"CHAPTER 1\n\nIN MOONFLEET VILLAGE\n\nSo sleeps the pride of former days--_More_\n\n\nThe village of Moonfleet lies half a mile from the sea on the right or\nwest bank of the Fleet stream. This rivulet, which is so narrow as it\npasses the houses that I have known a good jumper clear it without a\npole, broadens out into salt marshes below the village, and loses itself\nat last in a lake of brackish water. The lake is good for nothing except\nsea-fowl, herons, and oysters, and forms such a place as they call in the\nIndies a lagoon; being shut off from the open Channel by a monstrous\ngreat beach or dike of pebbles, of which I shall speak more hereafter.\nWhen I was a child I thought that this place was called Moonfleet,\nbecause on a still night, whether in summer, or in winter frosts, the\nmoon shone very brightly on the lagoon; but learned afterwards that 'twas\nbut short for 'Mohune-fleet', from the Mohunes, a great family who were\nonce lords of all these parts.\n\nMy name is John Trenchard, and I was fifteen years of age when this story\nbegins. My father and mother had both been dead for years, and I boarded\nwith my aunt, Miss Arnold, who was kind to me in her own fashion, but too\nstrict and precise ever to make me love her.\n\nI shall first speak of one evening in the fall of the year 1757. It must\nhave been late in October, though I have forgotten the exact date, and I\nsat in the little front parlour reading after tea. My aunt had few books;\na Bible, a Common Prayer, and some volumes of sermons are all that I can\nrecollect now; but the Reverend Mr. Glennie, who taught us village\nchildren, had lent me a story-book, full of interest and adventure,\ncalled the _Arabian Nights Entertainment_. At last the light began to\nfail, and I was nothing loth to leave off reading for several reasons;\nas, first, the parlour was a chilly room with horse-hair chairs and sofa,\nand only a coloured-paper screen in the grate, for my aunt did not allow\na fire till the first of November; second, there was a rank smell of\nmolten tallow in the house, for my aunt was dipping winter candles on\nframes in the back kitchen; third, I had reached a part in the _Arabian\nNights_ which tightened my breath and made me wish to leave off reading\nfor very anxiousness of expectation. It was that point in the story of\nthe 'Wonderful Lamp', where the false uncle lets fall a stone that seals\nthe mouth of the underground chamber; and immures the boy, Aladdin, in\nthe darkness, because he would not give up the lamp till he stood safe on\nthe surface again. This scene reminded me of one of those dreadful\nnightmares, where we dream we are shut in a little room, the walls of\nwhich are closing in upon us, and so impressed me that the memory of it\nserved as a warning in an adventure that befell me later on. So I gave up\nreading and stepped out into the street. It was a poor street at best,\nthough once, no doubt, it had been finer. Now, there were not two hundred\nsouls in Moonfleet, and yet the houses that held them straggled sadly\nover half a mile, lying at intervals along either side of the road.\nNothing was ever made new in the village; if a house wanted repair badly,\nit was pulled down, and so there were toothless gaps in the street, and\noverrun gardens with broken-down walls, and many of the houses that yet\nstood looked as though they could stand but little longer.\n\nThe sun had set; indeed, it was already so dusk that the lower or\nsea-end of the street was lost from sight. There was a little fog or\nsmoke-wreath in the air, with an odour of burning weeds, and that first\nfrosty feeling of the autumn that makes us think of glowing fires and\nthe comfort of long winter evenings to come. All was very still, but I\ncould hear the tapping of a hammer farther down the street, and walked\nto see what was doing, for we had no trades in Moonfleet save that of\nfishing. It was Ratsey the sexton at work in a shed which opened on the\nstreet, lettering a tombstone with a mallet and graver. He had been\nmason before he became fisherman, and was handy with his tools; so that\nif anyone wanted a headstone set up in the churchyard, he went to Ratsey\nto get it done. I lent over the half-door and watched him a minute,\nchipping away with the graver in a bad light from a lantern; then he\nlooked up, and seeing me, said:\n\n'Here, John, if you have nothing to do, come in and hold the lantern for\nme, 'tis but a half-hour's job to get all finished.'\n\nRatsey was always kind to me, and had lent me a chisel many a time to\nmake boats, so I stepped in and held the lantern watching him chink out\nthe bits of Portland stone with a graver, and blinking the while when\nthey came too near my eyes. The inscription stood complete, but he was\nputting the finishing touches to a little sea-piece carved at the top of\nthe stone, which showed a schooner boarding a cutter. I thought it fine\nwork at the time, but know now that it was rough enough; indeed, you may\nsee it for yourself in Moonfleet churchyard to this day, and read the\ninscription too, though it is yellow with lichen, and not so plain as it\nwas that night. This is how it runs:\n\nSACRED TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID BLOCK\n\nAged 15, who was killed by a shot fired from the _Elector_ Schooner,\n21 June 1757.\n\nOf life bereft (by fell design),\n  I mingle with my fellow clay.\nOn God's protection I recline\n  To save me in the Judgement Day.\n\nThere too must you, cruel man, appear,\n  Repent ere it be all too late;\nOr else a dreadful sentence fear,\n  For God will sure revenge my fate.\n\nThe Reverend Mr. Glennie wrote the verses, and I knew them by heart, for\nhe had given me a copy; indeed, the whole village had rung with the tale\nof David's death, and it was yet in every mouth. He was only child to\nElzevir Block, who kept the Why Not? inn at the bottom of the village,\nand was with the contrabandiers, when their ketch was boarded that June\nnight by the Government schooner. People said that it was Magistrate\nMaskew of Moonfleet Manor who had put the Revenue men on the track, and\nanyway he was on board the _Elector_ as she overhauled the ketch. There\nwas some show of fighting when the vessels first came alongside of one\nanother, and Maskew drew a pistol and fired it off in young David's face,\nwith only the two gunwales between them. In the afternoon of Midsummer's\nDay the _Elector_ brought the ketch into Moonfleet, and there was a posse\nof constables to march the smugglers off to Dorchester Jail. The\nprisoners trudged up through the village ironed two and two together,\nwhile people stood at their doors or followed them, the men greeting them\nwith a kindly word, for we knew most of them as Ringstave and Monkbury\nmen, and the women sorrowing for their wives. But they left David's body\nin the ketch, so the boy paid dear for his night's frolic.\n\n'Ay, 'twas a cruel, cruel thing to fire on so young a lad,' Ratsey said,\nas he stepped back a pace to study the effect of a flag that he was\nchiselling on the Revenue schooner, 'and trouble is likely to come to\nthe other poor fellows taken, for Lawyer Empson says three of them will\nsurely hang at next Assize. I recollect', he went on, 'thirty years ago,\nwhen there was a bit of a scuffle between the _Royal Sophy_ and the\n_Marnhull_, they hanged four of the contrabandiers, and my old father\ncaught his death of cold what with going to see the poor chaps turned off\nat Dorchester, and standing up to his knees in the river Frome to get a\nsight of them, for all the countryside was there, and such a press there\nwas no place on land. There, that's enough,' he said, turning again to\nthe gravestone. 'On Monday I'll line the ports in black, and get a brush\nof red to pick out the flag; and now, my son, you've helped with the\nlantern, so come down to the Why Not? and there I'll have a word with\nElzevir, who sadly needs the talk of kindly friends to cheer him, and\nwe'll find you a glass of Hollands to keep out autumn chills.'\n\nI was but a lad, and thought it a vast honour to be asked to the Why\nNot?--for did not such an invitation raise me at once to the dignity of\nmanhood. Ah, sweet boyhood, how eager are we as boys to be quit of thee,\nwith what regret do we look back on thee before our man's race is\nhalf-way run! Yet was not my pleasure without alloy, for I feared even to\nthink of what Aunt Jane would say if she knew that I had been at the Why\nNot?--and beside that, I stood in awe of grim old Elzevir Block, grimmer\nand sadder a thousand times since David's death.\n\nThe Why Not? was not the real name of the inn; it was properly the Mohune\nArms. The Mohunes had once owned, as I have said, the whole of the\nvillage; but their fortunes fell, and with them fell the fortunes of\nMoonfleet. The ruins of their mansion showed grey on the hillside above\nthe village; their almshouses stood half-way down the street, with the\nquadrangle deserted and overgrown; the Mohune image and superscription\nwas on everything from the church to the inn, and everything that bore it\nwas stamped also with the superscription of decay. And here it is\nnecessary that I say a few words as to this family badge; for, as you\nwill see, I was to bear it all my life, and shall carry its impress with\nme to the grave. The Mohune shield was plain white or silver, and bore\nnothing upon it except a great black 'Y. I call it a 'Y', though the\nReverend Mr. Glennie once explained to me that it was not a 'Y' at all,\nbut what heralds call a _cross-pall. Cross-pall_ or no _cross-pall,_ it\nlooked for all the world like a black 'Y', with a broad arm ending in\neach of the top corners of the shield, and the tail coming down into the\nbottom. You might see that cognizance carved on the manor, and on the\nstonework and woodwork of the church, and on a score of houses in the\nvillage, and it hung on the signboard over the door of the inn. Everyone\nknew the Mohune 'Y' for miles around, and a former landlord having called\nthe inn the Why Not? in jest, the name had stuck to it ever since.\n\nMore than once on winter evenings, when men were drinking in the Why\nNot?, I had stood outside, and listened to them singing 'Ducky-stones',\nor 'Kegs bobbing One, Two, Three', or some of the other tunes that\nsailors sing in the west. Such songs had neither beginning nor ending,\nand very little sense to catch hold of in the middle. One man would crone\nthe air, and the others would crone a solemn chorus, but there was little\nhard drinking, for Elzevir Block never got drunk himself, and did not\nlike his guests to get drunk either. On singing nights the room grew hot,\nand the steam stood so thick on the glass inside that one could not see\nin; but at other times, when there was no company, I have peeped through\nthe red curtains and watched Elzevir Block and Ratsey playing backgammon\nat the trestle-table by the fire. It was on the trestle-table that Block\nhad afterwards laid out his son's dead body, and some said they had\nlooked through the window at night and seen the father trying to wash the\nblood-matting out of the boy's yellow hair, and heard him groaning and\ntalking to the lifeless clay as if it could understand. Anyhow, there had\nbeen little drinking in the inn since that time, for Block grew more and\nmore silent and morose. He had never courted customers, and now he\nscowled on any that came, so that men looked on the Why Not? as a\nblighted spot, and went to drink at the Three Choughs at Ringstave.\n\nMy heart was in my mouth when Ratsey lifted the latch and led me into the\ninn parlour. It was a low sanded room with no light except a fire of\nseawood on the hearth, burning clear and lambent with blue salt flames.\nThere were tables at each end of the room, and wooden-seated chairs round\nthe walls, and at the trestle table by the chimney sat Elzevir Block\nsmoking a long pipe and looking at the fire. He was a man of fifty, with\na shock of grizzled hair, a broad but not unkindly face of regular\nfeatures, bushy eyebrows, and the finest forehead that I ever saw. His\nframe was thick-set, and still immensely strong; indeed, the countryside\nwas full of tales of his strange prowess or endurance. Blocks had been\nlandlords at the Why Not? father and son for years, but Elzevir's mother\ncame from the Low Countries, and that was how he got his outland name and\ncould speak Dutch. Few men knew much of him, and folks often wondered how\nit was he kept the Why Not? on so little custom as went that way. Yet he\nnever seemed to lack for money; and if people loved to tell stories of\nhis strength, they would speak also of widows helped, and sick comforted\nwith unknown gifts, and hint that some of them came from Elzevir Block\nfor all he was so grim and silent.