"Are you come at last, Martin?" says she in her sweet voice. "Supper is ready this hour and more!"

"Supper!" says I.

"The goat's-flesh. I made a stew, but fear 'tis spoiled."

"Indeed," says I, "it smells mighty appetising!"

"I had no salt nor spices, Martin, but in a little garden yonder that is all run wild, I found some sage and sweet herbs."

"Good!" says I. So she brought me to the fire and there in our great turtle-shell was as savoury a stew as ever greeted eyes of hungry man.

By her directions, and will all due care, I lifted this from the fire, and propping it with stones we sat down side by side. And now she shows me two of my smaller shells, and dipping hers into the stew I did the like, and though we had no salt (the which set my wits at work) and though we lacked for bread, a very excellent meal we made of it, and the moon shedding its glory all about us.

The meal done, and while she cleansed the things at a rill that murmured hard by, I made up the fire (for after the heat of the day, night struck chill) and by the time she came back I had the flame crackling merrily. And now as she sat over against me on the stone, I saw she had been weeping. And she, knowing I saw this, nodded her head, scorning all subterfuge.

"I feared you had met with some mischance and lay hurt, Martin—or worse—"

"You mean dead?"

"Aye, dead."

"Would it have mattered so much?"

"Only that I should have died likewise!"

"Because of the loneliness?" says I.

"Indeed," she sighed, staring into the fire, "because of the loneliness."

"I serve some purpose, then, in the scheme of things?"

"Yes, Martin, you teach a woman how, even in this desolation, being weak and defenceless she may trust to a man's honour and find courage and great comfort in his strength. 'Twas foolish of me to be horror-struck at your stained garments when you had been slaying that I might eat."

"'Tis all forgot!" says I, hastily.

"And as for the murders on the ship—O Martin, as if you might ever make me believe you had committed murder—or ever could. You that under all your bitterness are still the same gentle boy I knew so long ago."

"And why should you be so sure of all this and I but what I am?" says I, staring also into the fire.

"Mayhap because I am a woman with all a woman's instinct to know the evil from the good."

Hereupon I began telling her of my exploration and describing the wonders I had seen, as the fruit-trees and waterfall. Whereupon she grew eager to explore the island so soon as she might. In a while I arose, and drawing my knife turned where I knew was fern a-plenty.

"Where away?" she questioned, rising also.

"I must make you a bed."

"'Tis done, Martin, and yours also."

"Mine!" says I, staring. "How should you do all this?"

"With the old, rusty sword, Martin. Come and see!"

So she brought me to the cave, the moon flooding the place with its pale radiance, and I espied a goodly bed of fern very neatly contrived, in one corner.

"Bravely done!" says I.

"At least, Martin, 'twill be more easy than your bed of sand, and methinks you shall have no ill dreams to-night."

"Dreams!" quoth I, and bethinking me of my last night's hateful visions (and now beholding the beauty of her) I shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No!"

"Why then, good-night, Martin."

"Wait!" says I, "Wait!" And hasting out, I brought her the grapes I had saved, telling her that though small she would find them sweet and wholesome.

"Why, Martin!" says she, under her breath as one greatly surprised, "Why, Martin!" and so vanishes into her little cave forthwith, and never a word of thanks.

Now being yet haunted by my dreams of yesternight, I went forth into the moonlight and walked there awhile, my eyes uplifted to the glory of the heavens; and now I must needs bethink me of Godby's star-time, of the dark, lonely road, of the beckoning light beyond and the welcoming arms of love. And hereupon I scowled and turned to stare away across the placid sea dimpling 'neath the moon, at the stilly waters of the lagoon, and the white curve of Deliverance Beach below; but, look where I would, I could see only the proud, lovely face and the great, truthful eyes of this woman Joan Brandon, even when my scowling brows were bent on that distant pimento tree beneath whose towering shadow Black Bartlemy had laughed his life out. So in a while I came within the cave and found it dim, for the moonbeam was there no longer, and cast myself upon my bed, very full of gloomy thoughts.

"Martin, I thank you for your grapes. To-morrow we will gather more!"

"Aye, to-morrow!"

"I found a shirt of chain-work by the pool, Martin—"

"'Tis mine."

"I have set it by against your need."

"Nay, I'm done with it, here is no fear of knives in the back."

"Are you sleepy, Martin?"

"No, but 'tis plaguy dark."

"But you are there," says she, "so I do not fear the dark."

"To-morrow I will make a lamp." Here she fell silent and I think to sleep, but as for me I lay long, oppressed by my thoughts. "Aye, verily," says I at last, speaking my thought aloud as had become my custom in my solitude, "to-morrow I will contrive a lamp, for light is a goodly thing." Now here I heard a rustle from the inner cave as she had turned in her sleep, for she spake no word; and so, despite my thoughts, I too presently fell to blessed slumber.

Now if there be any who, reading this my narrative, shall think me too diffuse and particular in the chapters to follow, I do hereby humbly crave their pardon, but (maugre my reader's weariness) shall not abate one word or sentence, since herein I (that by my own folly have known so little of happiness) do record some of the happiest hours that ever man knew, so that it is joy again to write. Therefore to such as would read of rogues and roguish doings, of desperate fights, encounters and affrays, I would engage him to pass over these next few chapters, for he shall find overmuch of these things ere I make an end of this tale of Black Bartlemy's Treasure. Which very proper advice having duly set down, I will again to my narrative.



CHAPTER XXVIII

I BECOME A JACK-OF-ALL-TRADES

Early next morning, having bathed me in the pool and breakfasted with my companion on what remained of our goat's-flesh, I set to work to build me a fireplace in a fissure of the rock over against the little valley and close beside a great stone, smooth and flat-topped, that should make me an anvil, what time my companion collected a pile of kindling-wood. Soon we had the fire going merrily, and whilst my iron was heating, I chose a likely piece of wood, and splitting it with the hatchet, fell to carving it with my knife.

"What do you make now, Martin?"

"Here shall be a spoon for you, 'twill help you in your cooking."

"Indeed it will, Martin! But you are very skilful!"

"Nay, 'tis simple matter!" says I, whittling away but very conscious of her watchful eyes: "I have outworn many a weary hour carving things with my knife. Given time and patience a man may make anything."

"Some men!" says she, whereat I grew foolishly pleased with myself. The wood being soft and dry and my knife sharp the spoon grew apace and her interest in it; and because it was for her (and she so full of pleased wonder) I elaborated upon it here and there until, having shaped it to my fancy, I drew my iron from the fire and with the glowing end, burned out the bowl, scraping away the charred wood until I had hollowed it sufficiently, and the spoon was finished. And because she took such pleasure in it, now and hereafter, I append here a rough drawing of it.

(Drawing of a spoon.)

"'Tis wonderful!" cries she, turning it this way and that. "'Tis admirable!"

"It might be better!" says I, wishing I had given more labour to it.

"I want no better, Martin!" And now she would have me make another for myself.

"Nay, mine can wait. But there is your comb to make."

"How shall you do that, Martin?"

"Of wood, like the Indians, but 'twill take time!"

"Why then, it shall wait with your spoon, first should come necessities."

"As what?"

"Dear Heaven, they be so many!" says she with rueful laugh. "For one thing, a cooking-pot, Martin."

"There is our turtle-shell!" says I.

"Why, 'tis very well, Martin, for a turtle-shell, but clumsy—a little. I would have a pan—with handles if you could contrive. And then plates would be a good thing."

"Handles?" says I, rubbing my chin. "Handles—aye, by all means, a pan with handles, but for this we must have clay."

"And then, Martin, platters would be useful things!"

"So they will!" I nodded. "These I can fashion of wood."

"And then chairs, and a table, Martin."

"True!" says I, growing gloomy. "Table and chairs would be easy had I but a saw! I could make you shelves and a cupboard had I but fortuned to find a saw instead of this hatchet."

"Nay, Martin," says she, smiling at my doleful visage. "Why this despond? If you can make me so wondrous a spoon with nought but your knife and a piece of driftwood, I know you will make me chairs and table of sorts, saw or no, aye, if our table be but a board laid across stones, and our chairs the same."

"What more do we need?" says I, sighing and scowling at my hatchet that it was not a saw.

"Well, Martin, if there be many goats in the island, and if you could take two or three alive, I have been thinking we might use their milk in many ways if we had pans to put the milk in, as butter and cheese if you could make me a press. Here be a-plenty of ifs, Martin, and I should not waste breath with so many if you were not the man you are!"

"As how?" I questioned, beginning to grind the hatchet on a stone.

"A man strong to overcome difficulty! And with such clever hands!"

Here I ground my hatchet harder than before, but scowled at it no longer.

"And what more would you have?" I questioned.

"If you could make our front door to open and shut?"

"That is easily done! And what else beside?"

"Nay, here is enough for the present. We are like to be very busy people, Martin."

"Why, 'twill pass the time!" says I.

"And work is a very good thing!" quoth she thoughtfully.

"It is!" says I, grinding away at my hatchet again.

"O Martin!" sighs she after awhile, "I grow impatient to explore our island!"

"And so you shall so soon as you are strong enough."

"And that will be very soon!" says she. "The sea-water is life to me, and what with this sweet air, I grow stronger every day."

"Meantime there is much to be done and here sit I in idleness."

"Nay, you are sharpening your axe and I am talking to you and wondering what you will make next?"

"A lamp!" says I.

"How, Martin?"

"With a shell, the fat of our goat rendered down, and cotton from my shirt."

"Nay, if you so yearn for a lamp I can do this much."

"Good!" says I, rising. "Meantime I'll turn carpenter and to begin with, try my hand at a stool for you."

"But if you have no saw, Martin—?"

