yes, it's all my idea," he began eagerly, but I cut him short.

"Are you really insane," said I, "or are you only feigning lunacy?"

"I'm as sane as you are," said he, "and a great deal saner. Imagine it"—he addressed a supposititious audience—"here's a man asked to marry a lovely young girl, plain but amiable——"

"That's where you're wrong," said I. "She hasn't a plain hair in her head, and she's damned unamiable. Go on and tell some more lies."

"Now think of his gettin' so mad as that—at an old man who only wants to do him a favour."

"You've made me ridiculous, that's what you've done; you've made me a laughing stock, and I won't stand it, Captain Schuyler, I——"

"Oh, come, come, now, Jones! I want to tell you my idea. I know just how much you love that girl, and I know just as well that she don't care two straws for you."

"The devil you do!" said I sulkily.

"But something's got to be done! That girl has only me, her old Uncle, to look after her. I'm an old man, Jones. Perhaps I shan't be able to stand all that you young people may have to. If anything happens to me, I want to feel that Cynthy has a protector."

"I should always do my best to take care of your niece, Captain Schuyler," said I; "but how do you know she doesn't care two straws for me?"

"Why she says she doesn't, and any one can see it with half an eye. I reelly believe," said the Skipper, pointing his remark with a very horny forefinger, "that she would like the Bo's'n, or even the Minion, better."

"And yet you insult us both by asking us to marry each other."

"No, I ain't. I'm asking her to marry you. Lord, Jones, I ain't thinking of you. Now, you see, it's this way, Jones. You're more in her station of life. To be sure, you haven't the proud lineage of William Brown—his mother's great aunt is a Schuyler—but you're nearer to it than the Bo's'n, besides which your position aboard the Yankee Blade was enough. And then, you know, it isn't a reel marriage. You can give each other up at any time. She expects firmly to marry William when she gets home. He'll be waitin' for her on the dock. I presume she's told you?"

"Yes, she has told me," said I.

"You see, if you were married to Cynthy, and anything should happen, and she needed a protector—— Oh, darn it all, Jones, can't you see what I mean?"

"What did you mean by saying that she has consented?"

"Why, she has, she reelly has. I put it to her in such a way that she says she sees my point, and she will go through the form of marriage——"

"A hollow mockery!" I broke in. "I won't consent."

"What, after all the trouble I've taken? You must, Jones. You can't refuse a la——"

"We have no clergyman," argued I. My heart thumped at the bare idea of standing up and holding Cynthia's hand before witnesses.

"I'm one," said the Skipper, drawing himself up proudly, so that I began to think that his recently developed fad for playing chaplain was at the root of his desire for this marriage. "A captain is always a clergyman on the high seas."

"On the high seas!" returned I, looking sarcastically round at the mossy hillside.

"Don't be a fool, Jones! See there!" He parted the low-sweeping branches. I looked out to sea, where a little bit of the wreck showed over the white-capped surface of the water.

He pointed with his short finger.

"You see that deck there? That represents power, Jones, one man power. I'm absolute monarch there, Jones. I'm clergyman on those bits of planks, Jones. There I'm prophet, Jones. There I'm priest, Jones, and there I'm king."

"You are not," said I, my orthodox blood boiling in my veins. "You're an old blasphemer, Captain Schuyler!"

"Well, you'll see whether I am or not. I'm goin' to marry you to Cynthy on that deck, just as sure as I sit here."

"How did she happen to consent?" asked I, beginning to weaken at this delicious prospect.

"All on my account," said the Skipper. "Now stop askin' questions and come along."

I wondered why Cynthia had consented. I could not understand it. As for me, my brain was on fire at the thought, and I made up my mind then and there that when the words were spoken that made Cynthia mine William Brown might stand on the dock and whistle for his bride until the millennium. I felt in my waistcoat pocket for the little ring. Yes, there it was, quite safe. It would come into use more quickly than I had imagined. My thoughts were such happy ones that I arose with beaming face and started toward the cave.

"Oh, you needn't be in a hurry; she don't want you. Besides, she's got her dress to wash. Lazy's going to help her."

"You told me to come," said I appealingly.

"Yes, because she told me to take you away out of her sight. Promised her we'd take the boat and pull along the beach aways, and leave her free. The dress won't take long to dry in the sun and wind."

So it was to be a mock marriage, after all!

"I hope you've got some money, Jones," said the Skipper. "Not that I am anxious for a rich husband for my niece, but it's always well——"

I smiled consciously, feeling that the Skipper would be perfectly satisfied with my share of the fortune hidden by the Bo's'n for our mutual benefit.

"I don't own the Belleville copper mines, it is true," said I, "but what I own is rather more negotiable than their products. I will tell you a secret, Captain, if you will promise me never to tell a soul, not even your niece."

"Honest Ingun!" said the Skipper.

I leaned over and whispered in his ear in exultant tones:

"I shall never need to go to sea after this trip, Captain." I was just on the point of telling him more, but my promise to the Bo's'n suddenly came to mind, and I shut my lips over my teeth as if they were screwed together.

"The reason I ask you is this," said the Skipper. "I shan't have anything to leave my niece, and my sister Mary 'Zekel is no better off than I am. You see," said Captain Schuyler, "there's usually a rich branch in a family and a poor one. I belong to the poor branch. We couldn't all be educated—money wouldn't hold out. I've got a brother who's fit to be a professor. Nothin' he don't know. Just as pleasant to me as if I was the most learned man in the world. That's the nice thing about the Schuylers. None of 'em ashamed of their relations. My mother was a cousin of the general's. I suppose you think I've got no right to the name of Schuyler, but I'd like to know who is nearer to a man than his own mother? Suppose my father's name wasn't Schuyler. I claim that I have just as much right to the hawk as if I was one of the rich ones, and my name is Schuyler as well as my mother's. Same blood runs in my veins. Maybe a poor quality of blood, but it's got Schuyler into it, and you can't get it out."