\n\nHe turned round and got up as we came in, and my fears led me to think\nthat his face darkened when he saw me.\n\n'What does this boy want?' he said to Ratsey sharply.\n\n'He wants the same as I want, and that's a glass of Ararat milk to keep\nout autumn chills,' the sexton answered, drawing another chair up to the\ntrestle-table.\n\n'Cows' milk is best for children such as he,' was Elzevir's answer, as he\ntook two shining brass candlesticks from the mantel-board, set them on\nthe table, and lit the candles with a burning chip from the hearth.\n\n'John is no child; he is the same age as David, and comes from helping me\nto finish David's headstone. 'Tis finished now, barring the paint upon\nthe ships, and, please God, by Monday night we will have it set fair and\nsquare in the churchyard, and then the poor lad may rest in peace,\nknowing he has above him Master Ratsey's best handiwork, and the parson's\nverses to set forth how shamefully he came to his end.'\n\nI thought that Elzevir softened a little as Ratsey spoke of his son, and\nhe said, 'Ay, David rests in peace. 'Tis they that brought him to his end\nthat shall not rest in peace when their time comes. And it may come\nsooner than they think,' he added, speaking more to himself than to us. I\nknew that he meant Mr. Maskew, and recollected that some had warned the\nmagistrate that he had better keep out of Elzevir's way, for there was no\nknowing what a desperate man might do. And yet the two had met since in\nthe village street, and nothing worse come of it than a scowling look\nfrom Block.\n\n'Tush, man!' broke in the sexton, 'it was the foulest deed ever man\ndid; but let not thy mind brood on it, nor think how thou mayest get\nthyself avenged. Leave that to Providence; for He whose wisdom lets\nsuch things be done, will surely see they meet their due reward.\n\"Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord\".' And he took his\nhat off and hung it on a peg.\n\nBlock did not answer, but set three glasses on the table, and then took\nout from a cupboard a little round long-necked bottle, from which he\npoured out a glass for Ratsey and himself. Then he half-filled the third,\nand pushed it along the table to me, saying, 'There, take it, lad, if\nthou wilt; 'twill do thee no good, but may do thee no harm.'\n\nRatsey raised his glass almost before it was filled. He sniffed the\nliquor and smacked his lips. 'O rare milk of Ararat!' he said, 'it is\nsweet and strong, and sets the heart at ease. And now get the\nbackgammon-board, John, and set it for us on the table.' So they fell to\nthe game, and I took a sly sip at the liquor, but nearly choked myself,\nnot being used to strong waters, and finding it heady and burning in the\nthroat. Neither man spoke, and there was no sound except the constant\nrattle of the dice, and the rubbing of the pieces being moved across the\nboard. Now and then one of the players stopped to light his pipe, and at\nthe end of a game they scored their totals on the table with a bit of\nchalk. So I watched them for an hour, knowing the game myself, and being\ninterested at seeing Elzevir's backgammon-board, which I had heard talked\nof before.\n\nIt had formed part of the furniture of the Why Not? for generations of\nlandlords, and served perhaps to pass time for cavaliers of the Civil\nWars. All was of oak, black and polished, board, dice-boxes, and men, but\nround the edge ran a Latin inscription inlaid in light wood, which I read\non that first evening, but did not understand till Mr. Glennie translated\nit to me. I had cause to remember it afterwards, so I shall set it down\nhere in Latin for those who know that tongue, _Ita in vita ut in lusu\nalae pessima jactura arte corrigenda est_, and in English as Mr. Glennie\ntranslated it, _As in life, so in a game of hazard, skill will make\nsomething of the worst of throws_. At last Elzevir looked up and spoke\nto me, not unkindly, 'Lad, it is time for you to go home; men say that\nBlackbeard walks on the first nights of winter, and some have met him\nface to face betwixt this house and yours.' I saw he wanted to be rid of\nme, so bade them both good night, and was off home, running all the way\nthither, though not from any fear of Blackbeard, for Ratsey had often\ntold me that there was no chance of meeting him unless one passed the\nchurchyard by night.\n\nBlackbeard was one of the Mohunes who had died a century back, and was\nburied in the vault under the church, with others of his family, but\ncould not rest there, whether, as some said, because he was always\nlooking for a lost treasure, or as others, because of his exceeding\nwickedness in life. If this last were the true reason, he must have been\nbad indeed, for Mohunes have died before and since his day wicked enough\nto bear anyone company in their vault or elsewhere. Men would have it\nthat on dark winter nights Blackbeard might be seen with an old-fashioned\nlanthorn digging for treasure in the graveyard; and those who professed\nto know said he was the tallest of men, with full black beard, coppery\nface, and such evil eyes, that any who once met their gaze must die\nwithin a year. However that might be, there were few in Moonfleet who\nwould not rather walk ten miles round than go near the churchyard after\ndark; and once when Cracky Jones, a poor doited body, was found there\none summer morning, lying dead on the grass, it was thought that he had\nmet Blackbeard in the night.\n\nMr. Glennie, who knew more about such things than anyone else, told me\nthat Blackbeard was none other than a certain Colonel John Mohune,\ndeceased about one hundred years ago. He would have it that Colonel\nMohune, in the dreadful wars against King Charles the First, had deserted\nthe allegiance of his house and supported the cause of the rebels. So\nbeing made Governor of Carisbrooke Castle for the Parliament, he became\nthere the King's jailer, but was false to his trust. For the King,\ncarrying constantly hidden about his person a great diamond which had\nonce been given him by his brother King of France, Mohune got wind of\nthis jewel, and promised that if it were given him he would wink at His\nMajesty's escape. Then this wicked man, having taken the bribe, plays\ntraitor again, comes with a file of soldiers at the hour appointed for\nthe King's flight, finds His Majesty escaping through a window, has him\naway to a stricter ward, and reports to the Parliament that the King's\nescape is only prevented by Colonel Mohune's watchfulness. But how true,\nas Mr. Glennie said, that we should not be envious against the ungodly,\nagainst the man that walketh after evil counsels. Suspicion fell on\nColonel Mohune; he was removed from his Governorship, and came back to\nhis home at Moonfleet. There he lived in seclusion, despised by both\nparties in the State, until he died, about the time of the happy\nRestoration of King Charles the Second. But even after his death he could\nnot get rest; for men said that he had hid somewhere that treasure given\nhim to permit the King's escape, and that not daring to reclaim it, had\nlet the secret die with him, and so must needs come out of his grave to\ntry to get at it again. Mr. Glennie would never say whether he believed\nthe tale or not, pointing out that apparitions both of good and evil\nspirits are related in Holy Scripture, but that the churchyard was an\nunlikely spot for Colonel Mohune to seek his treasure in; for had it been\nburied there, he would have had a hundred chances to have it up in his\nlifetime. However this may be, though I was brave as a lion by day, and\nused indeed to frequent the churchyard, because there was the widest\nview of the sea to be obtained from it, yet no reward would have taken me\nthither at night. Nor was I myself without some witness to the tale, for\nhaving to walk to Ringstave for Dr. Hawkins on the night my aunt broke\nher leg, I took the path along the down which overlooks the churchyard at\na mile off; and thence most certainly saw a light moving to and fro about\nthe church, where no honest man could be at two o'clock in the morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\nTHE FLOODS\n\nThen banks came down with ruin and rout,\nThen beaten spray flew round about,\nThen all the mighty floods were out,\n  And all the world was in the sea _--Jean Ingelow_\n\n\nOn the third of November, a few days after this visit to the Why Not?,\nthe wind, which had been blowing from the south-west, began about four in\nthe afternoon to rise in sudden strong gusts. The rooks had been\npitch-falling all the morning, so we knew that bad weather was due; and\nwhen we came out from the schooling that Mr. Glennie gave us in the hall\nof the old almshouses, there were wisps of thatch, and even stray tiles,\nflying from the roofs, and the children sang:\n\nBlow wind, rise storm,\nShip ashore before morn.\n\nIt is heathenish rhyme that has come down out of other and worse times;\nfor though I do not say but that a wreck on Moonfleet beach was looked\nupon sometimes as little short of a godsend, yet I hope none of us were\nso wicked as to _wish_ a vessel to be wrecked that we might share in the\nplunder. Indeed, I have known the men of Moonfleet risk their own lives a\nhundred times to save those of shipwrecked mariners, as when the\n_Darius_, East Indiaman, came ashore; nay, even poor nameless corpses\nwashed up were sure of Christian burial, or perhaps of one of Master\nRatsey's headstones to set forth sex and date, as may be seen in the\nchurchyard to this day.\n\nOur village lies near the centre of Moonfleet Bay, a great bight twenty\nmiles across, and a death-trap to up-channel sailors in a\nsouth-westerly gale. For with that wind blowing strong from south, if\nyou cannot double the Snout, you must most surely come ashore; and many\na good ship failing to round that point has beat up and down the bay\nall day, but come to beach in the evening. And once on the beach, the\nsea has little mercy, for the water is deep right in, and the waves\ncurl over full on the pebbles with a weight no timbers can withstand.\nThen if poor fellows try to save themselves, there is a deadly\nunder-tow or rush back of the water, which sucks them off their legs,\nand carries them again under the thundering waves. It is that back-suck\nof the pebbles that you may hear for miles inland, even at Dorchester,\non still nights long after the winds that caused it have sunk, and\nwhich makes people turn in their beds, and thank God they are not\nfighting with the sea on Moonfleet beach.\n\nBut on this third of November there was no wreck, only such a wind as I\nhave never known before, and only once since. All night long the tempest\ngrew fiercer, and I think no one in Moonfleet went to bed; for there was\nsuch a breaking of tiles and glass, such a banging of doon and rattling\nof shutters, that no sleep was possible, and we were afraid besides lest\nthe chimneys should fall and crush us. The wind blew fiercest about five\nin the morning, and then some ran up the street calling out a new\ndanger--that the sea was breaking over the beach, and that all the place\nwas like to be flooded. Some of the women were for flitting forthwith and\nclimbing the down; but Master Ratsey, who was going round with others to\ncomfort people, soon showed us that the upper part of the village stood\nso high, that if the water was to get thither, there was no knowing if it\nwould not cover Ridgedown itself. But what with its being a spring-tide,\nand the sea breaking clean over the great outer beach of pebbles--a thing\nthat had not happened for fifty years--there was so much water piled up\nin the lagoon, that it passed its bounds and flooded all the sea meadows,\nand even the lower end of the street. So when day broke, there was the\nchurchyard flooded, though 'twas on rising ground, and the church itself\nstanding up like a steep little island, and the water over the door-sill\nof the Why Not?, though Elzevir Block would not budge, saying he did not\ncare if the sea swept him away. It was but a nine-hours' wonder, for the\nwind fell very suddenly; the water began to go back, the sun shone\nbright, and before noon people came out to the doors to see the floods\nand talk over the storm. Most said that never had been so fierce a wind,\nbut some of the oldest spoke of one in the second year of Queen Anne, and\nwould have it as bad or worse. But whether worse or not, this storm was a\nweighty matter enough for me, and turned the course of my life, as you\nshall hear.