"I will make me a chisel instead." Crossing to the fire I found my iron red-hot, and taking it betwixt two flat pieces of wood that served me for tongs I laid it upon my stone anvil, and fell forthwith to beating and shaping it with the hammer-back of my hatchet until I had beaten out a blade some two inches wide. Having cooled my chisel in the brook I betook me to sharpening it on a stone moistened with water, and soon had wrought it to a good edge. I now selected from my timber a board sufficiently wide, and laying this on my anvil-stone began to cut a piece from the plank with hammer and chisel, the which I found a work requiring great care, lest I split my wood, and patience, since my chisel, being of iron, needed much and repeated grinding. Howbeit it was done at last, and the result of my labour a piece of wood about two feet square, and behold the seat of my stool!

Now was my companion idle for, while all this is a-doing, she sets the turtle-shell on the fire with water and collops of meat cut with my knife, and, soon as it simmers, breaks into it divers herbs she had dried in the sun; and so comes to watch and question me at my work, yet turning, ever and anon, to stir at the stew with her new spoon, whereby I soon began to snuff a savour methought right appetising. As time passed, this savour grew ever more inviting and my hunger with it, my mouth a-watering so that I might scarce endure, as I told her to her no small pleasure.

"Had I but a handful of salt, Martin!" sighs she.

"Why, comrade," says I, pausing 'twixt two hammer-strokes, "Wherefore this despond? If you can make stew so savoury and with nought but flesh of an old goat and a few dried herbs, what matter for salt?" At this she laughed and bent to stir at her stew again.

"There's plenty of salt in the sea yonder," says she presently.

"True, but how to come at it?"

"How if we boiled sea-water, Martin?"

"'Tis method unknown to me," says I, whittling at a leg of my stool, "but we can try."

And now in the seat of my stool I burned three good-sized holes or sockets, and having trimmed three lengths of wood, I fitted these into my socket-holes, and there was my stool complete. This done, I must needs call her from her cooking to behold it; and though it was no more than a square of roughish wood set upon three pegs, she praised and viewed it as it had been a great elbow chair and cushioned at that! Hereupon, puffed up with my success, I must immediately begin to think upon building us a table and chairs, but being summoned to dinner I obeyed her gladly enough. And she seated on her stool with me on the ground beside her and our turtle-shell dish before us, we ate with hearty good-will until, our hunger appeased, we fell to talk:

She: 'Tis marvellous how well I eat.

Myself: 'Tis the open air.

She: And the work, Martin. I have swept and dusted our cottage every hole and corner.

Myself: And found nothing left by its last tenant?

She: Nothing.

Myself: Had he but thought to leave us a saw our chairs and table would have been the better.

She: Then you will make them, Martin?

Myself: Aye—with time.

She: O 'tis bravely determined.

And here, for a moment, I felt the light touch of her hand on my shoulder.

Myself: They will be very unlovely things—very rough—

She: And very wonderful, Martin.

Myself: As to these goats now, 'tis an excellent thought to catch some alive and rear them.

She: I could make you excellent cheese and butter.

Myself: If I cannot run them down, I must contrive to wound one or two with arrows.

She: Why then, Martin, why not head your arrows with pebbles in place of iron points?

Myself: Good again! Or I might make a couple of gins, running nooses cut from the goat-skin. Howbeit, I'll try!

Herewith I arose and she also; then while she busied herself to scald out our turtle-shell, I set off to get my goat-skin. And finding it where I had left it hanging on a rock to dry, I fell a-cursing to myself for very chagrin; for what with the heat of the rock and the fierce glare of the sun, here was my goat-skin all shrivelled and hard as any board. So stood I scowling at the thing, chin in hand, and mightily cast down, and so she presently found me; and beholding my disconsolate look falls a-laughing.

"O Martin," says she, "'tis well there are some things you cannot do!" Saying which, she takes up the skin (albeit it smelt none too sweet) and away she goes with it into the cave. So I got me back to my carpentry, and selecting as many boards as I required for the width of my table, fell to cutting them to their proper lengths with hammer and chisel. And despite the shade of the mighty trees that girt us round and the soft wind that stirred, plaguy hot work I found it; but ever and anon she would bring me water, in one of our shells, cool from the spring, or would sit beside me as I laboured, aiding me in a thousand ways and showing herself vastly capable and quick-witted; thus as the sun sank westwards I had all my boards cut to an even size and two of the legs, though these, being square, I must needs chop asunder with the hatchet; yet I persevered, being minded to complete the work ere nightfall if possible.

"But where are your nails?" says she, where she sat watching.

"Our nails be too few and precious," quoth I, pausing to re-sharpen my hatchet. "I shall burn holes and pin our table together with pegs."

"Why then," says she readily, "let me split and shape you some pegs."

"Spoke like a true comrade!" says I impulsively. "Sometimes I do forget you are—"

"A woman?" she questioned as I paused; and I wondered to see her eyes so bright and shining. "Here is twice you have named me your comrade, Martin, and so will I be so long as I may. You sometimes would call me your comrade when we played together years ago, and 'tis a good name, Martin. Come now, teach me how I must make these pegs for our table." So I showed her how to split divers lengths of wood and shape these as round and smooth as might be, the while I bored holes for them with a heated iron; and thus we sat side by side at our labour, seldom speaking, yet I (for one) very well content.

At length, with her assistance, I began setting the framework of our table together, joining and pinning it with my wooden pegs driven mighty secure; last of all I laid the boards across and, pinning these in place, there was our table; and though it was rude and primitive so far as looks went, yet very serviceable we were to find it.

"Well, Martin," says she, when I had borne it into our cave, "methinks my shelves and cupboard are none so far to seek!" Here she falls to patting this unlovely thing and viewing it as it were the wonder of the world; and I must needs leap upon it to prove its strength.

"'Tis over-heavy," says I, giving it a final shake, "but 'twill serve!"

"To admiration!" says she, smoothing its rough surface with gentle hand. "To-night we will sup from it. Which reminds me that supper is to cook and our meat nearly all gone, Martin, though we have plenty of plantains left." So I told her I would go fetch what remained of the carcass after supper, so soon as the moon rose. And now whiles she bustled to and fro, I chose me a little piece of wood, and sitting where I might watch her at her labours, began to carve her the hair pin I had promised.

"Our third cave should make us a very good larder!" says she busy at her new table preparing supper.

"Aye."

"'Tis so marvellous cool!"

"Aye."

"I think, because the pool lieth above it."

"Mayhap!"

"Indeed, these are wonderful caves, Martin."

"They are."

"Who lived here before us, I wonder?"

"Penfeather, like as not."

"Why should you think this?"

"Well, that door yonder was never a carpenter's work, yet 'tis well made and furnished with a loop-hole, narrow and horizontal to give a lateral fire, the which I have seen but once ere this. Then again the timbers of this door do carry many marks of shot, and Adam Penfeather is no stranger to such, violence and danger, steel and bullet seem to follow him."

"Why so, Martin? He hath ever seemed a man very quiet and gentle, most unlike such rough sailor-men as I have seen hitherto."

"True," says I, "but 'neath this attitude of mind is a wily cunning and desperate, bloodthirsty courage and determination worthy any pirate or buccaneer of them all."

"Why, courage and determination are good things, Martin. And as for Master Penfeather, he is as I do know a skilful navigator and very well read, more especially in the Scriptures, and methought your friend?"

"For his own purposes!" quoth I.

"And what are these, Martin?"

At this I merely scowled at the wood I was carving, whereupon she questions me further:

"Master Adam is such a grave and sober man!"

"True!" says I.

"And so wise in counsel—"

"Say, rather, cunning!"

"Though to be sure he once had a poor man beaten cruelly."

"Wherein he was exactly right!" says I, grinding my teeth at memory of Red Andy. "Aye, there Penfeather was very right, this fellow was a vile and beastly rogue!"

"What dreadful thing had he done, Martin?"

"Stared at you!" says I, and stopped; and glancing up, found her regarding me with look mighty strange.

"Did you mind so much?" she questioned.

"No whit, madam. Why should I?"

"Aye, why indeed!" says she and turns to her cooking again and I to my carving, yet in a little, hearing her gasp, I glanced up to find her nigh stifled with her laughter.

"Ha, why must ye laugh, madam?" I demanded.

"O Martin!" says she, "And must this poor man be whipped—and for a mere look? And you so fierce withal! I fear there be many men do merit whipping if this be sin so great."

"I see no reason in your laughter, my lady!" quoth I, scowling up at her.

"Because you have no gift of laughter, my lord!" says she, and turns her back on me.

Here I came nigh to tossing her half-finished hairpin into the fire; but seeing her turn her head, carved on for very shame.

"And are you so very angry, Martin?" I bent to sharpen my knife. "I would that you might laugh yourself—once in a while, Martin." I tested my knife on my thumb. "You are always so grave, Martin, so very solemn and young!" Finding my knife still blunt, I went on sharpening it. Here and all suddenly she was beside me on her knees and clasps my knife-hand in hers. "Indeed I had no thought to anger you. Are you truly angered or is it only that you are so very—hungry?" Now here I glanced at her and beholding all the roguish mischief in her eyes, try how I might, I could not but smile too.

"A little of both, comrade!" says I. "Though verily I am a surly animal by nature."

"Indeed yes, Martin," she sighs, "yet a very comfortable animal, and though strong and fierce and woefully trying at times, a very gentle animal to such as know you."

"And do you know me so well?"

"Better than you think, O a great deal better! Because I am a woman. And now are we friends again?"

"Yes!" says I heartily, "Yes!" And away she goes to her cooking and I mighty glad I had not destroyed her hairpin, the which (my knife being sharp) I began to ornament with all sorts of elaborations. Presently back she comes, spoon in one hand, stool in the other, and sits to watch me at work.

"What do you make now, Martin?"

"A pin for your hair."

"Why, 'tis beautiful!"

"'Tis scarce begun yet!"

Here she must needs lavish all manner of praises on my skill until I came nigh cutting myself.

"How many will you make me, Martin?"

"As many as you will."

"Three should suffice."