The day passed with a combination of haste and speed that I have never known equalled. It dragged when I thought that the setting sun would see Cynthia my wife. It flew when I thought how she would scorn me, flout me, and hate the very idea of being bound to me.

"Remember, Jones, it's only a 'sort-of' bond, not actual marriage," said the Skipper for the twentieth time as we pulled slowly along the shore, looking for a fresh supply of oysters.

When we returned, late in the afternoon, Cynthia was sitting on the shore clothed, but hardly in her right mind. I could not help pitying her, my poor dear! though she began to, as I had expected, flout me at once, not waiting, as most wives do, until after marriage. The blue dungaree had been washed, but it was streaked and wrinkled in places, and still damp in spots. A wave of pity welled up in my heart for this poor girl, who must consent to marry me, willy nilly. It seemed so brutal to force her into this thing. And yet I reflected that it was my portrait, of which I had caught a glimpse, hanging to her chain.

"She says you may call her Cynthy," whispered the Skipper in my ear. I left him and walked up from the boat. "I'd start right in on it if I was you."

Cynthia sat on the shelving bank of the little stream, throwing pebbles into the sea.

I started in bluntly, waiting for no preliminaries.

"I understand," said I, "perfectly, that you are yielding to your Uncle's wishes in this thing. I promise to treat you just as I have heretofore."

Had I not known for certain from the Skipper, as well as from herself, that Cynthia could never care for me, and that William Brown had an irrevocable hold upon her affections, I should have thought that she looked a trifle disappointed.

"It is hard," returned Cynthia, "for a person to be forced upon a person by another person, when that person can't make the person that's forcing her on the other person understand that she don't care anything about the other person, or that the other person don't care anything about the person, but I don't see what we are to do about it."

"Whether I am forced upon you or not," said I, "I intend to tell you right here very plainly that you are not forced upon me. I have not the slightest intention of going through one of those ridiculous misunderstandings that one reads of in novels when one word can clear it up. What have I told you, Cynthia, ever since I saw——"

"Miss Archer, please."

"Your Uncle said I might——"

"Oh, very well, then, go on," said Cynthia wearily.

"What have I told you since I first met you on board the Yankee Blade, Miss Cynthia, Miss Archer?"

"No matter about the 'Miss,'" she said. "You'll have the right to call me whatever you choose by sunset."

"To call you wife," said I sentimentally.

Cynthia arose.

"If you say that now, I'll go away," her face the colour of that sunset of which we had been speaking.

I resumed.

"I have told you ever since I first met——"

"Yes," said Cynthia, with spirit, "and you told it to me a little too often, Mr. Jones. One of those girls at Martinique told me all about you. She said that the handsome Captain of the Seamew had made love to her and had given her his picture."

"Which one was that?" said I.

"Were there so many?"

"Lot's of 'em," said I.

Cynthia arose with dignity. "I'm going in," she said.

"Why?" asked I, with all innocence.

"And I shall tell Uncle that this ridiculous marriage shall not take place."

"Just when you've washed your dress and all," said the Skipper, coming up in time to hear this avowal.

"Sit down a moment, Miss Archer," I pleaded.

"I'm goin' to get the witnesses," called back the Skipper, as he walked quickly toward the hill. "Tide's nearly down."

"I've given my picture to a dozen girls, Cynthia. Girls are always asking for pictures, but as to loving any of those chocolate drops, I never really loved any but——"

"Heloïse Grandpré!" broke in Cynthia.

So she was the one! My conscience did prick me a little when I remembered certain veranda corners and vine-wreathed balconies, but, of course, I knew now that that had not been the real thing. None of them had ever been the real thing, and I had thought I would have died for some of those girls.

It's just looking for a ship at sea. You go on deck and discover a distant sail upon the horizon. The vessel is hull down, and without the glass you can't be sure what she is. You watch her until she gets nearer and nearer. She comes up over the curve after a while, and you say, "Pshaw! that's nothing but a schooner." You watch again for your full-rigged ship, and again you see a bit of sail down there against the gray, or the red, or the blue, and you say to yourself: "There she is this time for sure! Just wait until she heaves in sight." Up she comes again, and she isn't the one you're looking for, after all. Again you go on deck. You haven't any glass, and that new bit of white over there on the edge of the world, against the golden glow, isn't any nearer than the others. But there's no mistaking her. You know her at first sight, and you don't need any glass, either, to tell you that it's your ship, and that she's coming home from sea to you, thank God! with all her priceless cargo in her hold, her sticks lofty and straight, and her swelling canvas as full of God's breeze and blessing as they can carry. So it was with me. I had been in love with forty different girls in forty different countries of forty different colours and forty different ages—there was a widow down at the Cape of Good Hope. Oh, good Lord! how she did——

"I see that you have not forgotten her," said Cynthia. I started, and returned suddenly from the Cape of Good Hope.

"No, and never shall, if she comes between us now."

"I am not so easily taken in, Mr. Jones."

"Neither am I. I had hoped yesterday that at least you had grown to care for me a little. I saw a chain——"

Cynthia put her hand quickly to her neck.

"You saw my chain?"

"Yes, while your Uncle and I were carrying you."

"My Uncle and you! O Mr. Jones! carrying me?" in a tone as if to say, "What shall I hear next?"

"Yes, we were. The locket flew open, Cynthia, and I saw——"

"You saw William Brown," said Cynthia in a very dignified tone.