\n\nI have said that the waters came up so high that the church stood out\nlike an island; but they went back quickly, and Mr. Glennie was able to\nhold service on the next Sunday morning. Few enough folks came to\nMoonfleet Church at any time; but fewer still came that morning, for\nthe meadows between the village and the churchyard were wet and miry\nfrom the water. There were streamers of seaweed tangled about the very\ntombstones, and against the outside of the churchyard wall was piled up\na great bank of it, from which came a salt rancid smell like a\nguillemot's egg that is always in the air after a south-westerly gale\nhas strewn the shore with wrack.\n\nThis church is as large as any other I have seen, and divided into two\nparts with a stone screen across the middle. Perhaps Moonfleet was once a\nlarge place, and then likely enough there were people to fill such a\nchurch, but never since I knew it did anyone worship in that part called\nthe nave. This western portion was quite empty beyond a few old tombs and\na Royal Arms of Queen Anne; the pavement too was damp and mossy; and\nthere were green patches down the white walls where the rains had got in.\nSo the handful of people that came to church were glad enough to get the\nother side of the screen in the chancel, where at least the pew floors\nwere boarded over, and the panelling of oak-work kept off the draughts.\n\nNow this Sunday morning there were only three or four, I think, beside\nMr. Glennie and Ratsey and the half-dozen of us boys, who crossed the\nswampy meadows strewn with drowned shrew-mice and moles. Even my aunt was\nnot at church, being prevented by a migraine, but a surprise waited those\nwho did go, for there in a pew by himself sat Elzevir Block. The people\nstared at him as they came in, for no one had ever known him go to church\nbefore; some saying in the village that he was a Catholic, and others an\ninfidel. However that may be, there he was this day, wishing perhaps to\nshow a favour to the parson who had written the verses for David's\nheadstone. He took no notice of anyone, nor exchanged greetings with\nthose that came in, as was the fashion in Moonfleet Church, but kept his\neyes fixed on a prayer-book which he held in his hand, though he could\nnot be following the minister, for he never turned the leaf.\n\nThe church was so damp from the floods, that Master Ratsey had put a fire\nin the brazier which stood at the back, but was not commonly lighted till\nthe winter had fairly begun. We boys sat as close to the brazier as we\ncould, for the wet cold struck up from the flags, and besides that, we\nwere so far from the clergyman, and so well screened by the oak backs,\nthat we could bake an apple or roast a chestnut without much fear of\nbeing caught. But that morning there was something else to take off our\nthoughts; for before the service was well begun, we became aware of a\nstrange noise under the church. The first time it came was just as Mr.\nGlennie was finishing 'Dearly Beloved', and we heard it again before the\nsecond lesson. It was not a loud noise, but rather like that which a boat\nmakes jostling against another at sea, only there was something deeper\nand more hollow about it. We boys looked at each other, for we knew what\nwas under the church, and that the sound could only come from the Mohune\nVault. No one at Moonfleet had ever seen the inside of that vault; but\nRatsey was told by his father, who was clerk before him, that it underlay\nhalf the chancel, and that there were more than a score of Mohunes lying\nthere. It had not been opened for over forty years, since Gerald Mohune,\nwho burst a blood-vessel drinking at Weymouth races, was buried there;\nbut there was a tale that one Sunday afternoon, many years back, there\nhad come from the vault so horrible and unearthly a cry, that parson and\npeople got up and fled from the church, and would not worship there for\nweeks afterwards.\n\nWe thought of these stories, and huddled up closer to the brazier, being\nfrightened at the noise, and uncertain whether we should not turn tail\nand run from the church. For it was certain that something was moving in\nthe Mohune vault, to which there was no entrance except by a ringed stone\nin the chancel floor, that had not been lifted for forty years.\n\nHowever, we thought better of it, and did not budge, though I could see\nwhen standing up and looking over the tops of the seats that others\nbeside ourselves were ill at ease; for Granny Tucker gave such starts\nwhen she heard the sounds, that twice her spectacles fell off her nose\ninto her lap, and Master Ratsey seemed to be trying to mask the one noise\nby making another himself, whether by shuffling with his feet or by\nthumping down his prayer-book. But the thing that most surprised me was\nthat even Elzevir Block, who cared, men said, for neither God nor Devil,\nlooked unquiet, and gave a quick glance at Ratsey every time the sound\ncame. So we sat till Mr. Glennie was well on with the sermon. His\ndiscourse interested me though I was only a boy, for he likened life to\nthe letter 'Y', saying that 'in each man's life must come a point where\ntwo roads part like the arms of a \"Y\", and that everyone must choose for\nhimself whether he will follow the broad and sloping path on the left or\nthe steep and narrow path on the right. For,' said he, 'if you will look\nin your books, you will see that the letter \"Y\" is not like the Mohunes',\nwith both arms equal, but has the arm on the left broader and more\nsloping than the arm on the right; hence ancient philosophers hold that\nthis arm on the left represents the easy downward road to destruction,\nand the arm on the right the narrow upward path of life.' When we heard\nthat we all fell to searching our prayer-books for a capital 'Y'; and\nGranny Tucker, who knew not A from B, made much ado in fumbling with her\nbook, for she would have people think that she could read. Then just at\nthat moment came a noise from below louder than those before, hollow and\ngrating like the cry of an old man in pain. With that up jumps Granny\nTucker, calling out loud in church to Mr. Glennie--\n\n'O Master, however can'ee bide there preaching when the Moons be rising\nfrom their graves?' and out from the church.\n\nThat was too much for the others, and all fled, Mrs. Vining crying,\n'Lordsakes, we shall all be throttled like Cracky Jones.'\n\nSo in a minute there were none left in the church, save and except Mr.\nGlennie, with me, Ratsey, and Elzevir Block. I did not run: first, not\nwishing to show myself coward before the men; second, because I thought\nif Blackbeard came he would fall on the men rather than on a boy; and\nthird, that if it came to blows, Block was strong enough to give account\neven of a Mohune. Mr. Glennie went on with his sermon, making as though\nhe neither heard any noise nor saw the people leave the church; and when\nhe had finished, Elzevir walked out, but I stopped to see what the\nminister would say to Ratsey about the noise in the vault. The sexton\nhelped Mr. Glennie off with his gown, and then seeing me standing by and\nlistening, said--\n\n'The Lord has sent evil angels among us; 'tis a terrible thing, Master\nGlennie, to hear the dead men moving under our feet.'\n\n'Tut, tut,' answered the minister, 'it is only their own fears that make\nsuch noises terrible to the vulgar. As for Blackbeard, I am not here to\nsay whether guilty spirits sometimes cannot rest and are seen wandering\nby men; but for these noises, they are certainly Nature's work as is the\nnoise of waves upon the beach. The floods have filled the vault with\nwater, and so the coffins getting afloat, move in some eddies that we\nknow not of, and jostle one another. Then being hollow, they give forth\nthose sounds you hear, and these are your evil angels. 'Tis very true the\ndead do move beneath our feet, but 'tis because they cannot help\nthemselves, being carried hither and thither by the water. Fie, Ratsey\nman, you should know better than to fright a boy with silly talk of\nspirits when the truth is bad enough.'\n\nThe parson's words had the ring of truth in them to me, and I never\ndoubted that he was right. So this mystery was explained, and yet it was\na dreadful thing, and made me shiver, to think of the Mohunes all adrift\nin their coffins, and jostling one another in the dark. I pictured them\nto myself, the many generations, old men and children, man and maid, all\nbones now, each afloat in his little box of rotting wood; and Blackbeard\nhimself in a great coffin bigger than all the rest, coming crashing into\nthe weaker ones, as a ship in a heavy sea comes crashing down sometimes\nin the trough, on a small boat that is trying to board her. And then\nthere was the outer darkness of the vault itself to think of, and the\nclose air, and the black putrid water nearly up to the roof on which such\nsorry ships were sailing.\n\nRatsey looked a little crestfallen at what Mr. Glennie said, but put a\ngood face on it, and answered--\n\n'Well, master, I am but a plain man, and know nothing about floods and\nthese eddies and hidden workings of Nature of which you speak; but,\nsaving your presence, I hold it a fond thing to make light of such\nwarnings as are given us. 'Tis always said, \"When the Moons move, then\nMoonfleet mourns\"; and I have heard my father tell that the last time\nthey stirred was in Queen Anne's second year, when the great storm blew\nmen's homes about their heads. And as for frighting children, 'tis well\nthat heady boys should learn to stand in awe, and not pry into what does\nnot concern them--or they may come to harm.' He added the last words with\nwhat I felt sure was a nod of warning to myself, though I did not then\nunderstand what he meant. So he walked off in a huff with Elzevir, who\nwas waiting for him outside, and I went with Mr. Glennie and carried his\ngown for him back to his lodging in the village.\n\nMr. Glennie was always very friendly, making much of me, and talking to\nme as though I were his equal; which was due, I think, to there being no\none of his own knowledge in the neighbourhood, and so he had as lief talk\nto an ignorant boy as to an ignorant man. After we had passed the\nchurchyard turnstile and were crossing the sludgy meadows, I asked him\nagain what he knew of Blackbeard and his lost treasure.\n\n'My son,' he answered, 'all that I have been able to gather is, that this\nColonel John Mohune (foolishly called Blackbeard) was the first to impair\nthe family fortunes by his excesses, and even let the almshouses fall to\nruin, and turned the poor away. Unless report strangely belies him, he\nwas an evil man, and besides numberless lesser crimes, had on his hands\nthe blood of a faithful servant, whom he made away with because chance\nhad brought to the man's ears some guilty secret of the master. Then, at\nthe end of his life, being filled with fear and remorse (as must always\nhappen with evil livers at the last), he sent for Rector Kindersley of\nDorchester to confess him, though a Protestant, and wished to make amends\nby leaving that treasure so ill-gotten from King Charles (which was all\nthat he had to leave) for the repair and support of the almshouses. He\nmade a last will, which I have seen, to this effect, but without\ndescribing the treasure further than to call it a diamond, nor saying\nwhere it was to be found. Doubtless he meant to get it himself, sell it,\nand afterwards apply the profit to his good purpose, but before he could\ndo so death called him suddenly to his account. So men say that he cannot\nrest in his grave, not having made even so tardy a reparation, and never\nwill rest unless the treasure is found and spent upon the poor.'