"Why, you have a prodigious lot of hair."

"Do you think so, Martin?" says she, glancing down at the two great braids that fell over her bosom well-nigh to her waist. "'Twas well enough in England, but here 'tis greatly in my way and hampers me in my work. I had thought of cutting it off."

"Then don't!"

"Why not, Martin?"

"Well," says I, glancing at the nearest braid that showed coppery lights where the setting sun caught it. "Well, because—" and finding nought else to say I fell to my carving again and away she goes to her cooking.

"Martin," says she at last, "what do you know of Master Penfeather? Where did you fall in with him, and why is his life so threatened?"

"All by reason of Black Bartlemy's treasure!"

"Treasure!" says she; and back she comes and onto her stool, all in a moment. "Tell me of it, Martin!"

"'Tis a great treasure of gold and jewels in such."

"And who is Black Bartlemy?"

"A foul rogue of a pirate that was killed by a poor Spanish lady, and lieth buried with her under the great pimento tree on the beach yonder."

"O Martin!" says she, getting up that she might behold the tree, "O Martin, I knew, I knew 'twas an evil place! And the poor lady died too?"

"He killed her after she had stabbed him!"

"How do you know of this?"

"Adam Penfeather told me, he saw it done!" Hereupon she sits down and is silent awhile.

"And where is this great treasure?"

"On this island!"

"Here?" says she, starting to her feet again, "Here, Martin?"

"Aye, 'twas this I was despatched to secure, after I had been rapped over the head with a pistol-butt!"

"And how must you find it?"

"I never shall, the secret of it was in the packet I tossed overboard. Adam may find it himself an he will."

"And you have no desire for this treasure?"

"None in the world." And now (at her earnest solicitation) I told her all my association with Adam, of my haunted days and nights aboard ship and my suspicions of Tressady; only I spoke nothing of Adam's avowed intent to steal the "Faithful Friend" to his own purposes.

"O wonderful!" says she, when I had done, and then again, "O wonderful! So this was why we were cut adrift. Truly Master Penfeather hath quick and subtle wits."

"A guileful rogue—and very wily!" says I, clenching my fist.

"But wherein is he rogue, Martin?"

"How!" quoth I, "was it not a wicked, vile and most roguish act to set you adrift thus, to run the peril of sea and a desolate island—"

"What other could he do, Martin, and the ship good as taken by the mutineers? I heard them shouting—for me!" and here she shivered. "True, we have faced perils, have lost all our stores, but at least here am I—safe with you, Martin!" Saying which she rose and presently summoned me to our evening meal.

Having supped, I took beneath my arm my rusty sword (the which I had sharpened and burnished as well as I might) being minded to fetch what remained of our goat: but now she comes very earnest to go with me, and I agreeing readily enough, we set out together forthwith.



CHAPTER XXIX

OF MY ENCOUNTER BENEATH BARTLEMY'S TREE

The moon was very bright, casting great, black shadows athwart our way, and now, once our familiar surroundings were left behind, we fell silent or spake only in low voices, awed by the universal hush of all things; for the night was very still and hot and breathless, not a leaf stirred and no sound to hear save the unceasing roar of the surf.

"Martin," says she, very softly, "here is a night of such infinite quiet that I grow almost afraid—"

"Of what?" I demanded, pausing to look down on her where she limped beside me. And then, 'twixt my teeth, "Is it me you fear?"

"Ah no, no!" cries she, slipping her hand within my arm, "Never, never that, you foolish Martin!" And here she looks at me with such a smile that I must needs glance otherwhere, yet methought her cheeks showed pale in the moonlight.

"Why then, what's amiss?" I questioned as we went on again and I very conscious of her hand yet upon my arm.

"I know not," she sighed, "'tis the stillness, mayhap, the loneliness and dreadful solitude, I feel as though some danger threatened."

"A storm, belike," says I, glancing round about us and across the placid sea.

"O Martin, 'tis hateful to be a woman! Why should I fear thus and no reason, 'tis folly!" And here she must pause to stamp her foot at herself. "And yet I do fear!" says she after a while. "O Martin, glad am I to have man like you beside me."

"Though another man might serve as well!" says I, "Of course?"

"Of course, Martin!"

At this I turned to scowl at the placid sea again.

"Any man?" says I at last.

"O Martin, no—how foolish under grow—'any man' might be evil as Black Bartlemy."

"I've heard I am much like him in looks."

"But then you are Martin and he was—Black Bartlemy."

After this we were silent a great while nor spoke again until we had traversed the whole length of Deliverance Sands, then:

"What manner of man?" I demanded.

Now at this she turns to look at me and I saw their lips quiver to a little smile that came but to vanish again.

"Something your sort, Martin, but without your gloom and evil tempers and one who could laugh betimes."

"Sir Rupert?" quoth I.

"He was very gay and merry-hearted!" says she.

"Yet suffered you to be beguiled and cast adrift to your great peril!"

"But stayed to do his share of the fighting, Martin."

"Ha!" says I scowling, "'Tis great pity we may not change places, he and I!"

"Would you change places with him—willingly, Martin?"

"Aye—I would so!" At this she whipped her hand from my arm and turned to frown up at me whiles I scowled sullenly on her.

"Why then, Master Conisby," says she, "I would you were anywhere but here. And know this—when you scowl so, all sullen-eyed, I know you for the very image of Black Bartlemy!"

Now as she spake thus, we were standing almost in the very shadow of that tall pimento tree beneath which Bartlemy had laughed and died, and now from this gloomy shadow came something that whirred by my ear and was gone. But in that moment I had swept my companion behind a rock and with sword advanced leapt straight for the tree; and there, in the half-light, came on a fantastic shape and closed with it in deadly grapple. My rusty sword had snapped short at the first onset, yet twice I smote with the broken blade, while arm locked with arm we writhed and twisted. To and fro we staggered and so out into the moonlight, and I saw my opponent for an Indian. His long hair was bound by a fillet that bore a feather, a feather cloak was about him, this much I saw as we strove together. Twice he broke my hold and twice I grappled him, and ever we strove more fiercely, he with his knife and I with my broken sword, and once I felt the searing pain of a wound. And now as we swayed, locked together thus, I saw, over his bowed shoulder, my lady where she crouched against a rock to watch us, and knowing myself hurt and my opponent very mighty and strong, great fear seized me.

"Run, Joan!" cried I, gasping, "O Damaris—run back!"

"Never, Martin—never without you. If you must die—I come with you!"

Mightily heartened by her voice I strove desperately to secure the hold I sought, but my antagonist was supple as any eel, moreover his skin was greased after the manner of Indian warriors, but in our struggling we had come nigh to the rock where crouched my lady and, biding my time, I let go my broken sword, and seizing him by a sort of collar he wore, I whirled him backward against the rock, saw his knife fly from his hold at the impact, felt his body relax and grow limp, and then, as my grasp loosened, staggered back from a blow of his knee and saw him leap for the lagoon. But I (being greatly minded to make an end of him and for good reasons) set after him hot-foot and so came running hard behind him to the reef; here, the way being difficult, I must needs slack my pace, but he, surer footed, ran fleetly enough until he was gotten well-nigh to the middle of the reef, there for a moment he paused and, looking back on me where I held on in pursuit, I saw his dark face darker for a great splash of blood; suddenly he raised one hand aloft, shaking it to and fro, and so vanished down the rocks. When I came there it was to behold him paddling away in a long piragua. Panting I stood to watch (and yearning for a bow or firelock) until his boat was hardly to be seen amid the moonlit ripples that furrowed the placid waters, yet still I watched, but feeling at hand touch me, turned to find my lady beside me.

"Martin," says she, looking up at me great-eyed, "O Martin, you are wounded! Come let me cherish your hurts!"

"Why, Damaris," says I, yet panting with my running, "You said this to me when I fought the big village boy years agone."

"Come, Martin, you are bleeding—"

"Nought to matter ... and I let him go ... to bring others like enough ... to-morrow I will make my bow ... nay ... I can walk." But now indeed sea and rocks grew all blurred and misty on my sight, and twice I must needs rest awhile ere we came on Deliverance Sands. And so homewards, a weary journey whereof I remember nothing save that I fell a-grieving that I had suffered this Indian to escape.

So came we to the plateau at last, her arm about me and mine upon her shoulders; and, angered at my weakness, I strove to go alone yet reeled in my gait like a drunken man, and so suffered her to get me into our cave as she would. Being upon my bed she brings the lamp, and kneeling by me would examine my hurt whether I would or no, and I being weak, off came my shirt. And then I heard her give a little, gasping cry.

"Is it so bad?" says I, finding my tongue more unready than usual.

"Nay, 'tis not—not your—wound, Martin.

"Then what?"

"Your poor back—all these cruel scars! O Martin!"

"Nought but the lash! They whipped us well aboard the 'Esmeralda' galleass." In a while I was aware of her soft, gentle hands as she bathed me with water cool from the spring; thereafter she made a compress of moss and leaves, and laying it to my wound bound it there as well as she might, the which I found very grateful and comforting. This done she sits close beside me to hush and soothe me to sleep as I had been a sick child. And I, lying 'twixt sleep and wake, knew I might not rest until I told her what I had in mind.

"Damaris," says I, "this night I lied to you ... I would not have another man in my place ... now or ... ever!" and so sank to sleep.