"Not at all," said I. "O Cynthia! is it any wonder that I was encouraged?"

Cynthia was fumbling with her chain. She pulled the locket from its hiding place; a look of consternation overspread her face.

"I've lost my ring!" she said.

"What ring?" asked I. "Oh, that curious serpent ring! It is probably in your sleeping chamber."

She slid her nail under the edge of the case of the locket and opened it.

"There!" she said triumphantly, holding the locket as far from her neck as the chain would allow. "Who is that?"

"Shall I really say?" I asked, hesitating on her account.

"Say? Of course! Who is that? Oh, I forgot! You never saw William Brown."

"No, I never did," said I, "except in a sickly looking picture that's giving some shark indigestion, I hope, by this time. But the picture that you do me the honour to wear is myself."

"It isn't!" said Cynthia flatly.

"It is!" said I.

"Good Heavens, no!"

She snapped the slide of the chain apart, held the locket up before her eyes, gave one glance at the face, and then, with a quick movement of her hand, she tossed the locket into the stream.

"Why don't you throw it into the sea?" asked I.

She answered carelessly, "Oh, I think the stream will carry it down."

Cynthia sat in meditative pose for some moments. "Now where could that have come from? Oh, yes! I believe I know now. Yes, that must be it. You see Heloïse and I were comparing lockets one day just before I left Martinique. I remember now that William Brown's picture was always loose. It fell out. Heloïse had this one of you, and somehow, as we were putting them back, they got exchanged. I remember Heloïse admired William Brown very much. She said she thought him the handsomest man she had ever seen. I can send Heloïse this, and she will send me William."

"Mine's in the stream," said I. "Did you know who the picture was meant for?" I asked.

Cynthia cast down her eyes.

"I had seen you passing the hotel," she answered. "Uncle told me that you were the new Mate."

I arose crestfallen. That perfidious Heloïse!

"Then this absurd marriage is off?" said I.

"Well," said she, "you know what Uncle is. He's set his heart—I hate to disapp——"

"Come and get your pork!" called the Skipper.

We went up to our early supper.

"Wonder what kind of weather we're goin' to have for the weddin'?" said the Skipper.

"It may rain," said I. "You know there was a rainbow this——"

"Now! now! now! None of that!" The Skipper raised his hand as if in protest. "I know what you're agoin' to say, Jones. Everything that happens in the morning you must take warning about just because it rhymes. And everything that happens at night must be a sailor's delight because it rhymes. Why, one of the worst harricanes that I ever knew happened to me off Hatteras when we had had a rainbow the night before. Ricketts was Mate. He came up to me along about seven o'clock one evening and he says, 'Cap'n Schuyler, we are mighty lucky this trip. Do you see that rainbow, sir?' 'What of it?' said I. I didn't fancy that fellow much. He wore a ring. Well, the next morning it began to blow, and it blew so it nearly blew my teeth out. Did blow the Mate's hair off. It was a wig. I was glad of it. He shouldn't have been so presuming. Had to go all the way to Coenties Slip with a red waistcoat buttoned round his head. Another time, I remember, I had a young supercargo with me, taking a trip for his health. It wasn't a fair division. I know he made me sick enough before we got through. I came on deck one morning, and he had the assurance to tell me that we would have fine weather now right down through the Windward Passage.

"'How do you know?' said I. 'Ever been there before?'

"And then, if you'll reelly believe me, he projuced a book, with all those rhymes printed in it, and he read 'em aloud for my benefit.

"'Here's one, Captain, that perhaps you've never seen.' And then he puffed out his chest and got up on a hawse block and read:

"'Get off that hawse block!' said I. I threw the book overboard and kicked the supercargo down to leeward. 'You stay your own side the deck,' I said, 'and don't come here with your saws.' For just that moment there came along a squall which nearly took the sticks out of her, and we had just been experiencing 'evenin' red and mornin' gray,' 'When they made you a supercargo, Mr. Whiting,' said I, 'they spoiled a good loblolly boy.'

"'A little knowledge is a very dangerous thing, Captain Schuyler, as perhaps you'll find out when you get home,' said he.

"'Don't answer back your betters, sir,' said I. 'I suppose you think you're a very superior cargo, but, if the underwriters ask my opinion, I shall tell 'em I consider you a blanked inferior one. Get down there to leeward, where you belong!'"

"Was he handsome, Uncle, that young supercargo of yours?"

"Well, not so's you'd notice it after I'd finished with him. It's astonishing how soon he lost his good looks.—I tell you, Jones, it's all because of the rhyme. That's all poetry's written for. Facts are not accounted of at all. Rainbow at night, sailor's delight; rainbow at morning, take warning. Did you ever hear such stuff?"

"What became of the supercargo?" asked Cynthia, who had listened, much interested. "I suppose you took off his head or something, Uncle. You are so fierce." She laid her hand on the old man's back and patted his shoulder gently.

"No, but his father took mine off. He was half owner, and I didn't sail for him any more after that trip. There was another idiot with me along in '9. If you wanted a proof that all the fools were not dead yet, there you had it. It was along back in '9, as I said. I was going from Australia to Singapore. We were running down our Easting, making very fine weather. He comes to me one morning, and he says to me, 'Cap'n, the cyclone is upon us!'

"'Oh, it is,' says I. 'I suppose you got that out of your poetry book. Do you know that our Cook's half black, Mister Superior Cargo?'

"'No, sir, I haven't seen him yet. Is he, indeed?' says the fellow, with great interest. 'I never heard of one like that. Where do they come from?'

"'From the galley,' says I.

"Just then Cook brought me some of the men's mess to taste.