\n\nI thought much over what Mr. Glennie had said and fell to wondering where\nBlackbeard could have hid his diamond, and whether I might not find it\nsome day and make myself a rich man. Now, as I considered that noise we\nhad heard under the church, and Parson Glennie's explanation of it, I was\nmore and more perplexed; for the noise had, as I have said, something\ndeep and hollow-booming in it, and how was that to be made by decayed\ncoffins. I had more than once seen Ratsey, in digging a grave, turn up\npieces of coffins, and sometimes a tarnished name-plate would show that\nthey had not been so very long underground, and yet the wood was quite\ndecayed and rotten. And granting that such were in the earth, and so\nmight more easily perish, yet when the top was taken off old Guy's brick\ngrave to put his widow beside him, Master Ratsey gave me a peep in, and\nold Guy's coffin had cracks and warps in it, and looked as if a sound\nblow would send it to pieces. Yet here were the Mohune coffins that had\nbeen put away for generations, and must be rotten as tinder, tapping\nagainst each other with a sound like a drum, as if they were still sound\nand air-tight. Still, Mr. Glennie must be right; for if it was not the\ncoffins, what should it be that made the noise?\n\nSo on the next day after we heard the sounds in church, being the\nMonday, as soon as morning school was over, off I ran down street and\nacross meadows to the churchyard, meaning to listen outside the church\nif the Mohunes were still moving. I say outside the church, for I knew\nRatsey would not lend me the key to go in after what he had said about\nboys prying into things that did not concern them; and besides that, I\ndo not know that I should care to have ventured inside alone, even if I\nhad the key.\n\nWhen I reached the church, not a little out of breath, I listened first\non the side nearest the village, that is the north side; putting my ear\nagainst the wall, and afterwards lying down on the ground, though the\ngrass was long and wet, so that I might the better catch any sound that\ncame. But I could hear nothing, and so concluded that the Mohunes had\ncome to rest again, yet thought I would walk round the church and listen\ntoo on the south or sea side, for that their worships might have drifted\nover to that side, and be there rubbing shoulders with one another. So I\nwent round, and was glad to get out of the cold shade into the sun on the\nsouth. But here was a surprise; for when I came round a great buttress\nwhich juts out from the wall, what should I see but two men, and these\ntwo were Ratsey and Elzevir Block. I came upon them unawares, and, lo and\nbehold, there was Master Ratsey lying also on the ground with his ear to\nthe wall, while Elzevir sat back against the inside of the buttress with\na spy-glass in his hand, smoking and looking out to sea.\n\nNow, I had as much right to be in the churchyard as Ratsey or Elzevir,\nand yet I felt a sudden shame as if I had been caught in some bad act,\nand knew the blood was running to my cheeks. At first I had it in my mind\nto turn tail and make off, but concluded to stand my ground since they\nhad seen me, and so bade them 'Good morning'. Master Ratsey jumped to his\nfeet as nimbly as a cat; and if he had not been a man, I should have\nthought he was blushing too, for his face was very red, though that came\nperhaps from lying on the ground. I could see he was a little put about,\nand out of countenance, though he tried to say 'Good morning, John', in\nan easy tone, as if it was a common thing for him to be lying in the\nchurchyard, with his ear to the wall, on a winter's morning. 'Good\nmorning, John,' he said; 'and what might you be doing in the churchyard\nthis fine day?'\n\nI answered that I was come to listen if the Mohunes were still moving.\n\n'Well, that I can't tell you,' returned Ratsey, 'not wishing to waste\nthought on such idle matters, and having to examine this wall whether\nthe floods have not so damaged it as to need under-pinning; so if you\nhave time to gad about of a morning, get you back to my workshop and\nfetch me a plasterer's hammer which I have left behind, so that I can\ntry this mortar.'\n\nI knew that he was making excuses about underpinning, for the wall was\nsound as a rock, but was glad enough to take him at his word and beat a\nretreat from where I was not wanted. Indeed, I soon saw how he was\nmocking me, for the men did not even wait for me to come back with the\nhammer, but I met them returning in the first meadow. Master Ratsey made\nanother excuse that he did not need the hammer now, as he had found out\nthat all that was wanted was a little pointing with new mortar. 'But if\nyou have such time to waste, John,' he added, 'you can come tomorrow and\nhelp me to get new thwarts in the _Petrel_, which she badly wants.'\n\nSo we three came back to the village together; but looking up at Elzevir\nonce while Master Ratsey was making these pretences, I saw his eyes\ntwinkle under their heavy brows, as if he was amused at the other's\nembarrassment.\n\nThe next Sunday, when we went to church, all was quiet as usual,\nthere was no Elzevir, and no more noises, and I never heard the\nMohunes move again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\nA DISCOVERY\n\nSome bold adventurers disdain\nThe limits of their little reign,\n  And unknown regions dare descry;\nStill, as they run, they look behind,\nThey hear a voice in every wind\n  And snatch a fearful joy--_Gray_\n\n\nI have said that I used often in the daytime, when not at school, to go\nto the churchyard, because being on a little rise, there was the best\nview of the sea to be had from it; and on a fine day you could watch the\nFrench privateers creeping along the cliffs under the Snout, and lying in\nwait for an Indiaman or up-channel trader. There were at Moonfleet few\nboys of my own age, and none that I cared to make my companion; so I was\ngiven to muse alone, and did so for the most part in the open air, all\nthe more because my aunt did not like to see an idle boy, with muddy\nboots, about her house.\n\nFor a few weeks, indeed, after the day that I had surprised Elzevir and\nRatsey, I kept away from the church, fearing to meet them there again;\nbut a little later resumed my visits, and saw no more of them. Now, my\nfavourite seat in the churchyard was the flat top of a raised stone tomb,\nwhich stands on the south-east of the church. I have heard Mr. Glennie\ncall it an altar-tomb, and in its day it had been a fine monument, being\ncarved round with festoons of fruit and flowers; but had suffered so much\nfrom the weather, that I never was able to read the lettering on it, or\nto find out who had been buried beneath. Here I chose most to sit, not\nonly because it had a flat and convenient top, but because it was\nscreened from the wind by a thick clump of yew-trees. These yews had\nonce, I think, completely surrounded it, but had either died or been cut\ndown on the south side, so that anyone sitting on the grave-top was snug\nfrom the weather, and yet possessed a fine prospect over the sea. On the\nother three sides, the yews grew close and thick, embowering the tomb\nlike the high back of a fireside chair; and many times in autumn I have\nseen the stone slab crimson with the fallen waxy berries, and taken some\nhome to my aunt, who liked to taste them with a glass of sloe-gin after\nher Sunday dinner. Others beside me, no doubt, found this tomb a\ncomfortable seat and look-out; for there was quite a path worn to it on\nthe south side, though all the times I had visited it I had never seen\nanyone there.\n\nSo it came about that on a certain afternoon in the beginning of\nFebruary, in the year 1758, I was sitting on this tomb looking out to\nsea. Though it was so early in the year, the air was soft and warm as a\nMay day, and so still that I could hear the drumming of turnips that\nGaffer George was flinging into a cart on the hillside, near half a mile\naway. Ever since the floods of which I have spoken, the weather had been\nopen, but with high winds, and little or no rain. Thus as the land dried\nafter the floods there began to open cracks in the heavy clay soil on\nwhich Moonfleet is built, such as are usually only seen with us in the\nheight of summer. There were cracks by the side of the path in the\nsea-meadows between the village and the church, and cracks in the\nchurchyard itself, and one running right up to this very tomb.\n\nIt must have been past four o'clock in the afternoon, and I was for\nreturning to tea at my aunt's, when underneath the stone on which I sat I\nheard a rumbling and crumbling, and on jumping off saw that the crack in\nthe ground had still further widened, just where it came up to the tomb,\nand that the dry earth had so shrunk and settled that there was a hole\nin the ground a foot or more across. Now this hole reached under the big\nstone that formed one side of the tomb, and falling on my hands and knees\nand looking down it, I perceived that there was under the monument a\nlarger cavity, into which the hole opened. I believe there never was boy\nyet who saw a hole in the ground, or a cave in a hill, or much more an\nunderground passage, but longed incontinently to be into it and discover\nwhither it led. So it was with me; and seeing that the earth had fallen\nenough into the hole to open a way under the stone, I slipped myself in\nfeet foremost, dropped down on to a heap of fallen mould, and found that\nI could stand upright under the monument itself.\n\nNow this was what I had expected, for I thought that there had been below\nthis grave a vault, the roof of which had given way and let the earth\nfall in. But as soon as my eyes were used to the dimmer light, I saw that\nit was no such thing, but that the hole into which I had crept was only\nthe mouth of a passage, which sloped gently down in the direction of the\nchurch. My heart fell to thumping with eagerness and surprise, for I\nthought I had made a wonderful discovery, and that this hidden way would\ncertainly lead to great things, perhaps even to Blackbeard's hoard; for\never since Mr. Glennie's tale I had constantly before my eyes a vision of\nthe diamond and the wealth it was to bring me. The passage was two paces\nbroad, as high as a tall man, and cut through the soil, without bricks or\nany other lining; and what surprised me most was that it did not seem\ndeserted nor mouldy and cob-webbed, as one would expect such a place to\nbe, but rather a well-used thoroughfare; for I could see the soft clay\nfloor was trodden with the prints of many boots, and marked with a trail\nas if some heavy thing had been dragged over it.\n\nSo I set out down the passage, reaching out my hand before me lest I\nshould run against anything in the dark, and sliding my feet slowly to\navoid pitfalls in the floor. But before I had gone half a dozen paces,\nthe darkness grew so black that I was frightened, and so far from going\non was glad to turn sharp about, and see the glimmer of light that came\nin through the hole under the tomb. Then a horror of the darkness seized\nme, and before I well knew what I was about I found myself wriggling my\nbody up under the tombstone on to the churchyard grass, and was once more\nin the low evening sunlight and the soft sweet air.\n\nHome I ran to my aunt's, for it was past tea-time, and beside that I knew\nI must fetch a candle if I were ever to search out the passage; and to\nsearch it I had well made up my mind, no matter how much I was scared for\nthis moment. My aunt gave me but a sorry greeting when I came into the\nkitchen, for I was late and hot. She never said much when displeased, but\nhad a way of saying nothing, which was much worse; and would only reply\nyes or no, and that after an interval, to anything that was asked of her.\nSo the meal was silent enough, for she had finished before I arrived, and\nI ate but little myself being too much occupied with the thought of my\nstrange discovery, and finding, beside, the tea lukewarm and the victuals\nnot enticing.\n\nYou may guess that I said nothing of what I had seen, but made up my mind\nthat as soon as my aunt's back was turned I would get a candle and\ntinder-box, and return to the churchyard. The sun was down before Aunt\nJane gave thanks for what we had received, and then, turning to me, she\nsaid in a cold and measured voice:\n\n'John, I have observed that you are often out and about of nights,\nsometimes as late as half past seven or eight. Now, it is not seemly for\nyoung folk to be abroad after dark, and I do not choose that my nephew\nshould be called a gadabout. \"What's bred in the bone will come out in\nthe flesh\", and 'twas with such loafing that your father began his wild\nways, and afterwards led my poor sister such a life as never was, till\nthe mercy of Providence took him away.'\n\nAunt Jane often spoke thus of my father, whom I never remembered, but\nbelieve him to have been an honest man and good fellow to boot, if\nsomething given to roaming and to the contraband.