CHAPTER XXX

OF MY SICK HUMOURS

Next day I awoke early and my wound very painful and troublesome; this notwithstanding, I presently got me out into the early sunshine and, to my wonder, found the fire already lighted and no sign of my companion. Hereupon I fell to shouting and hallooing, but getting no answer, sat me down mighty doleful, and seeing her stool where it stood straddled on its three legs I cursed it for its unsightliness and turned my back on it. And now crouched in the sunlight I grew mightily sorry for myself thus solitary and deserted, and the hurt in my shoulder all on fire. And in a little, my self-love gave place to a fretful unease so that I must needs shout her name again and again, listening for sound of her voice, for some rustle to tell me she was nigh, but heard only the faint booming of the surf. So I arose and (albeit I found my legs mighty unwilling) came out upon the plateau, but look how and where I might, saw only a desolation of sea and beach, whereupon, being greatly disquieted, I set out minded to seek her. By the time I reached Deliverance the sun was well up, its heat causing my wound to throb and itch intolerably, and I very fretful and peevish. But as I tramped on and no trace of her I needs must remember how I had sought her hereabouts when I had thought her dead, whereupon a great and unreasoning panic seized me, and I began to run. And then, all at once, I spied her. She was sitting upon a rock, her head bowed wearily upon her hands, and seeing how her shoulders heaved I knew she was bitterly a-weeping. Therefore I stopped, and glancing from her desolate figure round about upon her desolate surroundings, knew this grim solitude for the reason of her tears. At this thought a wave of hot anger swept over me and a rage that, like my panic, reasoned not as, clenching my fists, I strode on. Suddenly she looked up and seeing me, rose at once, and lifting the great turtle-shell limped wearily towards me with this borne before her.

"Ha," says I, viewing her tear-wet cheeks as she came, "must ye weep, madam, must ye weep?"

"May I not weep, Martin?" says she, head pitifully a-droop. "Come, let us go back, you look very pale, 'twas wrong of you to come so far! Here is our breakfast, 'tis the best I can find." And she showed me a few poor shellfish.

"Give me the turtle-shell!" says I.

"Indeed I can bear it very easily, Martin. And you so white and haggard—your wound is troubling you. Come, let me bathe it—"

"Give me the turtle-shell!"

"No, Martin, be wise and let us—"

"Will you gainsay me—d'ye defy me?"

"O Martin, no, but you are so weak—"

"Weak! Am I so?" And stooping, I caught her up in my arms, upsetting the turtle-shell and spilling the result of her labours. So with her crushed to me I turned and set off along the beach, and she, lying thus helpless, must needs fall to weeping again and I, in my selfish and blind folly, to plaguing the sweet soul therewith, as:

"England is far away, my Lady Joan! Here be no courtly swains, no perfumed, mincing lovers, to sigh and bow and languish for you. Here is Solitude, lady. Desolation hath you fast and is not like to let you go—here mayhap shall you live—and die! An ill place this and, like nature, strong and cruel. An ill place and an ill rogue for company. You named me rogue once and rogue forsooth you find me. England is far away—but God—is farther—"

Thus I babbled, scowling down on her, as I bore her on until my breath came in great gasps, until the sweat poured from me, until I sank to my knees and striving to rise found I might not, and glaring wildly up saw we were come 'neath Bartlemy's cursed pimento tree. Then she, loosing herself from my fainting arms, bent down to push the matted hair from my eyes, to support my failing strength in tender arms, and to lower my heavy head to her knee.

"Foolish child!" she murmured, "Poor, foolish child! England is very far I know, but this I know also, Martin, God is all about us, and here in our loneliness within these great solitudes doth walk beside us."

"Yet you weep!" says I.

"Aye, I did, Martin."

"Because—of the—loneliness?"

"No, Martin."

"Your—lost friends?"

"No, Martin."

"Then—wherefore?"

"O trouble not for thing so small, a woman's tears come easily, they say."

"Not yours, Joan. Yet you wept—"

"Your wound bleeds afresh, lie you there and stir not till I bring water to bathe it." And away she hastes and I, burning in a fever of doubt and questioning, must needs lie there and watch her bring the turtle-shell to fill it at the little rill that bubbled in that rocky cleft as I have described before. While this was a-doing I stared up at the pimento tree, and bethinking me of Black Bartlemy and the poor Spanish lady and of my hateful dream, I felt sudden great shame, for here had I crushed my lady in arms as cruel well-nigh as his. This put me to such remorse that I might not lie still and strove to rise up, yet got no further than my knees; and 'twas thus she found me. And now when I would have sued her forgiveness for my roughness she soothed me with gentle words (though what she spake I knew not) and gave me to drink, and so fell to cherishing my hurt until, my strength coming back somewhat, I got to my feet and suffered her to bring me where she would, speaking no word, since in my fevered brain I was asking myself this question, viz.,

"Why must she weep?"

Now whether the Indian's knife was poisoned or no I cannot say, but for two days I lay direly sick and scarce able to crawl, conscious only of the soothing tones of her voice and touch of her hands. But upon the third day, opening my eyes I found myself greatly better though marvellous weak. And as I stirred she was beside me on her knees.

"Drink this, Martin!" says she. And I obeying, found it was excellent broth. And when I had drunk all I closed my eyes mighty content, and so lay a while.

"My Lady Joan," says I at last, "wherefore did you weep?"

"O Martin!" she sighed, "'Twas because that morning I had sought so long and found so little to give you and you so sick!" Here was silence a while.

"But whence cometh the broth?" quoth I at last.

"I caught a young goat, Martin; in a noose of hide set among the rocks; and then—then I had to kill it—O Martin!"

"You—caught and—killed a goat!"

"Yes, Martin. You had to be fed—but O, the poor thing—!"

"Surely," said I at last, "O surely never had man so brave a comrade as I! How may I ever show you all my gratitude?"

"By going to sleep, Martin. Your wound is well-nigh healed, sleep is all you need." And sleep I did; though at that time and for many nights to come my slumber was haunted by a fear that the Indian was back again, and others with him, all stealing upon us to our torment and destruction. But in this night I awoke parched with thirst and the night very hot and with the moon making pale glory all about me. So I got to my feet, albeit with much ado, being yet very feeble when her voice reached me:

"What is it, Martin? Are you thirsty?"

"Beyond enduring!" says I.

"Bide you still!" she commanded, and next moment she flits soft-footed into the moonlight with one of our larger shells to bring me water from the rill near by; but seeing me on my feet, looks on me glad-eyed, then shakes reproving head.

"Lie you down!" says she mighty serious, "Lie you down!"

"Nay, I'll go myself—" But she was past me and out of the cave or ever I might stay her; but scarce had I seated myself upon my bed than she was back again, the shell brimming in her hands; so I drank eagerly enough but with my gaze on the sheen of white, rounded arm and dimpled shoulder. Having emptied the shell I stooped to set it by, and when I looked again she had vanished into her own small cave.

"I am glad you are so greatly better, Martin," says she from the dark.

"Indeed, I am well again!" quoth I. "To-morrow I make my bow and arrows. Had I done this before, the Indian should never have got away."

"Think you he will return and with others, Martin?"

"No," says I (albeit my mind misgave me). "Yet 'tis best to be prepared, so I will have a good stout pike also in place of my broken sword."

"And strengthen our door, Martin?"

"Aye, I will so, 'tis a mighty stout door, thank God."

"Thank God!" says she mighty reverent. "And now go to sleep, Martin." So here was silence wherein I could hear the murmur of the breakers afar and the soft bubbling of the rill hard by, and yet sleep I could not.

"And you caught and killed a goat!" says I.

"Nay, Martin, 'tis a horror I would forget."

"And you did it that I might eat?"

"Yes, Martin. And now hush thee."

"Though indeed," says I in a little, "thus much you would have done for any man, to be sure!"

"To be sure, Martin—unless he were man like Black Bartlemy. Good-night and close your eyes. Are they shut?"

"Yes," says I. "Good-night to thee, comrade."



CHAPTER XXXI

I TRY MY HAND AT POTTERY

Next morning, having bathed me in the pool, I descended thence to find breakfast a-cooking, two noble steaks propped before the fire on skewers stuck upright in the ground, a device methought very ingenious, and told her so; the which did seem to please her mightily.

"Are you hungry, Martin?"

"'Tis a poor word for it!" says I, sniffing at the roasting steaks.

"Alas! Our poor turtle-shell is all perished with the fire. Martin, if you could but contrive me a pan with handles! I have found plenty of clay along the river bank yonder." Here she gives me my steak on a piece of wood for platter, and I being so sharp-set must needs burn my mouth in my eagerness, whereon she gravely reproves me as I had been a ravenous boy, yet laughs thereafter to see me eat with such huge appetite now a bite of plantain, and now a slice of steak cut with my knife.

"As to your pan with handles," says I, my hunger appeased somewhat, "I will set about it as soon as I have made my bow and arrows—"

"There is no need of them," quoth she, and rising, away she goes and presently comes back with a goodly bow and quiver full of arrows.

"Lord love you!" says I, leaping up in my eagerness. "Here's mighty good weapon!" As indeed it was, being longer than most Indian bows and of good power. Moreover it was tufted with feathers rare to fancy and garnished here and there with fillets of gold-work, very artificially wrought as were also the arrows. Nine of these there were in a quiver of tanned leather, adorned with featherwork and gold beads, so that I did not doubt but that their late owner had been of some account among his fellows.

"I found them two days ago, Martin, but kept them until you should be well again. And this I found too!" And she showed me a gold collar of twisted wire, delicately wrought. All of the which put me in high good humour and I was minded to set off there and then to try a shot at something, but she prevailed upon me to finish my meal first; the which I did, though hastily.

"There was a knife also," says I suddenly.

"Yes, Martin, but I threw it into the lagoon."

"O folly!" says I.

"Nay, we have two knives already, and this as I do think was poisoned."

"No matter, 'twas a goodly knife—why must you throw it away?"

"Because I was so minded!" says she, mighty serene and regarding me with her calm, level gaze. "Never scowl, Martin, though indeed 'twas goodly knife with handle all gold-work." At this I scowled the more and she must needs laugh, calling me Black Bartlemy, whereon I turned my back on her and she fell a-singing to herself.

"Think you these arrows are poisoned also?" says she as I rose. At this, I emptied them from the quiver, and though their iron barbs looked innocent enough, I held each in the fire until I judged I had rendered them harmless if poisoned they were indeed.