"'You said he was half black, sir,' said the supercargo, looking in the man's coal-black face.

"'He isn't half white, is he?' says I.

"Tell you the truth, that fellow never understood me, and thought the whole voyage out to Singapore that I had been lying to him."

After our frugal meal was finished, the Skipper led the way to the boat. Cynthia was very pale during the trip, and I felt once or twice as if it were my duty to forbid the banns. As bridegroom, I was not allowed to pull, and the Skipper, who had made his toilet by washing his face and running his fingers through his hair in preparation for his duties as clergyman, was not allowed to soil his hands on the oars, so that we were some time in getting out to the wreck. The Bo's'n had to row the whole dead weight. I can see the boat now, the Skipper and Cynthia seated in the stern, Lacelle on the seat athwart ships, close to them, the Bo's'n pulling steadily at his oars, and I perched high up in the bow, feeling like a little boy at a picnic.

It was quite a long row out to the wreck, and we were a very quiet party. The Skipper seemed to be mumbling the marriage service over to himself. The evening was calm and still. The oars dipped gently in the water, and made blue and pink ripples, the only disturbing feature of the scene except, perhaps, the marriage. Sweet odours came off from the shore, wafted how, I know not, for there was no breeze stirring. The moon was just rising, even before the sun had set, and her pale band ran undulating over the tiny wavelets that we made, and formed oblongs of silver and rose alternately.

Finally we arrived at the wreck. I saw the Skipper's mouth working as he surveyed what had been his taut little vessel. No one spoke. It seemed more like a funeral than a wedding. The Skipper was the first to step upon the charred deck.

He stood there and waved his hand comprehensively in a circle, which included all that was left of the Yankee Blade.

"Here," said the Skipper, with a twitching of the lip, "lies the sarcophagus of all my hopes."

"It ain't a reel cheerful weddin', Mr. Jones, sir, now is it, sir?" remarked the Bo's'n in a whisper. "Seein' as I ain't dressed, I think I'll send my regrets. Somebody's got to be boatkeeper."

"Don't let your wardrobe trouble you," urged I. "I've got it in my pocket," and I handed the Bo's'n his neckerchief.

A strange look overspread the features of the Bo's'n. If I had not been certain that my action ought to have provoked him, I should have said that he was pleased. But perhaps it was only at getting his neckerchief back again. At all events, he washed his hands, put on his neckerchief, took the painter in his fingers, and leaped on the deck.

"Now you go and stand right under all that's left of the Stars and Stripes," said the Skipper to Cynthia.

"I can't see how she's to get there," said I. "The rail's almost under water, and it's very slippery."

"Can't help it. That's where you've got to stand.—Here, Bo's'n, I'll hold the painter, while you help Miss Archer over to the mast."

"I can row her over in the boat," said the Bo's'n, "and come back for her husband, sir. There's hardly room for two, but if they stand close I guess they'll manage it."

The Bo's'n's remarks were somewhat premature, but I held my peace and did not look at Cynthia.

Accordingly, Cynthia was rowed over to that part of the taffrail which showed a few inches of wet surface above the water line, and the Bo's'n, having deposited her there, returned for me.

We had to stand close, indeed. We could hardly hear the Skipper as he began the service. He seemed so far away, standing with Lacelle, Cynthia's maid of honour, while my best man sat in the boat and kept her stern close to the wreck by backing water.

I placed the little thread of gold on her finger at what I thought was the right moment. I was like a lad with a new penny to spend. It burned a hole in my pocket.

"Ahoy there!" shouted the Skipper, breaking into the service and hailing me as if I were a foreign barkentine, "it ain't time yet."

"It's my time," said I.

"How's he to know, Captain Schuyler, sir?" called out the Mate as he backed water. "He's never been married before."

"How do you know?" roared the Skipper back again. "A true sailor has a wife in every port." Cynthia started and dropped my hand as if it had been a live coal. I seized her hand again, and held it as if it were all that I had to hold to in this world. She looked at me questioningly, as if she distrusted me, and I almost felt that we should never be friends again. Truly, a pleasant beginning to our married life!

I could not hear much of our wedding service, but I remember that it sounded extremely like that which the Skipper had repeated over the two sailors whom he had buried not far from this very spot. I know that he asked us if we would take each other for man and wife, and I remember that he ended with, "And may God have mercy on your souls!" I have seen this printed as a joke since then, but it was no joke to me, only sad, dead earnest. Then he piped up in his old lee-gangway voice, and sang the first verse of a missionary hymn, but because of this I felt none the less the solemnity of the occasion.

I stood in silence, looking at the lovely girl whom I was taking for my wedded wife. She allowed me to hold her hand, as in duty bound. Her trembling little paw was cold, and she stood gazing, not at me, but far out across the wide and desolate ocean. How long we should have remained thus I know not had not the Skipper awakened us by bawling across the intervening swash of water:

"You're married. Do you hear, Jones? You're married."

Cynthia spoke to me only once that evening. As we were left alone a few moments while Lacelle and the Skipper were getting into the boat, she turned to me and asked:

"Was that Heloïse's ring?"

"No," said I; "it was found in the cave."

"Perhaps that handsome pirate dropped it," said Cynthia. "That makes it so much more interesting."

CHAPTER XIII.
I COMMIT THE ERROR OF MY LIFE.

We all sat upon the beach enjoying the beauty of the late evening. The Bo's'n made us some coffee, and with ship's biscuit, oysters, a small bit of pork, water from the arch beneath the rock, and some guavas and mangoes to top off with, we made an excellent meal.

"You have given us a very nice supper, Bo's'n," volunteered Cynthia. "I find that a row like that gives one an appetite."