\n\n'So understand', she went on, 'that I will not have you out again this\nevening, no, nor any other evening, after dusk. Bed is the place for\nyouth when night falls, but if this seem to you too early you can sit\nwith me for an hour in the parlour, and I will read you a discourse of\nDoctor Sherlock that will banish vain thoughts, and leave you in a fit\nframe for quiet sleep.'\n\nSo she led the way into the parlour, took the book from the shelf, put it\non the table within the little circle of light cast by a shaded candle,\nand began. It was dull enough, though I had borne such tribulations\nbefore, and the drone of my aunt's voice would have sent me to sleep, as\nit had done at other times, even in a straight-backed chair, had I not\nbeen so full of my discovery, and chafed at this delay. Thus all the time\nmy aunt read of spiritualities and saving grace, I had my mind on\ndiamonds and all kinds of mammon, for I never doubted that Blackbeard's\ntreasure would be found at the end of that secret passage. The sermon\nfinished at last, and my aunt closed the book with a stiff 'good night'\nfor me. I was for giving her my formal kiss, but she made as if she did\nnot see me and turned away; so we went upstairs each to our own room, and\nI never kissed Aunt Jane again.\n\nThere was a moon three-quarters full, already in the sky, and on\nmoonlight nights I was allowed no candle to show me to bed. But on that\nnight I needed none, for I never took off my clothes, having resolved to\nwait till my aunt was asleep, and then, ghosts or no ghosts, to make my\nway back to the churchyard. I did not dare to put off that visit even\ntill the morning, lest some chance passer-by should light upon the hole,\nand so forestall me with Blackbeard's treasure.\n\nThus I lay wide awake on my bed watching the shadow of the tester-post\nagainst the whitewashed wall, and noting how it had moved, by degrees, as\nthe moon went farther round. At last, just as it touched the picture of\nthe Good Shepherd which hung over the mantelpiece, I heard my aunt\nsnoring in her room, and knew that I was free. Yet I waited a few minutes\nso that she might get well on with her first sleep, and then took off my\nboots, and in stockinged feet slipped past her room and down the stairs.\nHow stair, handrail, and landing creaked that night, and how my feet and\nbody struck noisily against things seen quite well but misjudged in the\neffort not to misjudge them! And yet there was the note of safety still\nsounding, for the snoring never ceased, and the sleeper woke not, though\nher waking then might have changed all my life. So I came safely to the\nkitchen, and there put in my pocket one of the best winter candles and\nthe tinder-box, and as I crept out of the room heard suddenly how loud\nthe old clock was ticking, and looking up saw the bright brass band\nmarking half past ten on the dial.\n\nOut in the street I kept in the shadow of the houses as far as I might,\nthough all was silent as the grave; indeed, I think that when the moon is\nbright a great hush falls always upon Nature, as though she was taken up\nin wondering at her own beauty. Everyone was fast asleep in Moonfleet and\nthere was no light in any window; only when I came opposite the Why Not?\nI saw from the red glow behind the curtains that the bottom room was lit\nup, so Elzevir was not yet gone to bed. It was strange, for the Why Not?\nhad been shut up early for many a long night past, and I crossed over\ncautiously to see if I could make out what was going forward. But that\nwas not to be done, for the panes were thickly steamed over; and this\nsurprised me more as showing that there was a good company inside.\nMoreover, as I stood and listened I could hear a mutter of deep voices\ninside, not as of roisterers, but of sober men talking low.\n\nEagerness would not let me wait long, and I was off across the meadows\ntowards the church, though not without sad misgivings as soon as the last\nhouse was left well behind me. At the churchyard wall my courage had\nwaned somewhat: it seemed a shameless thing to come to rifle Blackbeard's\ntreasure just in the very place and hour that Blackbeard loved; and as I\npassed the turnstile I half-expected that a tall figure, hairy and\nevil-eyed, would spring out from the shadow on the north side of the\nchurch. But nothing stirred, and the frosty grass sounded crisp under my\nfeet as I made across the churchyard, stepping over the graves and\nkeeping always out of the shadows, towards the black clump of yew-trees\non the far side.\n\nWhen I got round the yews, there was the tomb standing out white against\nthem, and at the foot of the tomb was the hole like a patch of black\nvelvet spread upon the ground, it was so dark. Then, for a moment, I\nthought that Blackbeard might be lying in wait in the bottom of the hole,\nand I stood uncertain whether to go on or back. I could catch the rustle\nof the water on the beach--not of any waves, for the bay was smooth as\nglass, but just a lipper at the fringe; and wishing to put off with any\nexcuse the descent into the passage, though I had quite resolved to make\nit, I settled with myself that I would count the water wash twenty times,\nand at the twentieth would let myself down into the hole. Only seven\nwavelets had come in when I forgot to count, for there, right in the\nmiddle of the moon's path across the water, lay a lugger moored broadside\nto the beach. She was about half a mile out, but there was no mistake,\nfor though her sails were lowered her masts and hull stood out black\nagainst the moonlight. Here was a fresh reason for delay, for surely one\nmust consider what this craft could be, and what had brought her here.\nShe was too small for a privateer, too large for a fishing-smack, and\ncould not be a revenue boat by her low freeboard in the waist; and 'twas\na strange thing for a boat to cast anchor in the midst of Moonfleet Bay\neven on a night so fine as this. Then while I watched I saw a blue flare\nin the bows, only for a moment, as if a man had lit a squib and flung it\noverboard, but I knew from it she was a contrabandier, and signalling\neither to the shore or to a mate in the offing. With that, courage came\nback, and I resolved to make this flare my signal for getting down into\nthe hole, screwing my heart up with the thought that if Blackbeard was\nreally waiting for me there, 'twould be little good to turn tail now, for\nhe would be after me and could certainly run much faster than I. Then I\ntook one last look round, and down into the hole forthwith, the same way\nas I had got down earlier in the day. So on that February night John\nTrenchard found himself standing in the heap of loose fallen mould at the\nbottom of the hole, with a mixture of courage and cowardice in his heart,\nbut overruling all a great desire to get at Blackbeard's diamond.\n\nOut came tinder-box and candle, and I was glad indeed when the light\nburned up bright enough to show that no one, at any rate, was standing by\nmy side. But then there was the passage, and who could say what might be\nlurking there? Yet I did not falter, but set out on this adventurous\njourney, walking very slowly indeed--but that was from fear of\npitfalls--and nerving myself with the thought of the great diamond which\nsurely would be found at the end of the passage. What should I not be\nable to do with such wealth? I would buy a nag for Mr. Glennie, a new\nboat for Ratsey, and a silk gown for Aunt Jane, in spite of her being so\nhard with me as on this night. And thus I would make myself the greatest\nman in Moonfleet, richer even than Mr. Maskew, and build a stone house in\nthe sea-meadows with a good prospect of the sea, and marry Grace Maskew\nand live happily, and fish. I walked on down the passage, reaching out\nthe candle as far as might be in front of me, and whistling to keep\nmyself company, yet saw neither Blackbeard nor anyone else. All the way\nthere were footprints on the floor, and the roof was black as with smoke\nof torches, and this made me fear lest some of those who had been there\nbefore might have made away with the diamond. Now, though I have spoken\nof this journey down the passage as though it were a mile long, and\nthough it verily seemed so to me that night, yet I afterwards found it\nwas not more than twenty yards or thereabouts; and then I came upon a\nstone wall which had once blocked the road, but was now broken through so\nas to make a ragged doorway into a chamber beyond. There I stood on the\nrough sill of the door, holding my breath and reaching out my candle\narm's-length into the darkness, to see what sort of a place this was\nbefore I put foot into it. And before the light had well time to fall on\nthings, I knew that I was underneath the church, and that this chamber\nwas none other than the Mohune Vault.\n\nIt was a large room, much larger, I think, than the schoolroom where Mr.\nGlennie taught us, but not near so high, being only some nine feet from\nfloor to roof. I say floor, though in reality there was none, but only a\nbottom of soft wet sand; and when I stepped down on to it my heart beat\nvery fiercely, for I remembered what manner of place I was entering, and\nthe dreadful sounds which had issued from it that Sunday morning so short\na time before. I satisfied myself that there was nothing evil lurking in\nthe dark corners, or nothing visible at least, and then began to look\nround and note what was to be seen. Walls and roof were stone, and at one\nend was a staircase closed by a great flat stone at top--that same stone\nwhich I had often seen, with a ring in it, in the floor of the church\nabove. All round the sides were stone shelves, with divisions between\nthem like great bookcases, but instead of books there were the coffins of\nthe Mohunes. Yet these lay only at the sides, and in the middle of the\nroom was something very different, for here were stacked scores of casks,\nkegs, and runlets, from a storage butt that might hold thirty gallons\ndown to a breaker that held only one. They were marked all of them in\nwhite paint on the end with figures and letters, that doubtless set forth\nthe quality to those that understood. Here indeed was a discovery, and\ninstead of picking up at the end of the passage a little brass or silver\ncasket, which had only to be opened to show Blackbeard's diamond gleaming\ninside, I had stumbled on the Mohunes' vault, and found it to be nothing\nbut a cellar of gentlemen of the contraband, for surely good liquor would\nnever be stored in so shy a place if it ever had paid the excise.\n\nAs I walked round this stack of casks my foot struck sharply on the edge\nof a butt, which must have been near empty, and straightway came from it\nthe same hollow, booming sound (only fainter) which had so frightened us\nin church that Sunday morning. So it was the casks, and not the coffins,\nthat had been knocking one against another; and I was pleased with\nmyself, remembering how I had reasoned that coffin-wood could never give\nthat booming sound.\n\nIt was plain enough that the whole place had been under water: the floor\nwas still muddy, and the green and sweating walls showed the flood-mark\nwithin two feet of the roof; there was a wisp or two of fine seaweed that\nhad somehow got in, and a small crab was still alive and scuttled across\nthe corner, yet the coffins were but little disturbed. They lay on the\nshelves in rows, one above the other, and numbered twenty-three in all:\nmost were in lead, and so could never float, but of those in wood some\nwere turned slantways in their niches, and one had floated right away and\nbeen left on the floor upside down in a corner when the waters went back.