And now, though sore tempted to try my skill with this good bow, I followed her down to the river-bank to try my hand at pottery, though taking good care to carry my bow with me.

Being come to the river I laid aside bow and quiver, and cutting divers lumps of clay (the which seemed very proper to my purpose) I fell to kneading these lumps until I had wrought them to a plastic consistency, and so (keeping my hands continually moistened) I began to mould and shape a pot to her directions. And now, since I was about it, I determined to have as many as need be and of different sizes. My first was a great ill-looking thing, and my second little better, but as I progressed I grew more skilful so that after some while I had six pots of varying size and shape, and each with handles; and, though ill things to look at, my lady found them all she desired.

"Surely they are very clumsy?" says I, viewing them doubtfully.

"But very strong, Martin!"

"And very ponderous!"

"But they have handles, Martin!"

"And very ill-shaped!"

"'Tis no matter so long as they will hold water, Martin."

Hereupon, heartened by her encouragement, I tried my hand at a set of dishes, platters and the like, for as I grew more expert at the art, my interest increased. So I laboured all the morning, working 'neath a tree upon the river-bank, and my pots set out to dry in the full glare of the sun all of a row, and I, in my heart, not a little proud of them. But turning to look at them after some while I saw divers of them beginning to crack and gape here and there with the sun's heat, whereon my vain pride gave place to sudden petulant anger, and leaping up I demolished them, one and all, with a couple of savage kicks.

"O Martin!" cries my lady, desponding, "Is all your labour wasted? Are you done?"

"No!" says I, clenching my teeth, "I begin now!" And down I sat to my clay-kneading again. But this time I worked it more thoroughly, and so began to mould my pots and pipkins over again, and she aiding me as well as she might. This time the thing came easier, at the which my companion did admire and very full of encouragement as the vessels took shape under my hands.

"Come, Martin," says she at last, "'tis dinner-time!"

"No matter!" quoth I.

"Will you not eat?"

"No!" says I, mighty determined. "Here sit I nor will I go eat till I can contrive you a pot worthy the name." And I bent to my work again; but missing her from beside me, turned to see her seated upon the grassy bank and with two roasted steaks set out upon two great green leaves, a delectable sight.

"Pray lend me your knife, Martin."

"What, have you brought dinner hither?" says I.

"To be sure, Martin."

"Why then—!" says I, and laving the clay from my hands came beside her and, using our knife alternately, a very pleasant meal we made of it.

All that afternoon I wrought at our pots until I had made a dozen or so of all sizes, and each and every furnished with one or more handles; and though I scowled at a crack here and there, they looked none the less serviceable on the whole, and hardening apace.

"And now, comrade," quoth I, rising, "now we will fire them." So having collected wood sufficient, I reached for my biggest pot (the which being made first was the hardest-set), and taking it up with infinite care off tumbled the handles. At this I was minded to dash the thing to pieces, but her touch restrained me and I set it down, staring at it mighty discomfited and downcast; whereat she laughs right merrily.

"O Martin," says she, "never gloom so, 'tis an excellent pot even without handles, indeed I do prefer it so!"

"No," says I, "handles you wanted and handles you shall have!" So taking a stick that lay handy, I sharpened it to a point and therewith bored me two holes beneath the lip of the pot and other two opposite. "This pot shall have iron handle," says I, "unless it perish in the fire." Then setting the pots as close as might be, I covered them with brushwood and thereupon (and with infinite caution) builded a fire and presently had it a-going. Now I would have stayed to tend the fire but my companion showed me the sun already low, vowed I had done enough, that I was tired, etc. So, having set upon the fire wood enough to burn good time, I turned away and found myself weary even as she said.

"Goat's-flesh," says I as we sat side by side after supper, "goat's-flesh is an excellent, wholesome diet and, as you cook it, delicious."

"'Tis kind of you to say so, Martin, but—"

"We have had it," says I, "we have had it boiled and baked—"

"And roast and stewed, and broiled across your iron bolts, Martin, and yet 'tis always goat's-flesh and I do yearn for a change, and so do you."

"Lord!" says I, "You do read my very thoughts sometimes."

"Is that so wonderful, Martin?"

"Why, a man's thoughts are but thoughts," says I, watching where she braided a long tress of her hair.

"Some men's thoughts are so easily read!" says she.

"Are mine?"

"Sometimes, Martin!" Now at this I blenched and well I might, and she smiled down at the long tress of hair she was braiding and then glances at me mighty demure; quoth she: "But only sometimes, Martin. Now, for instance, you are wondering why of late I have taken to wearing my hair twisted round my head and pinned with these two small pieces of wood in fashion so unsightly!"

"Aye, truly," says I wondering, "indeed and so I was! Though I do not think it unsightly!"

"I wear it so, Martin, first because my hairpins are yet to make, and second because I would not have you find my hairs in your baked goat, boiled goat, roast, fried or stewed goat. And speaking of goat brings us back where we began, and we began yearning for a change of food."

"As to that," says I, taking her half-finished hairpin from my pocket and drawing my knife, "the lagoon is full of fish had I but a hook—"

"Or a net, Martin."

"How should we contrive our net?"

"In the woods all about us do grow vines very strong and pliable—would these serve, think you?"

"Ha—an excellent thought!" says I. "To-morrow we will attempt it. As to fish-hooks, I might contrive them out of my nails hammered small, though I fear they'd be but clumsy. Had I but a good stout pin—"

"I have two, Martin, here in my shoe-buckles."

"Show me!" Stooping, she slipped off one of her shoes and gave it to me; and turning it over in my hand I saw the poor little thing all cut and torn and in woeful estate.

"I must contrive you other shoes and soon!" says I.

"Can you make shoes, Martin?"

"I'll tell you this to-morrow."

"O Martin, 'twould be wonderful if you could, and a great comfort to me."

"Why then, you shall have them, though unlovely things they'll be, I fear."

"No matter so long as they keep out sharp stones and briars, Martin."

"Your foot is wonderfully small!" says I, studying her shoe.

"Is it, Martin? Why 'tis a very ordinary foot, I think. And the pins are behind the buckles." Sure enough I found these silver buckles furnished each with a good stout pin well-suited to my design; so breaking them from the buckles, I had soon bent them into hooks and (with the back of my knife and a stone) I shaped each with a small ring a-top whereby I might secure them to my line; and though they had no barbs I thought they might catch any fish were I quick enough.

"How shall you do for a line, Martin?"

"I shall take the gut of one of our goats and worsted unravelled from my stocking."

"Will worsted be strong enough?"

"I shall make it fourfold."

"Nay, I will plait it into a line for you!"

"Good!" quoth I. And whipping off one of my stockings I unravelled therefrom sufficient of the worsted.

"But what shall you do for stockings?" says she, while this was a-doing.

"I will make me leggings of goat's-skin." So she took the worsted and now, sitting in a patch of radiant moonlight, fell to work, she weaving our fish-line with fingers very quick and dexterous, and I carving away at the pin for her hair.

"How old are you, Martin?" says she suddenly.

"Twenty-seven."

"And I shall be twenty-six to-morrow."

"I judged you older."

"Do I look it, Martin?"

"Yes—no, no!"

"Meaning what, Martin!"

"You do seem older, being no silly maid but of a constant mind, and one to endure hardship. Also you are very brave in peril, very courageous and high-hearted. Moreover you are wise."

"Do you think me all this?" says she softly. "And wherefore?"

"I have never heard you complain yet—save of me, and I have never seen you afraid. Moreover you caught a goat and killed it!"

"You are like to make me vain of my so many virtues, Martin!" laughs she; yet her laugh was very soft and her eyes kind when she looked at me.

"This hairpin shall be my birthday gift to you," says I.

"And surely none like to it in the whole world, Martin!"

After this we worked a great while, speaking no word; but presently she shows me my fish-line very neatly plaited and a good five feet long, the which did please me mightily, and so I told her.

"Heigho!" says she, leaning back against the rock, "Our days grow ever more busy!"

"And will do!" quoth I. "Here is strange, rude life for you, days of hardship and labour unceasing. Your hands shall grow all hard and rough and yourself sick with longing to be hence—"

"Alas, poor me!" she sighed.

"Why, 'twill be no wonder if you grieve for England and ease," says I, "'twill be but natural."

"O very, Martin!"

"For here are you," I went on, beginning to scowl up at the waning moon, "here are you bred up to soft and silken comfort, very dainty and delicate, and belike with lovers a-plenty, courtly gallants full up of fine phrases and eager for your service—."

"Well, Martin?"

"Instead of the which you have this island!"

"An earthly paradise!" says she.

"And myself!"

"A foolish being and gloomy!" says she. "One that loveth to be woeful and having nought to grieve him for the moment must needs seek somewhat! So will I to bed ere he find it!"

"Look now," quoth I, as she rose, "in losing the world you do lose everything—."

"And you also, Martin."

"Nay," says I, "in losing the world of yesterday I may find more than ever I possessed!"

"Meaning you are content, Martin?"

"Is anyone ever content in this world?"

"Well—I—might be!" says she slowly. "But you—I do fear you will never know true content, it is not in you, I think."

And off she goes to bed leaving me very full of thought. Howbeit the moon being very bright (though on the wane) I stayed there until I had finished her hairpin, of the which I give here a cut, viz.:—

(Sketch of a hairpin.)



CHAPTER XXXII

TELLS HOW I FOUND A SECRET CAVE

Next morning I was up mighty early and away to the little valley, first to view my pots and then to pick some flowers for her birthday, remembering her great love for such toys. Coming to the ashes of the fire, I must needs fall a-cursing most vilely like the ill fellow I was, and to swearing many great and vain oaths (and it her birthday!). For here were my pots (what the fire had left of them) all swollen and bulged with the heat, warped and misshapen beyond imagining.