"Perhaps it was gettin' married, miss," remarked the Bo's'n, "though it usually takes away the appetite, ma'm. This you know"—waving his hands comprehensively over the remains of the feast—"is the wedding breakfast, Mrs. and Mr. Jones, sir."

Cynthia gave a start and glanced hurriedly at me. I must confess that it had never occurred to me that Cynthia would take my name—that is, not since she said on board the Yankee that "Jones was impossible." She got very red, and turned away and walked with Lacelle up the hill. The Skipper was taking his usual glass. He poured out a double amount. He held the cup out to the Minion, who, pale and headachy, was lying with his back to the dish of pork.

"Take some," said the Skipper, with his favourite addition, "It won't do you any good."

The Minion for reply edged away and closed his eyes. We sat silent a while as the Bo's'n washed his utensils and gathered up the remains of my wedding breakfast.

The Skipper was saying something about the horrors of the married state, when we heard the voice of Cynthia calling to him.

"What is it?" shouted back the Skipper.

Then we heard a sentence which ended with "gone."

"No, he's here."

"Who? Young Trevelyan?"

"No, Jones!—Thought she'd like to come down and enjoy the moonlight, Jones, if she knew you were gone." Pleasant for the bridegroom of an hour!

"Listen, Uncle."

"Well, I am listening; talk louder."

And then came the words, "Young Trevelyan's gone."

"Oh, well, perhaps he's just taking a little stroll."

The Minion turned over and allowed two words to escape him:

"Run'd away."

"How do you know?" asked the Skipper; and then added, "But no one would believe you if you swore it on the Westminster Catechism."

"In a boat."

"Now I know you're lyin'."

The Minion nodded his head, still weakly persistent, and then laid down again upon the grassy slope of the beach.

"There ain't any boat hereabouts," said the Bo's'n, "begging your par——"

He stopped short and surveyed the Minion contemptuously, "Forgot it was you."

"Dinghy," said the Minion.

The Captain arose lazily. "Don't talk with that fool, Bo's'n. I'm tired as three men. I'll go to bed." Bed! Poor Skipper! The soft side of a rock was his bed. I followed the Skipper shortly, and found him in close conversation with Cynthia.

"How can you be sure he's gone?" asked the Skipper.

"Why, one proof is that my blanket and pillow are gone, too."

"The ungrateful wretch!" said the Skipper.

"I don't believe he's ungrateful," said Cynthia. "He never seemed ungrateful. Perhaps the pirates came back and took him off. I wonder"—with a look in my direction—"if that handsome pirate was with them?"

"No," said I. "You may quiet your mind on that point; he's gone where all good pirates go."

"Where?" asked Cynthia.

"To the nethermost hell," answered the Skipper. "And I helped put him there."

"Of course, I don't believe you, Uncle," said Cynthia, "but——"

"The Minion seemed to know something," said the Bo's'n. "Suppose we ask him again."

"Torture wouldn't get more than two words out of him at a time," said I.

"I can," said Cynthia, with a triumphant glance at me. Accordingly, Cynthia proceeded again to the shore with her Uncle to interrogate the Minion. She gathered, after an hour's hard prodding and digging, interspersed with sudden roars mixed with a few judicious oaths from the Skipper to give her inquiries point, that the Minion awoke and found that he was quite alone. He raised up on his elbow and discovered our boat far out at sea. He supposed that it was our boat, as he saw several persons get out and on to the wreck. He laid down again, too dizzy to keep his eyes open any longer. He was aroused by a rustling in the grass, and turned over to see a man carrying the young Englishman in his arms. The Minion, afraid of nothing in heaven or hell, said "Hi!" when the man turned his head, and the Minion discovered that the intruder was no other than the Smith, who had riveted the cages upon the lad and myself. The Minion, with his limited vocabulary, managed to call the Smith a thief, and asked him why he was stealing the boy; whereupon the Smith asked him if his grandmother knew that he was in Haïti. This enraged the Minion to such an extent that he raised up on his elbow and threw stones at the Smith. He was especially angry when he saw Cynthia's pillow and blanket carried down and placed in the boat. The young man seemed to protest, but the Smith told him that it was the rule in the British navy to obey first and protest afterward, and the lad seemed too weak to make much opposition. The Smith helped himself to our biscuit and some of our water, taking one of our few utensils to carry it in. He also took a cup and got in and rowed away.

"Which way did he go?" asked Cynthia.

The Minion pointed eastward. He furthermore informed Cynthia that he saw a name upon the bow of the boat, and again when she started toward the east he saw the same name, and that he spelled it over to himself, and that he was sure that it was "Yankee Blade, No. 3."

"That's mighty curious," said the Skipper, scratching his head.

"And he tells me, Uncle, that the man he calls the Smith left a letter for you. He says it's in a place where you will find it first thing."

"Must be the rum bottle," said the Skipper, with peculiar insight. And so it was, for he found the scrawl sticking in the cleft made in the cork.

"Paddon the libutty I takes," wrote the Smith. "I opened a sawtchell and got this paper and penzill wen I found the lad wassent yere in the bigg cavern i sarched i had a fite with a big brown feller but but wen i tell im ime goan fer young trevelin he lets me in i see the brown feller goan in or i nevver shuld have find the place we had a fite outside meanin a shipes fite it was dawk i see the dingee floatin i slips overbord and swimms fer her i tears up one of the planks and paddels i lies by all day wen you go i come the is a british vessel down the coast ime a rowin fer her if i git her ill come fer you i take my recompens before hand in shipes biskits and RUM the lady must excuse my takin her pillar my boys bad and needs em so wishin you luck and ill come if i git a chance no more at presens from yours till deth james taler penock."