\n\nFirst I fell to wondering as to whose cellar this was, and how so much\nliquor could have been brought in with secrecy; and how it was I had\nnever seen anything of the contraband-men, though it was clear that they\nhad made this flat tomb the entrance to their storehouse, as I had made\nit my seat. And then I remembered how Ratsey had tried to scare me with\ntalk of Blackbeard; and how Elzevir, who had never been seen at church\nbefore, was there the Sunday of the noises; and how he had looked ill at\nease whenever the noise came, though he was bold as a lion; and how I had\ntripped upon him and Ratsey in the churchyard; and how Master Ratsey lay\nwith his ear to the wall: and putting all these things together and\ncasting them up, I thought that Elzevir and Ratsey knew as much as any\nabout this hiding-place. These reflections gave me more courage, for I\nconsidered that the tales of Blackbeard walking or digging among the\ngraves had been set afloat to keep those that were not wanted from the\nplace, and guessed now that when I saw the light moving in the churchyard\nthat night I went to fetch Dr. Hawkins, it was no corpse-candle, but a\nlantern of smugglers running a cargo. Then, having settled these\nimportant matters, I began to turn over in my mind how to get at the\ntreasure; and herein was much cast down, for in this place was neither\ncasket nor diamond, but only coffins and double-Hollands. So it was that,\nhaving no better plan, I set to work to see whether I could learn\nanything from the coffins themselves; but with little success, for the\nlead coffins had no names upon them, and on such of the wooden coffins as\nbore plates I found the writing to be Latin, and so rusted over that I\ncould make nothing of it.\n\nSoon I wished I had not come at all, considering that the diamond had\nvanished into air, and it was a sad thing to be cabined with so many dead\nmen. It moved me, too, to see pieces of banners and funeral shields, and\neven shreds of wreaths that dear hearts had put there a century ago, now\nall ruined and rotten--some still clinging, water-sodden, to the coffins,\nand some trampled in the sand of the floor. I had spent some time in this\nbootless search, and was resolved to give up further inquiry and foot it\nhome, when the clock in the tower struck midnight. Surely never was\nghostly hour sounded in more ghostly place. Moonfleet peal was known over\nhalf the county, and the finest part of it was the clock bell. 'Twas said\nthat in times past (when, perhaps, the chimes were rung more often than\nnow) the voice of this bell had led safe home boats that were lost in the\nfog; and this night its clangour, mellow and profound, reached even to\nthe vault. Bim-bom it went, bim-bom, twelve heavy thuds that shook the\nwalls, twelve resonant echoes that followed, and then a purring and\nvibration of the air, so that the ear could not tell when it ended.\n\nI was wrought up, perhaps, by the strangeness of the hour and place, and\nmy hearing quicker than at other times, but before the tremor of the bell\nwas quite passed away I knew there was some other sound in the air, and\nthat the awful stillness of the vault was broken. At first I could not\ntell what this new sound was, nor whence it came, and now it seemed a\nlittle noise close by, and now a great noise in the distance. And then it\ngrew nearer and more defined, and in a moment I knew it was the sound of\nvoices talking. They must have been a long way off at first, and for a\nminute, that seemed as an age, they came no nearer. What a minute was\nthat to me! Even now, so many years after, I can recall the anguish of\nit, and how I stood with ears pricked up, eyes starting, and a clammy\nsweat upon my face, waiting for those speakers to come. It was the\nanguish of the rabbit at the end of his burrow, with the ferret's eyes\ngleaming in the dark, and gun and lurcher waiting at the mouth of the\nhole. I was caught in a trap, and knew beside that contraband-men had a\nway of sealing prying eyes and stilling babbling tongues; and I\nremembered poor Cracky Jones found dead in the churchyard, and how men\n_said_ he had met Blackbeard in the night.\n\nThese were but the thoughts of a second, but the voices were nearer, and\nI heard a dull thud far up the passage, and knew that a man had jumped\ndown from the churchyard into the hole. So I took a last stare round,\nagonizing to see if there was any way of escape; but the stone walls and\nroof were solid enough to crush me, and the stack of casks too closely\npacked to hide more than a rat. There was a man speaking now from the\nbottom of the hole to others in the churchyard, and then my eyes were led\nas by a loadstone to a great wooden coffin that lay by itself on the top\nshelf, a full six feet from the ground. When I saw the coffin I knew that\nI was respited, for, as I judged, there was space between it and the wall\nbehind enough to contain my little carcass; and in a second I had put out\nthe candle, scrambled up the shelves, half-stunned my senses with dashing\nmy head against the roof, and squeezed my body betwixt wall and coffin.\nThere I lay on one side with a thin and rotten plank between the dead man\nand me, dazed with the blow to my head, and breathing hard; while the\nglow of torches as they came down the passage reddened and flickered on\nthe roof above.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\nIN THE VAULT\n\nLet us hob and nob with Death--_Tennyson_\n\n\nThough nothing of the vault except the roof was visible from where I\nlay, and so I could not see these visitors, yet I heard every word\nspoken, and soon made out one voice as being Master Ratsey's. This\ndiscovery gave me no surprise but much solace, for I thought that if the\nworst happened and I was discovered, I should find one friend with whom\nI could plead for life.\n\n'It is well the earth gave way', the sexton was saying, 'on a night when\nwe were here to find it. I was in the graveyard myself after midday, and\nall was snug and tight then. 'Twould have been awkward enough to have the\nhole stand open through the day, for any passer-by to light on.'\n\nThere were four or five men in the vault already, and I could hear more\ncoming down the passage, and guessed from their heavy footsteps that they\nwere carrying burdens. There was a sound, too, of dumping kegs down on\nthe ground, with a swish of liquor inside them, and then the noise of\ncasks being moved.\n\n'I thought we should have a fall there ere long,' Ratsey went on, 'what\nwith this drought parching the ground, and the trampling at the edge when\nwe move out the side stone to get in, but there is no mischief done\nbeyond what can be easily made good. A gravestone or two and a few spades\nof earth will make all sound again. Leave that to me.'\n\n'Be careful what you do,' rejoined another man's voice that I did not\nknow, 'lest someone see you digging, and scent us out.'\n\n'Make your mind easy,' Ratsey said; 'I have dug too often in this\ngraveyard for any to wonder if they see me with a spade.'\n\nThen the conversation broke off, and there was little more talking, only\na noise of men going backwards and forwards, and of putting down of kegs\nand the hollow gurgle of good liquor being poured from breakers into the\ncasks. By and by fumes of brandy began to fill the air, and climb to\nwhere I lay, overcoming the mouldy smell of decayed wood and the dampness\nof the green walls. It may have been that these fumes mounted to my head,\nand gave me courage not my own, but so it was that I lost something of\nthe stifling fear that had gripped me, and could listen with more ease to\nwhat was going forward. There was a pause in the carrying to and fro;\nthey were talking again now, and someone said--\n\n'I was in Dorchester three days ago, and heard men say it will go hard\nwith the poor chaps who had the brush with the _Elector_ last summer.\nJudge Barentyne comes on Assize next week, and that old fox Maskew has\ndriven down to Taunton to get at him before and coach him back; making\nout to him that the Law's arm is weak in these parts against the\ncontraband, and must be strengthened by some wholesome hangings.'\n\n'They are a cruel pair,' another put in, 'and we shall have new gibbets on\nRidgedown for leading lights. Once I get even with Maskew, the other may\ngo hang, ay, and they may hang me too.'\n\n'The Devil send him to meet me one dark night on the down alone,' said\nsomeone else, 'and I will give him a pistol's mouth to look down, and\nspoil his face for him.'\n\n'No, thou wilt not,' said a deep voice, and then I knew that Elzevir was\nthere too; 'none shall lay hand on Maskew but I. So mark that, lad, that\nwhen his day of reckoning comes, 'tis _I_ will reckon with him.'\n\nThen for a few minutes I did not pay much heed to what was said, being\nterribly straitened for room, and cramped with pain from lying so long in\none place. The thick smoke from the pitch torches too came curling across\nthe roof and down upon me, making me sick and giddy with its evil smell\nand taste; and though all was very dim, I could see my hands were black\nwith oily smuts. At last I was able to wriggle myself over without making\ntoo much noise, and felt a great relief in changing sides, but gave such\na start as made the coffin creak again at hearing my own name.\n\n'There is a boy of Trenchard's,' said a voice that I thought was\nParmiter's, who lived at the bottom of the village--'there is a boy of\nTrenchard's that I mistrust; he is for ever wandering in the graveyard,\nand I have seen him a score of times sitting on this tomb and looking out\nto sea. This very night, when the wind fell at sundown, and we were hung\nup with sails flapping, three miles out, and waited for the dark to get\nthe sweeps, I took my glass to scan the coast-line, and lo, here on the\ntomb-top sits Master Trenchard. I could not see his face, but knew him by\nhis cut, and fear the boy sits there to play the spy and then tells\nMaskew.'\n\n'You're right,' said Greening of Ringstave, for I knew his\nslow drawl; 'and many a time when I have sat in The Wood, and watched the\nManor to see Maskew safe at home before we ran a cargo, I have seen this\nboy too go round about the place with a hangdog look, scanning the house\nas if his life depended on't.'\n\n'Twas very true what Greening said; for of a summer evening I would take\nthe path that led up Weatherbeech Hill, behind the Manor; both because\n'twas a walk that had a good prospect in itself, and also a sweet charm\nfor me, namely, the hope of seeing Grace Maskew. And there I often sat\nupon the stile that ends the path and opens on the down, and watched the\nold half-ruined house below; and sometimes saw white-frocked Gracie\nwalking on the terrace in the evening sun, and sometimes in returning\npassed her window near enough to wave a greeting. And once, when she had\nthe fever, and Dr. Hawkins came twice a day to see her, I had no heart\nfor school, but sat on that stile the livelong day, looking at the gabled\nhouse where she was lying ill. And Mr. Glennie never rated me for playing\ntruant, nor told Aunt Jane, guessing, as I thought afterwards, the cause,\nand having once been young himself. 'Twas but boy's love, yet serious for\nme; and on the day she lay near death, I made so bold as to stop Dr.\nHawkins on his horse and ask him how she did; and he bearing with me for\nthe eagerness that he read in my face, bent down over his saddle and\nsmiled, and said my playmate would come back to me again.\n\nSo it was quite true that I had watched the house, but not as a spy, and\nwould not have borne tales to old Maskew for anything that could be\noffered. Then Ratsey spoke up for me and said--''Tis a false scent. The\nboy is well enough, and simple, and has told me many a time he seeks the\nchurchyard because there is a fine view to be had there of the sea, and\n'tis the sea he loves. A month ago, when the high tide set, and this\nvault was so full of water that we could not get in, I came with Elzevir\nto make out if the floods were going down inside, or what eddy 'twas that\nset the casks tapping one against another. So as I lay on the ground with\nmy ear glued close against the wall, who should march round the church\nbut John Trenchard, Esquire, not treading delicately like King Agag, or\nspying, but just come on a voyage of discovery for himself. For in the\nchurch on Sunday, when we heard the tapping in the vault below, my young\ngentleman was scared enough; but afterwards, being told by Parson\nGlennie--who should know better--that such noises were not made by\nghosts, but by the Mohunes at sea in their coffins, he plucks up heart,\nand comes down on the Monday to see if they are still afloat. So there he\ncaught me lying like a zany on the ground. You may guess I stood at\nattention soon enough, but told him I was looking at the founds to see if\nthey wanted underpinning from the floods. And so I set his mind at ease,\nfor 'tis a simple child, and packed him off to get my dubbing hammer. And\nI think the boy will not be here so often now to frighten honest\nParmiter, for I have weaved him some pretty tales of Blackbeard, and he\nhas a wholesome scare of meeting the Colonel. But after dark I pledge my\nlife that neither he nor any other in the town would pass the churchyard\nwall, no, not for a thousand pounds.'