So I stood plucking my beard and cursing them severally and all together, and fetched the nearest a kick that nigh broke my toe and set the pot leaping and bounding a couple of yards, but all unbroken. Going to it I took it up and found it not so much as scratched and hard as any stone. This comforted me somewhat and made me to regret my ill language, more especially having regard to this day, being as it were a day apart. And now as I went on, crossing the stream at a place where were stepping-stones, set there by other hands than mine, as I went, I say, I must needs think what a surly, ill-mannered fellow I was, contrasting the gross man I was become with the gentle, sweet-natured lad I had been. "Well but" (thinks I, excusing myself) "the plantations and a rowing-bench be a school where a man is apt to learn nought but evil and brutality, my wrongs have made me what I am. But again" (thinks I—blaming myself) "wrong and hardship, cruelty and suffering do not debase all men, as witness the brave Frenchman that was whipped to death beside me in the 'Esmeralda' galleass. Wrong and suffering either lift a man to greatness, or debase him to the very brute! She had said as much to me once. And she was right" (thinks I) "for the Frenchman had died the noble gentleman he was born, whiles I, as well-born as he and suffering no greater wrong than he, according to his own account, I had sullied myself with all the vileness and filth of slavedom, had fought and rioted with the worst of them!" And now remembering the shame of it all, I sat me down in the shade of a tree and fell to gloomy and sad reflection, grieving sorely over things long past and forgotten until now, and very full of remorse and scorn of myself.

"Howbeit" (thinks I) "if rogue and brute I am" (which is beyond all doubt) "I will keep such for my own kind and she shall know nought of it!" And here, getting upon my knees I took a great and solemn oath to this effect, viz., "Never by look, or word, or gesture to give her cause for shame or fear so long as we should abide together in this solitude so aid me God!" This done I arose from my knees and betook me to culling flowers, great silver lilies and others of divers hues, being minded to lay them on the threshold of her door to greet her when she should arise. With these in my arms I recrossed the brook and stepping out from a thicket came full upon her ere she was aware; and seeing her so suddenly I stood like any fool, my poor flowers hidden behind me. She had taken up one of my misshapen pots and was patting it softly as she viewed it, and a little smile on her red lips. All at once she turned and, spying me, came towards me all smiling, fresh and radiant as the morning.

"O Martin," says she, turning the pot this way and that, "O Martin, 'tis wonderful—"

"'Tis an abomination!" quoth I.

"And 'twill hold water!"

"'Tis like an ill dream!" says I.

"And so strong, Martin."

"True, 'tis the only merit the things possess, they are like stone—watch now!" And here, to prove my words, I let one drop, though indeed I chose a soft place for it.

"And they will be so easy to carry with these handles, and—why, what have you there?" Saying which she sets down the pot, gently as it had been an egg-shell, and comes to me; whereupon I showed her my posy, and I more fool-like than ever.

"I chanced to—see them growing," says I, "and thought—your birthday—they might pleasure you a little, mayhap—"

"Please me?" says she, taking them. "Please me—O the dear, beautiful things, I love them!" And she buries her face among them. "'Twas kind of you to bring them for me, Martin!" says she, her face hidden in the flowers, "Indeed you are very good to me! After all, you are that same dear Martin I knew long ago, that boy who used to brandish his rusty sword and vow he'd suffer no evil to come near me, and yearned for ogres and dragons to fight and slay on my behalf. And one day you caught a boy pulling my hair."

"It was very long hair even then!" says I.

"And he made your lip bleed, Martin."

"And I hit him on the nose!" says I.

"And he ran away, Martin."

"And you bathed my lip in the pool and afterwards you—you—"

"Yes I did, Martin. Though 'tis a long time to remember."

"I—shall never forget!" says I. "Shall you?"

Here she buries her face in her flowers again.

"As to the pots, Martin, there are four quite unbroken, will you help me bear them to our refuge, breakfast will be ready."

"Breakfast is a sweet word!" quoth I. "And as to these things, if you will have them, well and good!"

And thus, she with her flowers and I with the gallipots, we came to our habitation.

"What do we work at to-day?" she questioned as we rose from our morning meal.

"To-day I make you a pair of shoes."

"How may I aid you, Martin?"

"In a thousand ways," says I, and I plucked a great fan-shaped leaf that grew adjacent. "First sit you down! And now give me your foot!" So, kneeling before her, I traced out the shape of her foot upon the leaf and got no further for a while, so that presently she goes about her household duties leaving me staring at my leaf and scratching my head, puzzling out how I must cut and shape my goat-skin. Well-nigh all that morning I sat scheming and studying how best I might achieve my purpose, and the end of it was this:

(Sketch of a leaf cut to shape.)

This shape I cut from the leaf and with it went to find my lady; then, she sitting upon the stool, I took off one of her shoes (and she all laughing wonderment) and fitting this pattern to her foot, found it well enough for shape, though something too large. I now took the goat-skin and, laying it on the table, cut therefrom a piece to my pattern; then with one of my nails ground to a sharp point like a cobbler's awl, I pierced it with holes and sewed it together with gut in this fashion:

(Four sketches of shaped hide showing stages of manufacture.)

This is quickly over in the telling, but it was long a-doing, so that having wrought steadily all day, night was at hand ere her shoes were completed, with two thicknesses of hide for soles and all sewed mighty secure.

Now though they were not things of beauty (as may plainly be seen from my drawing herewith) yet, once I had laced them snug upon her feet, they (shaping and moulding themselves to her slender ankles and dainty feet) were none so ill-looking after all. And now she, walking to and fro in them, must needs admire at their construction and the comfort of them, and very lavish in her praise of them and me; the which did pleasure me mightily though I took pains to hide it.

"Why, Martin" says she, thrusting out a foot and wagging it to and fro (very taking to behold), "I vow our cobbler surpasseth our carpenter! Dian's buskins were no better, nay, not so good, judging by pictures I have seen."

"They will at least keep out any thorns," says I, "though as to looks—"

"They look what they are, Martin, the shoes of a huntress. You will find her very swift and sure-footed when her bruises are quite gone."

"I'm glad they please you," says I, yet upon my knees and stooping to view them 'neath her petticoat, "though now I see I might better them by trimming and shaping them here and there."

"No, no, Martin, leave well alone."

But now and all at once I started to feel a great splash of rain upon my cheek, and glancing up saw the sky all overcast while seaward the whole horizon was very black and ominous; great masses of writhing vapour and these threatening clouds lit ever and anon by a reddish glow, and pierced by vivid lightning flashes. All of which took us mightily by surprise, we having been too intent upon these new buskins to heed aught else.

"Yonder is storm and tempest," says I, "see how it sweeps towards us!" And I pointed where, far across the dark sea, a line of foam marked the oncoming fury of the wind. And presently we heard it, a faint hum, growing ever louder and fiercer.

"O Martin, see yonder!" and she pointed to the onrushing of the foaming waters. "'Tis very awful but very grand!"

"Let us go in!" says I, catching up my tools. "Come, soon will be roaring havoc all about us!"

"Nay, let us stay awhile and watch."

As she spoke it seemed as the sea gathered itself into one great and mighty wave, a huge wall of foaming waters that rolled onward hissing and roaring as it would 'whelm the very island beneath it. On it rushed, swelling ever higher, and so burst in thunder upon the barrier reef, filling the air with whirling foam. And then—then came the wind—a screaming, howling, vicious titan that hurled us flat and pinned me breathless and scarce able to move; howbeit I crawled where she crouched somewhat sheltered by a rock, and clasping her within my arm lay there nor dared to stir until the mad fury of the wind abated somewhat. Then, side by side, on hands and knees, we gained our rocky fastness, and closing the door, which was screened from the direct force of the tempest, I barred it with the beam I had made for the purpose, and stood staring at my companion and she on me, while all the world about us roared and clamoured loud and louder until it seemed here was to be an end of all things. And now suddenly came darkness; and in this darkness her hand found mine and nestled there. Thus we remained a great while hearkening to the awful booming of this rushing, mighty wind, a sound indescribable in itself, yet one to shake the very soul. In a while, the tumult subsiding a little we might distinguish other sounds, as the rolling of thunder, the rending crash of falling trees hard by, and the roar of mighty waters. And presently her voice came to me:

"God pity all poor mariners, Martin!"

"Amen!" says I. And needs must think of Adam and Godby and wonder where they might be.

"'Tis very dark, shall we not have a light?" she questioned.

"If I can find our lamp," says I, groping about for it.

"Here is a candle!"

"A candle?" says I, "And where should we find a candle?"

"We have three, Martin. I made them with tallow from our goat, though they are poor things, I fear."

Taking out my tinder-box I very soon had these candles burning, and though they smoked somewhat, a very excellent light we thought them. "And now for supper!" says she, beginning to bustle about. "Our meat is in the larder, Martin." Now this larder was our third and smallest cave, and going therein I was immediately struck by the coldness of it, moreover the flame of the candle I bore flickered as in a draught of air, insomuch that, forgetting the meat, I began searching high and low, looking for some crack or crevice whence this draught issued, yet found none. This set me to wondering; for here was the cave some ten feet by twelve or more, and set deep within the living rock, the walls smoothed off, here and there, as by hand, but with never a crack or fissure in roof or walls so far as I might discover. Yet was I conscious of this cold breath of air so that my puzzlement grew the greater.

Presently as I stood thus staring about, to me comes my lady:

"Good lack, Martin," says she, "if we sup on goat to-night we must eat it raw, for we have no fire!"

"Fire?" says I. "Hum! Smoke would do it, 'tis an excellent thought."

"Do what, Martin!"

"Look at the candle-flame and hark!"

And now, the booming of the wind dying down somewhat, we heard a strange and dismal wailing and therewith a sound of water afar.

"O Martin!" she whispered, clasping her hands and coming nearer to me, "What is it?"

"Nought to fear, comrade. But somewhere in this larder of ours is an opening or fissure, the question is—where? And this I go to find out."