Cynthia and Lacelle disappeared during the reading of this finished epistle, and the Skipper, Bo's'n, and I were alone. I forgot to mention the Minion. He counted somewhat now, as he had told us something of real consequence.

Before I lay down to sleep the Bo's'n drew me confidentially aside. "The Minion has been after me," said he in a low tone, "and he says he has found a cave full of jewels, and they're his property, and no one shan't touch 'em. He's goin' to declare it before us all, and call the Skipper and God to witness his statement, and he says he'll blow on us to the Government as soon as we get home if any of us touches a ring or a pin of it."

"What did you tell him?" said I, rather alarmed, I must confess.

"I told him he had been overcome with liquor in the cave, and that he imagined all those things. He swears it's so, and I swears it ain't, and that's where it is now. I thought of tyin' him up and not lettin' him go in the cave at all."

"I wouldn't watch him," said I. "Just let him go in if he wants to. I suppose you have removed all the traces, Bo's'n?"

"Yes, sir," said the simple Bo's'n. "I suppose you kept your promise to me, and sat with your back against the outer side of the cave?"

"Yes, Bo's'n, I did," said I. "Of course, I couldn't help finding your neckerchief, you know."

"But I can trust you not to mention that, Mr. Jones, sir, to any one?"

"Oh, certainly, Bo's'n, you need have no fear of my telling your—our secret."

The night of my marriage was a very dark and gloomy one. I had been asleep but a short time when I was awakened by the Skipper. The Bo's'n was lying as far from us as he could get. His antipathy to the Skipper had not abated, and at night especially he seemed afraid to come anywhere near him. He was sleeping heavily, poor man! Most of the work came upon the Bo's'n, and I'm afraid we did not appreciate his willingness as much as we should have done.

"I have a favour to ask," whispered the Skipper.

"Ask ahead," said I. "You've done me a service to-day, Captain, which shall be a real one in time, or I'll know the reason why."

"What's that?" asked the Skipper in amazement.

"Well, no matter, if your memory's so short. Now what can I do for you?"

"I've been lyin' awake thinkin'," said the Skipper.

"So have I," I answered.

"Not what I was thinkin' of, I'll be bound," said the Skipper. "Man, as a usual thing, is so regardless of his fellow-man." The Skipper nodded his head several times, as if he were the one considerate creature that God ever made. "Man is selfish, man is occupied only with his own small affairs."

"Yes, sir," said I. "That is so."

"I was thinkin' as I lay down to-night," continued the old man in a real Wednesday-evening-meeting voice, "that those poor critters need a rest, too."

"You mean the Bo's'n and the Minion?" said I. "Yes, they do, we all do! You as much as the rest, Captain."

"If noses can speak," returned the Skipper, "the Bo's'n and the Minion are getting all they need just at present. I'm speakin' of those poor soldiers of fortune who have been standin' up for years, perhaps."

"Soldiers of fortune?" I said inquiringly.

"Well, I call 'em so. And of a pretty bad fortune, too. Now what I want of you is to come help me bury 'em."

"Oh, you mean the skeletons?" said I.

"I do," said the Skipper. I saw that the religious mania had got the weather side of him again.

"What! now?" said I. "It's so late, and I want a little sleep, too."

"I can not sleep until they are buried," said he. "Poor things, with no rest for the soles of their feet. I shall sleep easier when they are under the sod."

"We haven't any shovels, you know, Captain," I remonstrated.

"Under the sod figgeratively speakin'," said the Skipper. "We'll give 'em, as we did those two poor shipmates of ours, a burial at sea."

"But I don't see any sense in it, Captain. What is the hurry? Why won't to-morrow do? I'm so tired of funerals and weddings and bones and other horrors of all sorts."

I heard a faint exclamation, and looked up to see Cynthia standing at the back of the cave. She had come to ask for some water.

"Tired of weddings and other horrors," murmured Cynthia under her breath.

I rose to my feet, ignoring her, and addressed myself to the Skipper.

"You'll be getting ordained next, Captain," said I. "Probably as soon as we get back to Belleville."

I saw the flutter of Cynthia's dress as she vanished between the pillars, and then I turned to the Captain.

"Come on!" said I. "I wonder how many more of these ghastly, ghostly things I'll have to do before I can get any rest."

Clearly the wedding upon the wreck had awakened the Skipper's enthusiasm in regard to religious services as performed by him.

I saw that Cynthia had disappeared so soon as she made her observation upon my remark. Well, why should I be silent and willing to ever play the part of a brow-beaten lover? I let her go without a word of protest or remonstrance. I felt that I had protested too much, like some lady of whom I had read in a book picked up in some of my various voyages, and I decided to protest no more—at least to her about my love for her.

The night was overcast and dark. A slight rain was pattering on the leaves overhead. I discovered this as I emerged from the cave. I stumbled against the Skipper, who had stopped and was holding his hand out to learn whether we had falling weather or not.

"It's a horrid night to go, Captain," said I, hoping that his religious fervour would weaken.

"Yes, it is," said the Skipper, "but that makes my conscience all the more satisfied. It's a disagreeable thing to do, and we have a disagreeable night to do it in, but I shall feel so much better when it is well over. The more unpleasant our task, the more rewarded I shall feel."

I saw that my remonstrances were of no avail, and I plucked up my resolve, opened wide my sleep-benumbed eyes, and prepared to play the game of follow my leader, as a soldier his general, an acolyte his priest, a sailor his captain. As I have hinted before, it was a real dissipation for him, and, oh, how he enjoyed it!