\n\nI heard him chuckling to himself, and the others laughed loudly too, when\nhe was telling how he palmed me off; but 'he laughs loudest who laughs\nlast', thought I, and should have chuckled too, were it not for making\nthe coffin creak. And then, to my surprise, Elzevir spoke: 'The lad is\na brave lad; I would he were my son. He is David's age, and will make a\ngood sailor later on.'\n\nThey were simple words, yet pleasing to me; for Elzevir spoke as if he\nmeant them, and I had got to like him a little in spite of all his\ngrimness; and beside that, was sorry for his grief over his son. I was so\nmoved by what he said, that for a moment I was for jumping up and calling\nout to him that I lay here and liked him well, but then thought better of\nit, and so kept still.\n\nThe carrying was over, and I fancy they were all sitting on the ends of\nkegs or leaning up against the pile; but could not see, and was still\nmuch troubled with the torch smoke, though now and then I caught through\nit a whiff of tobacco, which showed that some were smoking.\n\nThen Greening, who had a singing voice for all his drawl, struck up\nwith--\n\nSays the Cap'n to the crew,\nWe have slipt the revenue,\n\nbut Ratsey stopped him with a sharp 'No more of that; the words aren't\nto our taste tonight, but come as wry as if the parson called _Old\nHundred_ and I tuned up with _Veni_.' I knew he meant the last verse\nwith a hanging touch in it; but Greening was for going on with the song,\nuntil some others broke in too, and he saw that the company would have\nnone of it.\n\n'Not but what the labourer is worthy of his hire,' went on Master Ratsey;\n'so spile that little breaker of Schiedam, and send a rummer round to\nkeep off midnight chills.'\n\nHe loved a glass of the good liquor well, and with him 'twas always the\nsame reasoning, namely, to keep off chills; though he chopped the words\nto suit the season, and now 'twas autumn, now winter, now spring, or\nsummer chills.\n\nThey must have found glasses, though I could not remember to have seen\nany in the vault, for a minute later fugleman Ratsey spoke again--\n\n'Now, lads, glasses full and bumpers for a toast. And here's to\nBlackbeard, to Father Blackbeard, who watches over our treasure better\nthan he did over his own; for were it not the fear of him that keeps off\nidle feet and prying eyes, we should have the gaugers in, and our store\nransacked twenty times.'\n\nSo he spoke, and it seemed there was a little halting at first, as of\nmen not liking to take Blackbeard's name in Blackbeard's place, or raise\nthe Devil by mocking at him. But then some of the bolder shouted\n'Blackbeard', and so the more timid chimed in, and in a minute there\nwere a score of voices calling 'Blackbeard, Blackbeard', till the place\nrang again.\n\nThen Elzevir cried out angrily, 'Silence. Are you mad, or has the liquor\nmastered you? Are you Revenue-men that you dare shout and roister? or\ncontrabandiers with the lugger in the offing, and your life in your hand.\nYou make noise enough to wake folk in Moonfleet from their beds.'\n\n'Tut, man,' retorted Ratsey testily, 'and if they waked, they would but\npull the blankets tight about their ears, and say 'twas Blackbeard piping\nhis crew of lost Mohunes to help him dig for treasure.'\n\nYet for all that 'twas plain that Block ruled the roost, for there was\nsilence for a minute, and then one said, 'Ay, Master Elzevir is right;\nlet us away, the night is far spent, and we have nothing but the sweeps\nto take the lugger out of sight by dawn.'\n\nSo the meeting broke up, and the torchlight grew dimmer, and died away\nas it had come in a red flicker on the roof, and the footsteps sounded\nfainter as they went up the passage, until the vault was left to the dead\nmen and me. Yet for a very long time--it seemed hours--after all had gone\nI could hear a murmur of distant voices, and knew that some were talking\nat the end of the passage, and perhaps considering how the landslip might\nbest be restored. So while I heard them thus conversing I dared not\ndescend from my perch, lest someone might turn back to the vault, though\nI was glad enough to sit up, and ease my aching back and limbs. Yet in\nthe awful blackness of the place even the echo of these human voices\nseemed a kindly and blessed thing, and a certain shrinking loneliness\nfell on me when they ceased at last and all was silent. Then I resolved I\nwould be off at once, and get back to the moonlight bed that I had left\nhours ago, having no stomach for more treasure-hunting, and being glad\nindeed to be still left with the treasure of life.\n\nThus, sitting where I was, I lit my candle once more, and then clambered\nacross that great coffin which, for two hours or more, had been a\nmid-wall of partition between me and danger. But to get out of the niche\nwas harder than to get in; for now that I had a candle to light me, I saw\nthat the coffin, though sound enough to outer view, was wormed through\nand through, and little better than a rotten shell. So it was that I had\nsome ado to get over it, not daring either to kneel upon it or to bring\nmuch weight to bear with my hand, lest it should go through. And now\nhaving got safely across, I sat for an instant on that narrow ledge of\nthe stone shelf which projected beyond the coffin on the vault side, and\nmade ready to jump forward on to the floor below. And how it happened I\nknow not, but there I lost my balance, and as I slipped the candle flew\nout of my grasp. Then I clutched at the coffin to save myself, but my\nhand went clean through it, and so I came to the ground in a cloud of\ndust and splinters; having only got hold of a wisp of seaweed, or a\nhandful of those draggled funeral trappings which were strewn about this\nplace. The floor of the vault was sandy; and so, though I fell crookedly,\nI took but little harm beyond a shaking; and soon, pulling myself\ntogether, set to strike my flint and blow the match into a flame to\nsearch for the fallen candle. Yet all the time I kept in my fingers this\nhandful of light stuff; and when the flame burnt up again I held the\nthing against the light, and saw that it was no wisp of seaweed, but\nsomething black and wiry. For a moment, I could not gather what I had\nhold of, but then gave a start that nearly sent the candle out, and\nperhaps a cry, and let it drop as if it were red-hot iron, for I knew\nthat it was a man's beard.\n\nNow when I saw that, I felt a sort of throttling fright, as though one\nhad caught hold of my heartstrings; and so many and such strange thoughts\nrose in me, that the blood went pounding round and round in my head, as\nit did once afterwards when I was fighting with the sea and near drowned.\nSurely to have in hand the beard of any dead man in any place was bad\nenough, but worse a thousand times in such a place as this, and to know\non whose face it had grown. For, almost before I fully saw what it was, I\nknew it was that black beard which had given Colonel John Mohune his\nnickname, and this was his great coffin I had hid behind.\n\nI had lain, therefore, all that time, cheek by jowl with Blackbeard\nhimself, with only a thin shell of tinder wood to keep him from me, and\nnow had thrust my hand into his coffin and plucked away his beard. So\nthat if ever wicked men have power to show themselves after death, and\nstill to work evil, one would guess that he would show himself now and\nfall upon me. Thus a sick dread got hold of me, and had I been a woman\nor a girl I think I should have swooned; but being only a boy, and not\nknowing how to swoon, did the next best thing, which was to put myself as\nfar as might be from the beard, and make for the outlet. Yet had I scarce\nset foot in the passage when I stopped, remembering how once already this\nsame evening I had played the coward, and run home scared with my own\nfears. So I was brought up for very shame, and beside that thought how I\nhad come to this place to look for Blackbeard's treasure, and might have\ngone away without knowing even so much as where he lay, had not chance\nfirst led me to be down by his side, and afterwards placed my hand upon\nhis beard. And surely this could not be chance alone, but must rather be\nthe finger of Providence guiding me to that which I desired to find. This\nconsideration somewhat restored my courage, and after several feints to\nreturn, advances, stoppings, and panics, I was in the vault again,\nwalking carefully round the stack of barrels, and fearing to see the\nglimmer of the candle fall upon that beard. There it was upon the sand,\nand holding the candle nearer to it with a certain caution, as though it\nwould spring up and bite me, I saw it was a great full black beard, more\nthan a foot long, but going grey at the tips; and had at the back,\nkeeping it together, a thin tissue of dried skin, like the false parting\nwhich Aunt Jane wore under her cap on Sundays. This I could see as it lay\nbefore me, for I did not handle or lift it, but only peered into it, with\nthe candle, on all sides, busying myself the while with thoughts of the\nman of whom it had once been part.\n\nIn returning to the vault, I had no very sure purpose in mind; only a\nvague surmise that this finding of Blackbeard's coffin would somehow lead\nto the finding of his treasure. But as I looked at the beard and\npondered, I began to see that if anything was to be done, it must be by\nsearching in the coffin itself, and the clearer this became to me, the\ngreater was my dislike to set about such a task. So I put off the evil\nhour, by feigning to myself that it was necessary to make a careful\nscrutiny of the beard, and thus wasted at least ten minutes. But at\nlength, seeing that the candle was burning low, and could certainly last\nlittle more than half an hour, and considering that it must now be\ngetting near dawn, I buckled to the distasteful work of rummaging the\ncoffin. Nor had I any need to climb up on to the top shelf again, but\nstanding on the one beneath, found my head and arms well on a level with\nthe search. And beside that, the task was not so difficult as I had\nthought; for in my fall I had broken off the head-end of the lid, and\nbrought away the whole of that side that faced the vault. Now, any lad of\nmy age, and perhaps some men too, might well have been frightened to set\nabout such a matter as to search in a coffin; and if any had said, a few\nhours before, that I should ever have courage to do this by night in the\nMohune vault, I would not have believed him. Yet here I was, and had\nadvanced along the path of terror so gradually, and as it were foot by\nfoot in the past night, that when I came to this final step I was not\nnear so scared as when I first felt my way into the vault. It was not the\nfirst time either that I had looked on death; but had, indeed, always a\nleaning to such sights and matters, and had seen corpses washed up from\nthe _Darius_ and other wrecks, and besides that had helped Ratsey to case\nsome poor bodies that had died in their beds.\n\nThe coffin was, as I have said, of great length, and the side being\nremoved, I could see the whole outline of the skeleton that lay in it. I\nsay the outline, for the form was wrapped in a woollen or flannel shroud,\nso that the bones themselves were not visible. The man that lay in it was\nlittle short of a giant, measuring, as I guessed, a full six and a half\nfeet, and the flannel having sunk in over the belly, the end of the\nbreast-bone, the hips, knees, and toes were very easy to be made out. The\nhead was swathed in linen bands that had been white, but were now stained\nand discoloured with damp, but of this I shall not speak more, and\nbeneath the chin-cloth the beard had once escaped. The clutch which I had\nmade to save myself in falling had torn away this chin-band and let the\nlower jaw drop on the breast; but little else was disturbed, and there\nwas Colonel John Mohune resting as he had been laid out a century ago. I\nlifted that portion of the lid which had been left behind, and reached\nover to see if there was anything hid on the other side of the body; but\nhad scarce let the light fall in the coffin when my heart gave a great\nbound, and all fear left me in the flush of success, for there I saw what\nI had come to seek.