"Aye, but how?" she questioned, coming nearer yet, for now the wailing had sunk to a groan, and this gave place to a bubbling gasp mighty unpleasant to hear.

"With smoke," says I, setting the candle in a niche of rock, "I will light a fire here."

"But we have no fuel, Martin."

"There is plenty in my bed."

"But how will you sleep and no bed?"

"Well enough, as I have done many a time and oft!"

"But, O Martin, 'twill make such dire mess and this our larder!"

"No matter, I'll clean it up. Howbeit I must learn whence cometh this cold-breathing air. Besides, the fire shall cook our supper and moreover—"

But here I checked speaking all at once, for above the dismal groans and wailing I had heard a sudden fierce whispering:

"O Martin, O Martin!" sighed my companion, "We are not alone—somewhere there are people whispering! Did you hear, Martin, O did you hear?" And I felt her all of a-tremble where she leaned against me.

"'Tis gone now!" says I, speaking under my breath.

"But 'twas there, Martin—a hateful whispering."

"Aye, I heard it," says I fierce and loud, "and I'll find out who or what—"

"Who or what!" hissed a soft voice. Hereupon I sheathed the knife I had drawn and laughed, and immediately there came another laugh, though very soft.

"Ahoy!" I shouted, and presently back came the answer "Ahoy!" and then again, though much fainter, "Ahoy!" "'Tis nought but an echo," says I laughing (yet mighty relieved all the same).

"Thank God!" says she faintly, and would have fallen but for my arm.

"Why, comrade, how now?" says I; and for a moment her soft cheek rested against my leathern jerkin.

"O Martin," says she, sighing, "I do fear me I'm a monstrous craven—sometimes! Forgive me!"

"Forgive you?" says I, and looking down on her bowed head, feeling her thus all a-tremble against me, I fell a-stammering, "Forgive you, nay—where—here was an unchancy thing—'tis small wonder—no wonder you should grow affrighted and tremble a little—"

"You are trembling also," says she, her voice muffled against me.

"Am I?"

"Yes, Martin. Were you afraid likewise?"

"No—Yes!" says I, and feeling her stir in my hold, I loosed her.

And now, bringing fern and bracken from my bed I kindled a fire and, damping this a little, made a smoke the which, rising to a certain height, blew back upon us but always from the one direction; and peering up thither I judged here must be a space 'twixt the roof and the face of the rock, though marvellous well-hid from all observation. Hereupon, the place being full of smoke I must needs stamp out the fire lest we stifle; yet I had discovered what I sought. So whilst my companion busied herself about supper, I dragged our table from the outer cave, setting it in a certain corner and, mounted thereon, reached up and grasped a ledge of rock by which I drew myself up and found I was in a narrow opening or tunnel, and so low that I must creep on hands and knees.

"Will you have a candle, Martin?" And there was my lady standing below me on the table, all anxious-eyed. So I took the candle and creeping through this narrow passage suddenly found myself in another cavern very spacious and lofty; and now, standing in this place, I stared about me very full of wonder, as well I might be, for I saw this: Before me a narrow door, very stout and pierced with a loophole, and beyond this a rocky passage that led steeply down: on my right hand, in a corner, a rough bed with a bundle of goat-skins and sheets that looked like sailcloth; on my left a table and armchair, rough-builded like the bed, and above these, a row of shelves against the rocky wall whereon stood three pipkins, an iron, three-legged cooking-pot, a candlestick and an inkhorn with pen in it. Lastly, in a corner close beside the bed, I spied a long-barrelled firelock with bandoliers complete. I was about to reach this (and very joyously) when my lady's voice arrested me.

"Martin, are you there? Are you safe?"

"Indeed!" says I. "And, Damaris, I have found you treasure beyond price."

"O Martin, is it Bartlemy's treasure—the jewels?"

"Better than that a thousand times. I have found you a real cooking-pot!"

"O wonderful! Show me! Nay, let me see for myself. Come and aid me up, Martin."

Setting down my candle I crawled back where she stood all eager impatience, and clasping her hands in mine, drew her up and on hands and knees brought her into the cave.

"Here's a goodly place, comrade!" says I.

"Yes, Martin."

"With a ladder to come and go by, this should make you a noble bedchamber."

"Never!" says she. "O never!"

"And wherefore not?"

"First because I like my little cave best, and second because this is too much like a dungeon, and third because I like it not—and hark!" and indeed as we spoke the echoes hissed and whispered all about us.

"Why, 'tis airy and very dry!"

"And very dark by day, Martin."

"True enough! Still 'tis a wondrous place—"

"O very, Martin, only I like it not at all."

"Why then, the bed, the bed should serve you handsomely."

"No!" says she, mighty vehement. "You shall make me a better an you will, or I will do with my bed of fern."

"Well then, this pot—here is noble iron pot for you, at least!"

"Why yes," says she, smiling to see me all chapfallen, "'tis indeed a very good pot, let us bring it away with us, though indeed I could do very well without it."

"Lord!" says I gloomily. "Here have I found you all these goodly things, not to mention chair and table, thinking to please you and instead—"

"I know, Martin, forgive me, but I love not the place nor anything in it. I am very foolish belike, but so it is." And here she must needs shiver. "As to these things, the bed, the chair and table and the shelves yonder, why you can contrive better in time, Martin; and by your thought and labour they will be doubly ours, made by you for our two selves and used by none but us."

"True," says I, greatly mollified, "but this pot now, I can never make you so brave a pot as this."

"Why, very well, Martin," says she smiling at my earnestness, "bring it and let us begone." So I reached down the pot and espied therein a long-barrelled pistol; whipping it out, I blew off the dust and saw 'twas primed and loaded and with flint in place albeit very rusty. I was yet staring at this when my lady gives a little soft cry of pleasure and comes to me with somewhat hidden behind her.

"Martin," says she, "'tis a good place after all, for see—see what it hath given you!" and she shewed me that which I had yawned for so bitterly, viz. a good, stout saw. Tossing aside the pistol, I took it eagerly enough, and, though it was rusty, a very serviceable tool I found it to be.

"Ha, comrade!" says I, "Now shall you have a chair with arms, a cupboard, and a bed fit to lie on. Here is all the furniture you may want!"

"And now," says she, "let us begone, if you would have your supper, Martin." So I followed her through the little tunnel and, having lowered her on to the table, gave her the pot and then (albeit she was mighty unwilling) turned back, minded to bring away the firelock and pistol and any such odds and ends as might serve me.

Reaching the cave, I heard again the dismal groans and wailing, but much louder than before, and coming to the door, saw it opened on a steep declivity of rock wherein were rough steps or rather notches that yet gave good foothold; so I began to descend this narrow way, my candle before me, and taking vast heed to my feet, but as I got lower the rock grew moist and slimy so that I was half-minded to turn back; but having come this far, determined to see where it might bring me, for now, from the glooms below, I could hear the soft lapping of water. Then all at once I stopped and stood shivering (as well I might), for immediately beneath me I saw a narrow ledge of rock and beyond this a pit, black and noisome, and full of sluggish water.

For a long while (as it seemed) I stared down (into this water) scarce daring to move lest I plunge into this dreadful abyss where the black water, lapping sluggishly, made stealthy menacing noises very evil to hear. At last I turned about (and mighty careful) and so made my ways up and out of this unhallowed place more painfully than I had come. Reaching the cave at last (and very thankful) I sought to close the door, but found it to resist my efforts. This but made me the more determined to shut out this evil place with its cold-breathing air, and I began to examine this door to discover the reason of its immobility. Now this (as I have said) was a narrow door and set betwixt jambs and with lintel above very strong and excellent well contrived; but as I lifted my candle to view it better I stopped all at once to stare up at a something fixed midway in this lintel, a strange shrivelled black thing very like to a great spider with writhen legs updrawn; and now, peering closer, I saw this was a human hand hacked off midway 'twixt wrist and elbow and skewered to the lintel by a great nail. And as I stood staring up at this evil thing, from somewhere in the black void beyond the door rose a long, agonised wailing that rose to a bubbling shriek; and though I knew this for no more than some trick of the wind, I felt my flesh tingle to sudden chill. Howbeit I lifted my candle higher yet, and thus saw beneath this shrivelled, claw-like hand a parchment nailed very precisely at its four corners, though black with dust. Wiping this dust away I read these words, very fair writ in bold, clear characters:

JAMES BALLANTYNE

HIS HAND WHEREWITH HE FOULLY MURDERED A GOOD MAN. THIS HAND CUT OFF BY ME THIS JUNE 23 1642. THE SAME BALLANTYNE HAVING PERISHED SUDDENLY BY A PISTOL SHOT ACCORDING TO MY OATH. LIKE ROGUES—TAKE WARNING.

ADAM PENFEATHER.

In a while I turned from this hateful thing, and coming to the bed began to examine the huddle of goatskins, and though full of dust and something stiff, found them little the worse for their long disuse; the same applied equally to the sailcloth, the which, though yellow, was still strong and serviceable. Reaching the firelock from the corner I found it to be furnished with a snaphaunce or flintlock, and though very rusty, methought cleaned and oiled it might make me a very good weapon had I but powder and shot for it. But the bandoliers held in all but two poor charges, which powder I determined to keep for the pistol. Therefore I set the musket back in the corner, and doing so espied a book that lay open and face down beneath the bedstead. Taking it up I wiped off the dust, and opening this book at the first page I came on this:

ADAM PENFEATHER

HYS JOURNAL

1642.

Hereupon, perceiving in it many charts and maps together with a plan of the island very well drawn, I thrust it into my bosom, and hearing my lady calling me, took pistol and bandolier and so to supper.

Thus amidst howling storm and tempest we sat down side by side to sup, very silent for the most part by reason of this elemental strife that raged about our habitation, filling the world with awful stir and clamour.

But in a while seeing her so downcast and with head a-droop I must needs fall gloomy also, and full of a growing bitterness.