We stumbled up the hill in the dark, bumping against trees and catching our feet in roots, even falling on our knees at times, and once we fell over each other and rolled down the hill. I was rather angry at this fad of the Skipper's, but I kept my temper and struggled on up the slope, over the top, and down the other side to the entrance of the great hall. I struck fire and examined the lamp. The oil was gone. We could do nothing in that direction, as we had no more fluid that would burn. I made a little fire on the floor of the cave, though dry sticks were hard to find. While I was so engaged, the Skipper was going through with his self-imposed task of taking the skeletons down from the niches where they hung. I remember that he had rather a difficult piece of work, for the dreadful things fell upon him with many a chink and rattle after he had unriveted the chain at the top of each arch. The Skipper was a strong man for his height, and unaided, except by their own gravity, he took the grewsome bones down and laid them upon the floor.

And now came the unpleasant part of the business to me. I had made a small torch of a pitchy sort of wood, that burns faintly for a while, and this I bound to my head with my handkerchief. The Skipper lighted the torch at my head, then he stooped and raised one of the bodies from the floor of the cave. I took the feet of the grewsome burden, the Skipper carrying the head. I preceded the old man. First we must ascend to the top of the hill, go over the crest, and then down on the western side, where our boat lay securely fastened. I was surprised at the weight of the bodies, but I recalled as a reason for this the presence of the cages, which we thought it best not to remove. They held the bones together, and kept them in position. I had found upon examination that in some of their visits the pirates must have had the bodies articulated, for in pirate crews were jacks of all trades, and thus at last I understood how the skeletons could stand there as they had for so long a time, the flesh and breath of life only wanting to make them again men in the image of God. The humour of the pirates evidently had been that the bodies should remain there forever, or until the cages dropped to pieces, and that might have occurred several generations hence. Four trips we had to make to the beach, not to speak of returning to the great hall for our dead burdens. As we carried them down, down, over hummocks, through knee-deep leaves, across bare rock and shingle, the nature of our cargo oppressed me, and it seemed as if I must drop my share suddenly and flee to the cave and to the companionship of even the sleeping Bo's'n and the more than useless Minion.

Several times the Skipper called to me that some one was walking between us. It is true that oftentimes it seemed as if the weight was very much lightened, but I was hampered and found it difficult to even turn my head. In fact, neither I nor the Skipper could well let go after once we had started.

"There's a brown fellow holding on to the middle of this lord," whispered the Skipper loudly to me.

"Nonsense, Captain!" spoke I. "It's eerie enough without your making it seem more so."

"It's a fact! Now I'm going to drop my end, and you'll see." Accordingly, the Skipper did release his hold, when, to my horror, the poor cage of bones came rattling to the earth.

"Lord! what a noise they make!" said the Skipper. "Well, I may be wrong. Something's playing the devil with my eyesight lately."

I felt like suggesting as a remedy the use of plain water at bedtime, but, though I had almost told the Skipper that I was no longer under his orders, my feeling of discipline was so strong that I could not make up my mind to say anything more of a rude or personal nature. So I held my peace and struggled on with the weights on the downward trip, and barked my shins and stubbed my toes on the return to the cavern.

At last they were all carried down to the shore—all those horrid, pitiful travesties on Nature. I struck my flint that we might lift them into the boat. It lasted but a moment; so finally I made a little fire with what few dry sticks we could find, and by its light we placed the four bodies on the thwarts. When we arrived at the beach for the last time, I found a pile of bones huddled together, and by the remnant of clothing which was still attached to the form I discovered it to be the remains of the Chief Justice. I laid these bones by the others and got into the boat. The tiny fire that I had made upon the beach was our guide and beacon. Strange to say, it began to glow brighter as we drew away from the shore, and I fancied that I saw a figure feeding the gentle flame and keeping it alight for us. We rowed for half an hour straight out to sea. The breeze was blowing fresh, but, beyond an occasional star, we had no sort of light. When, however, one has accustomed himself to going without a light at night, it is strange how well he can find his way. It has been my experience that it is never quite dark. I have heard of nights as black as Erebus, and even darker places have been used as comparisons, but I have never found a night so black that a little glow was not visible. The phosphorus of the waves as they foam and curl is a slight aid, and a true mariner always feels that he can see enough in the blackest night that good God ever made.

I rowed while the Skipper busied himself in preparing the cages with their inclosures for final service. He must have been thinking of this for some time, for he had well-twisted and braided ropes made of some of the brocade ready to fasten to the cages, and he had placed rocks in the boat which had been selected with great care. In fact, he told me that he had aided Nature in hollowing the depression round the middle of the stones, so that the rope could not slip. As we dropped the great parcels over the side there was a splash, a sudden tightening of the rope and a quick rush downward, followed by the meeting of the waters above. For my part I wanted to get over with the business as soon as possible. The Skipper was going through all sorts of religious didos. I heard him mumbling part of the wedding service, mixed with the Declaration of Independence, which in those days we all thought it sacrilegious not to know. There was something holy about it to us, and it seemed very appropriate to me. But when the Skipper ended with "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust," I looked at the dark water which lapped against the boat and shook my head. The old man did not perceive it, and we rowed back to shore, I turning my head every now and then to see if the little spark of flame was still there.

At last we reached the beach, and glad enough was I when we had fastened the boat safely and had again climbed upward to the cavern. My coming in awoke the Bo's'n, for it was nearly morning now, still dark, but about half after three, as nearly as I could judge. The Skipper had left me at the entrance of the cave, saying that he wished to go round to the great hall which had for so long been the tomb of those dead men and offer up some prayers. I argued with him that it was not after the manner of Protestants to pray for the dead; but he turned away without more words, and I heard him scrambling up through the dark and solitary woods. I feared for the old man's mind; but I knew that nothing could turn him when once he took a notion into his head, so I entered the cave alone. The Bo's'n was yawning and stretching his arms placidly.

I was the only one to greet him as he awoke.

"At last," said I, "I shall be glad to lie down, Bo's'n. Don't you disturb me in the morning until I can't sleep any longer."

"Yes, Mr. Jones, sir," said he. "Mrs. Jones has been in asking for her Uncle, and when she saw that you wassent here, sir, she seemed much worried. She asked if any new comple—compli—Well, something or other had arose."

"Bo's'n," said I, "I'm awfully sleepy, but I believe I will tell you where I have been. You will be glad to know that one horror is removed from this unpleasant place."

"I shall, indeed, sir," said the Bo's'n, beaming upon me a joyful smile. "I shall be glad to hear any good news, Mr. Jones. What is it, sir? Do tell me." I was glad to be able to cheer this amiable soul, and, though overpowered with sleep, I began:

"Bo's'n, I was asleep a while back—yes, more than two hours ago—when the Skipper came and awoke me and proposed something."

"Yes, sir," said the Bo's'n interestedly.

"I was really too tired, and I thought of calling you to help me, but I reflected that you were as tired as I, so I said I would aid in anything he wanted to do."

"That was kind, sir," said the Bo's'n. "It was like you, Mr. Jones. You can sleep now. I will see that no one wakes you."

"So I went with him to——"

"Yes, sir, yes, sir," the Bo's'n hurried me on breathlessly. "I'm wide awake now, sir, Mr. Jones, and it's so pleasant to hear something good once more. But don't let me interrupt you, Mr. Jones. Do go on."

"You will be glad, I know, Bo's'n, and so will every one of our party, really glad. When I think of this night's work, I do not regret the wind, or the dark, or the drizzling rain." The Bo's'n looked at me with impatience. "Well, to return to the Captain, he came and asked me to help him bury the skeletons."

"The What!" roared the Bo's'n.

"Skeletons, the skeletons, and we took them down——"

"What!" roared the Bo's'n again, in a tone somewhat between a squeal and a howl.

"And we buried them——"

"In the Ground, I Hope, Sir!"

"No, Bo's'n, in a much safer place than the ground. A purer, sweeter place, the place where poor Jack always wishes to lie. We buried them in the deep blue sea." My eye was moist, and I felt holy and poetic.

"What—! What——! What——!" With each word the Bo's'n's scream became more wild.

"At sixty fathoms, I should think, Bo's'n."

Now there was a faint "What?"

I looked at the Bo's'n. He was doubled up as if he had been taken with the colic. His arms clasped round his knees, he was weaving back and forth as if the agony that he suffered was excruciating in its intensity, and I doubt not from my own later attack that it was. He writhed, he groaned, he weaved, he wailed like a new-born infant. He roared like a lion, he gnashed his teeth and howled, he wept scalding tears. He rolled over and over in the dust of the cavern floor. He clutched his hair. His body shook as if he were in a rigor.

"Bo's'n! Bo's'n!" I cried. "What is it? What can I do for you? There is a little rum left in the bottle—take this."

I seized the bottle and tried to force some drops down his throat; but he shook himself away from me, scrambled to the other side of the cave, where he squatted in a corner, and glared at me as if he were a wild beast, and as if I had been one, too.

"Bo's'n! Bo's'n!" I said to him encouragingly. But he sat doubled up in a heap, glowering at me with basilisk eye. He emitted at intervals howls of rage and pain, the like of which I had never heard equalled. I felt sure that he had suddenly gone out of his mind.

"What have you done to the poor man, Mr. Jones?" asked Cynthia.

I turned to see her standing there. Her hair had fallen down, and some of the wild fern of which we had made her bed was sticking in it, poor dear!

"Done to him? You forget yourself, Miss Archer."

She started as I addressed her. I turned again to the Bo's'n.

"I don't like your looking at me in that way, Bo's'n," said I.

Whereupon the Bo's'n leaped into midair with a howl and a gnashing of the teeth at me. They were swift, sharp snaps, that made me jump higher even than he did himself. I looked about for a place of refuge.

"They know a coward when they see one," said Cynthia. "They are just like animals for the time being." She approached the Bo's'n guardedly and held out her hand to him with a frightened look on her face.

"Here, Bo's'n, Bo's'n, good Bo's'n," she said, as if coaxing a dog.

"Better go away, ma'm. I'm afraid I'll bite," snapped the Bo's'n.

Cynthia jumped back with a little squeal.

"Come, no more of this nonsense!" said I.

"Get out!" said the Bo's'n.

"I don't like to have you speak so to me, Bo's'n," said I. "It isn't pleasant, and it isn't respectful."

"You'll find it a damned sight more disrespectful, sir, before I've done with you, Mr. Jones, sir," answered the Bo's'n.

"What is it, Bo's'n? Do tell me."

By this time the Bo's'n had his arms held tightly round his stomach, as if the pain was too great to bear. I walked across the floor of the cave and stretched out my hand to him, speaking in a soothing voice, and begging him to let me do something to make him easier.

"Don't come near me, Mr. Jones, sir," said the man. "I am afraid of what I shall do to you. I knew—I knew it! When you threw that—that—you know—in the water——"

"If there has been mischief done, Bo's'n, let me repair it," said I.

"Can you raise the dead?" asked the Bo's'n in tones sepulchral.

"You have driven the poor man crazy, Mr. Jones," said Cynthia.

I turned my back on her. I was very angry with the Bo's'n and with her.

"Can you plunge to the bottom of the sea and bring up them corpses?"

"No," said I; "of course not. Why should I?"