"Art grieving for England?" says I at last, "Yearning for home and friends and some man belike that loves and is beloved again!"

"And why not, Martin?"

"Because 'tis vain."

"And yet 'twould be but natural."

"Aye indeed," says I gloomily and forgetting my supper, "for contrasting all you have lost, home and friends and love, with your present evil plight here in this howling wilderness, 'tis small wonder you weep."

"But I am not weeping!" says she, flushing.

"Yet you well may," quoth I, "for here are you at the world's end and with none but myself for company."

"Why, truly here is good cause for tears!" says she, flashing her eyes at me.

"Aye!" I nodded. "'Tis a pity Fate hath chosen you so ill a companion."

"Indeed and so it is!" says she, and turns her back on me. And so we sat awhile, she with her back to me and I gloomy and despondent hearkening to the howling of the wind.

"You eat no supper!" says I at last.

"Neither do you!"

"I am not hungry!"

"Nor I!"

Myself (speaking after some while, humbly): Have I angered you?

She: Mightily!

Myself: Aye, but how?

She: By your idle, foolish talk, for if I grow thoughtful sometimes why must you ever dream me repining against my lot? To-night, hearkening to this dreadful tempest I was full of gratitude to God that He had brought us to this safe harbourage and set me in your companionship. And if my heart cry out for England sometimes 'tis because I do love England. Yet my days here are too full of labour for vain grieving and my labour, like my sleep, is joy to me. And there is no man I love in England—or anywhere else.

Myself (and more humbly than ever): Why then I pray you forgive me, comrade.

At this she looks at me over her shoulder, frowning and a little askance.

"For indeed," says I, meeting this look, "I would have you know me ever as your comrade to serve you faithfully, seeking only your friendship and nought beyond; one you may trust unfearing despite my ungentle ways."

And now I saw her frown was vanished quite, her eyes grown wondrous gentle and her lips curving to a smile; and so she reached out her hand to me.

And thus we two poor, desolate souls found great solace and comfort in each other's companionship, and hearkening to the roar of this mighty tempest felt the bonds of our comradeship only strengthened thereby.

When my lady was gone to bed I, remembering Adam's journal, took it out, and drawing the candle nearer fell to examining the book more closely. It was a smallish volume but very thick, and with very many close-written pages, its stout leathern covers battered and stained, and an ill-looking thing I thought it; but opening it haphazard, I forgot all save the words I read (these written in Adam's small clerkly hand) for I came on this:

May 10.—Glory be and thanks unto that Providence hath been my salvation and poured upon unworthy me His blessing in that I this day have fought and killed this murderous rogue and detestable pirate, Roger Tressady.

Here followed divers accounts of his labours, his discovery of these caves and many cunning devices day by day until I came on this:

May 28.—To-day a storm-beat pinnace standing in for my island, and in it Abnegation Mings and divers others of Bartlemy's rogues, survivors (as I judge) of that cursed ship "Lady's Delight." They landed, being fifteen in all and I in great fear and distress therefore. They leaving their boat unwatched I stole thither and to my great joy found therein a watch-coat and bonnet, 3 muskets, 2 swords, 5 pistols with powder and shot, all of which did hide among the rocks adjacent (a cunning hiding-place) where I may fetch them at my leisure, Providence aiding.

May 29.—This day 1 hour before dawn secured arms, powder, etc., and very grateful therefore.

May 30.—To-day set about strengthening and fortifying my door since, though Roger Tressady is dead, there be other rogues yet to slay, their evil minds being full of lust for Black Bartlemy's Treasure and my blood. And these their names:

A true list of these rogues each and every known to me aforetime in Tortuga, viz.:

My enemies. My equipment against the same.

Abnegation Mings (Mate of A determined mind. the "Vengeance" galley) 3 Musquets with powder and shot Benjamin Galbally a-plenty. Jasper Vokes 2 Swords. Juliano Bartolozzi 1 Axe. Benjamin Denton 2 Pikes. Pierre Durand 5 Pistols. John Ford A chain-shirt. James Ballantyne Izaac Pym Robert Ball William Loveday Daniel Marston Ebenezer Phips A boy and one woman.

June 1.—This day, waked by a shot and the sounds of lewd brawling, I to my lookout and mighty alarmed. Upon the sands a fire and thereby a woman and 6 or 7 of these rogues fighting for her. She, poor soul, running to escape falls shot and they to furious fight. But my hopes of their destroying each other and saving me this labour vain by reason of Abnegation Mings bringing them to accord. Thereafter they to drinking and singing of this lewd piratical rant of theirs. Whereupon I tried a shot at them with my long-barrelled arquebus to no purpose. Have made me some ink and do answer very well.

June 2.—Went a-hunting three of my destroyers, viz. the rogues Galbally, Vokes and Bartalozzi. But they well-armed and keeping always in company did no more than harm Vokes in the leg by a bullet, and so to my fort and mighty downcast. Began to make myself a chair with arms. This day also wrote me out divers parchments thus:

JASPER VOKES

SLAIN Of NECESSITY THIS [——] DAY LIKE ROGUES TAKE WARNING.

ADAM PENFEATHER.

and of these parchments 13 (the boy being already dead), with every rogue his name fair writ that they might know me for man of my word and leave me and my treasure in peace.

June 3.—The weather hot and I out after my bloodthirsty enemies. Came on the French rogue Durand and him sleeping. Removed his firearms and kicked him awake. He to his sword and I to mine. Took him in quarte at the third passado through the right eye—a shrewd thrust. Tied a parchment about his neck and so to my refuge very full of gratitude.

June 4.—To-day, guided by Providence, surprised Izaac Pym gorging himself on wild grapes. Spying me he whips out his pistol, but I fired first. Tied a parchment about his neck and so left him.

June 5.—Evil days for me since these murderous rogues keep ever together now and on their watch against me day and night. My great chair finished and all I could wish it.

June 9.—This night the moon full they assaulted my fort with huge halloo and many shot, battering my door with a great log for ram. But I shooting one and wounding others they left me in peace.

June 10.—All this day ventured not abroad fearing an ambuscado. And lighting a fire within my inner cave the smoke showed me how I might hide from my bloodthirsty foes an need be.

June 11.—My would-be slayers camped all about my refuge and howling for my blood, though keeping well out of my line of fire. So I to making me a ladder of ropes whereby to come at my new-found sanctuary. Determine to make this my bedchamber.

June 12.—My cruel enemies yet raging about me ravening for my blood and I very fearful. Have taken down my bed to set it within my secret chamber.

June 13.—This morning early the rogue Benjamin Denton, venturing within my fire-zone, took a bullet in his midriff, whereof he suddenly perished.

June 14.—This morning having gotten all my furniture into my secret chamber do find myself very comfortable. But my stores beginning to run low do put myself on half-rations.

June 15.—My murderers very silent with intent to lure me to my death but I—

The rest of this page was so stained and blotted that I could make nothing of it save a word or phrase here and there as:

... secret pass ... pit of black water and very ... fear of death ... head over ears ... to my chin so that I ... miserably wet ... on hands and knees being determined ... wonderful beyond thought for here ... tlemy's Treasure ... very great ... this gold I saw was ... emeralds, diamonds and ... pearls a-many ... through my fingers ... like any poor crazed soul. For here was treasure greater ... moreover and wealth undreamed ... shaft of ... suddenly ... the valley ... sore annoyed I stood to ... he knelt ... seeking the water ... turned ... our knives ... through my forearm but I ... broke short against my chain-shirt and I ... beneath the armpit. So back by the secret way to bind up my hurt and behold again my treasure.

Here my candle dying out and I in the dark, I laid the book aside and presently got me to sleep.



CHAPTER XXXIII

WE EXPLORE THE ISLAND

I opened my eyes to a great beam of sun pouring in at the open doorway, whereby I judged my companion already astir. So I arose forthwith, and going out of the cave stood amazed to see the havoc wrought by last night's storm. For everywhere lay trees torn and uprooted, and in divers of the more exposed places the wind it seemed had swept them utterly away, so that the landscape here and there wore an air unfamiliar and not to be recognised. Though the wind was died away I saw the sea yet rolling tempestuous to break in foam upon the reef and with dreadful roar. Looking down on Deliverance Beach I beheld its white sands littered with piles of driftwood, and over all a cloudless blue with the sun new-risen and very hot.

And now taking my hooks and line and a pliant bough for rod, I went forth to angle for breakfast. Reaching the lagoon great wonder was it to behold these waters so smooth and placid while the surf foamed and thundered beyond the reef. I now baited my hooks with fat of the goat and betook me to my angling; nor had I long to wait ere I felt a jerk on my line, and tingling with the joy of it I whipped my rod so furiously that my fish whirled glittering through the air, and flying from my barbless hook lay floundering on the sands behind me; and though of no great size yet a very good fish I thought him. And indeed I found the fish to bite readily enough and mighty dexterous to filch my bait, and though I lost a-many yet I, becoming more expert, contrived to land five likely fish of different sizes and of marvellous colouring.

So there sat I in the shade of a rock, mighty content and quite lost in the joy of my sport until, chancing to lift my gaze, I beheld my companion upon the rocks over against me gazing away across the troubled ocean. And beholding all the grace of her as she stood there, her shapely figure poised and outlined against the blue sky, her long hair rippling in the soft wind, I clean forgot my fish, for indeed it seemed I had not noticed the vigorous beauty of her until now. And in this moment, as I sat staring up at her, she turned and spying me, waved her hand in cheery greeting and begins to descend these rocks, leaping sure-footed from ledge to ledge, lithe and graceful as any fabled nymph or goddess of them all. But I, well knowing the danger of these rocks, watched her with breath in check and mighty anxious until she sprang nimbly to the sands and so came running all joyous to meet me. Hereupon I caught up my forgotten angle and found my hook empty, whereat she must needs fall a-laughing at my discomfiture.