\n\nOn the breast of this silent and swathed figure lay a locket, attached to\nthe neck by a thin chain, which passed inside the linen bandages. A\nwhiter portion of the flannel showed how far the beard had extended, but\nlocket and chain were quite black, though I judged that they were made of\nsilver. The shape of this locket was not unlike a crown-piece, only three\ntimes as thick, and as soon as I set eyes upon it I never doubted but\nthat inside would be found the diamond.\n\nIt was then that a great pity came over me for this thin shadow of man;\nthinking rather what a fine, tall gentleman Colonel Mohune had once been,\nand a good soldier no doubt besides, than that he had wasted a noble\nestate and played traitor to the king. And then I reflected that it was\nall for the bit of flashing stone, which lay as I hoped within the\nlocket, that he had sold his honour; and wished that the jewel might\nbring me better fortune than had fallen to him, or at any rate, that it\nmight not lead me into such miry paths. Yet such thoughts did not delay\nmy purpose, and I possessed myself of the locket easily enough, finding a\nhasp in the chain, and so drawing it out from the linen folds. I had\nexpected as I moved the locket to hear the jewel rattle in the inside,\nbut there was no sound, and then I thought that the diamond might cleave\nto the side with damp, or perhaps be wrapped in wool. Scarcely was the\nlocket well in my hand before I had it undone, finding a thumb-nick\nwhereby, after a little persuasion, the back, though rusted, could be\nopened on a hinge. My breath came very fast, and I shook so that I had a\ndifficulty to keep my thumbnail in the nick, yet hardly was it opened\nbefore exalted expectation gave place to deepest disappointment.\n\nFor there lay all the secret of the locket disclosed, and there was no\ndiamond, no, nor any other jewel, and nothing at all except a little\npiece of folded paper. Then I felt like a man who has played away all his\nproperty and stakes his last crown--heavy-hearted, yet hoping against\nhope that luck may turn, and that with this piece he may win back all his\nmoney. So it was with me; for I hoped that this paper might have written\non it directions for the finding of the jewel, and that I might yet rise\nfrom the table a winner. It was but a frail hope, and quickly dashed; for\nwhen I had smoothed the creases and spread out the piece of paper in the\ncandle-light, there was nothing to be seen except a few verses from the\nPsalms of David. The paper was yellow, and showed a lattice of folds\nwhere it had been pressed into the locket; but the handwriting, though\nsmall, was clear and neat, and there was no mistaking a word of what was\nthere set down. 'Twas so short, I could read it at once:\n\nThe days of our age are threescore years and ten;\nAnd though men be so strong that they come\nTo fourscore years, yet is their strength then\nBut labour and sorrow, so soon passeth it\nAway, and we are gone.\n--Psalm 90, 21\n\nAnd as for me, my feet are almost gone;\nMy treadings are wellnigh slipped.\n--73, 6\n\nBut let not the waterflood drown me; neither let\nThe deep swallow me up.\n--69, 11\n\nSo, going through the vale of misery, I shall\nUse it for a well, till the pools are filled\nWith water.\n--84, 14\n\nFor thou hast made the North and the South:\nTabor and Hermon shall rejoice in thy name.\n--89, 6\n\nSo here was an end to great hopes, and I was after all to leave the vault\nno richer than I had entered it. For look at it as I might, I could not\nsee that these verses could ever lead to any diamond; and though I might\notherwise have thought of ciphers or secret writing, yet, remembering\nwhat Mr. Glennie had said, that Blackbeard after his wicked life desired\nto make a good end, and sent for a parson to confess him, I guessed that\nsuch pious words had been hung round his neck as a charm to keep the\nspirits of evil away from his tomb. I was disappointed enough, but before\nI left picked up the beard from the floor, though it sent a shiver\nthrough me to touch it, and put it back in its place on the dead man's\nbreast. I restored also such pieces of the coffin as I could get at, but\ncould not make much of it; so left things as they were, trusting that\nthose who came there next would think the wood had fallen to pieces by\nnatural decay. But the locket I kept, and hung about my neck under my\nshirt; both as being a curious thing in itself, and because I thought\nthat if the good words inside it were strong enough to keep off bad\nspirits from Blackbeard, they would be also strong enough to keep\nBlackbeard from me.\n\nWhen this was done the candle had burnt so low, that I could no longer\nhold it in my fingers, and was forced to stick it on a piece of the\nbroken wood, and so carry it before me. But, after all, I was not to\nescape from Blackbeard's clutches so easily; for when I came to the end\nof the passage, and was prepared to climb up into the churchyard, I found\nthat the hole was stopped, and that there was no exit.\n\nI understood now how it was that I had heard talking so long after the\ncompany had left the vault; for it was clear that Ratsey had been as\ngood as his word, and that the falling in of the ground had been\nrepaired before the contraband-men went home that night. At first I made\nlight of the matter, thinking I should soon be able to dislodge this new\nwork, and so find a way out. But when I looked more narrowly into the\nbusiness, I did not feel so sure; for they had made a sound job of it,\nputting one very heavy burial slab at the side to pile earth against\ntill the hole was full, and then covering it with another. These were\nboth of slate, and I knew whence they came; for there were a dozen or\nmore of such disused and weather-worn covers laid up against the north\nside of the church, and every one of them a good burden for four men.\nYet I hoped by grouting at the earth below it to be able to dislodge the\nstone at the side; but while I was considering how best to begin, the\ncandle flickered, the wick gave a sudden lurch to one side, and I was\nleft in darkness.\n\nThus my plight was evil indeed, for I had nothing now to burn to give me\nlight, and knew that 'twas no use setting to grout till I could see to go\nabout it. Moreover, the darkness was of that black kind that is never\nfound beneath the open sky, no, not even on the darkest night, but lurks\nin close and covered places and strains the eyes in trying to see into\nit. Yet I did not give way, but settled to wait for the dawn, which must,\nI knew, be now at hand; for then I thought enough light would come\nthrough the chinks of the tomb above to show me how to set to work. Nor\nwas I even much scared, as one who having been in peril of life from the\ncontraband-men for a spy, and in peril from evil ghosts for rifling\nBlackbeard's tomb, deemed it a light thing to be left in the dark to wait\nan hour till morning. So I sat down on the floor of the passage, which,\nif damp, was at least soft, and being tired with what I had gone through,\nand not used to miss a night's rest, fell straightway asleep.\n\nHow long I slept I cannot tell, for I had nothing to guide me to the\ntime, but woke at length, and found myself still in darkness. I stood up\nand stretched my limbs, but did not feel as one refreshed by wholesome\nsleep, but sick and tired with pains in back, arms, and legs, as if\nbeaten or bruised. I have said I was still in darkness, yet it was not\nthe blackness of the last night; and looking up into the inside of the\ntomb above, I could see the faintest line of light at one corner, which\nshowed the sun was up. For this line of light was the sunlight, filtering\nslowly through a crevice at the joining of the stones; but the sides of\nthe tomb had been fitted much closer than I reckoned for, and it was\nplain there would never be light in the place enough to guide me to my\nwork. All this I considered as I rested on the ground, for I had sat down\nagain, feeling too tired to stand. But as I kept my eye on the narrow\nstreak of light I was much startled, for I looked at the south-west\ncorner of the tomb, and yet was looking towards the sun. This I gathered\nfrom the tone of the light; and although there was no direct outlet to\nthe air, and only a glimmer came in, as I have said, yet I knew certainly\nthat the sun was low in the west and falling full upon this stone.\n\nHere was a surprise, and a sad one for me, for I perceived that I had\nslept away a day, and that the sun was setting for another night. And yet\nit mattered little, for night or daytime there was no light to help me in\nthis horrible place; and though my eyes had grown accustomed to the\ngloom, I could make out nothing to show me where to work. So I took out\nmy tinder-box, meaning to fan the match into a flame, and to get at least\none moment's look at the place, and then to set to digging with my hands.\n\nBut as I lay asleep the top had been pressed off the box, and the tinder\ngot loose in my pocket; and though I picked the tinder out easily enough,\nand got it in the box again, yet the salt damps of the place had soddened\nit in the night, and spark by spark fell idle from the flint.\n\nAnd then it was that I first perceived the danger in which I stood; for\nthere was no hope of kindling a light, and I doubted now whether even in\nthe light I could ever have done much to dislodge the great slab of\nslate. I began also to feel very hungry, as not having eaten for\ntwenty-four hours; and worse than that, there was a parching thirst and\ndryness in my throat, and nothing with which to quench it. Yet there was\nno time to be lost if I was ever to get out alive, and so I groped with\nmy hands against the side of the grave until I made out the bottom edge\nof the slab, and then fell to grubbing beneath it with my fingers. But\nthe earth, which the day before had looked light and loamy to the eye,\nwas stiff and hard enough when one came to tackle it with naked hands,\nand in an hour's time I had done little more than further weary myself\nand bruise my fingers.\n\nThen I was forced to rest; and, sitting down on the ground, saw that the\nglimmering streak of light had faded, and that the awful blackness of\nthe previous night was creeping up again. And now I had no heart to face\nit, being cowed with hunger, thirst, and weariness; and so flung myself\nupon my face, that I might not see how dark it was, and groaned for very\nlowness of spirit. Thus I lay for a long time, but afterwards stood up\nand cried aloud, and shrieked if anyone should haply hear me, calling to\nMr. Glennie and Ratsey, and even Elzevir, by name, to save me from this\nawful place. But there came no answer, except the echo of my own voice\nsounding hollow and far off down in the vault. So in despair I turned\nback to the earth wall below the slab, and scrabbled at it with my\nfingers, till my nails were broken and the blood ran out; having all the\nwhile a sure knowledge, like a cord twisted round my head, that no effort\nof mine could ever dislodge the great stone. And thus the hours passed,\nand I shall not say more here, for the remembrance of that time is still\nterrible, and besides, no words could ever set forth the anguish I then\nsuffered, yet did slumber come sometimes to my help; for even while I was\nworking at the earth, sheer weariness would overtake me, and I sank on to\nthe ground and fell asleep.\n\nAnd still the hours passed, and at last I knew by the glimmer of light\nin the tomb above that the sun had risen again, and a maddening thirst\nhad hold of me. And then I thought of all the barrels piled up in the\nvault and of the liquor that they held; and stuck not because 'twas\nspirit, for I would scarce have paused to sate that thirst even with\nmolten lead. So I felt my way down the passage back to the vault, and\nrecked not of the darkness, nor of Blackbeard and his crew, if only I\ncould lay my lips to liquor. Thus I groped about the barrels till near\nthe top of the stack my hand struck on the spile of a keg, and drawing\nit, I got my mouth to the hold.\n\nWhat the liquor was I do not know, but it was not so strong but that I\ncould swallow it in great gulps and found it less burning than my burning\nthroat. But when I turned to get back to the passage, I could not find\nthe outlet, and fumbled round and round until my brain was dizzy, and I\nfell senseless to the ground.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\nTHE RESCUE\n\nShades of the dead, have I not heard your voices\nRise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?--_Byron_\n\n\nWhen I came to myself I was lying, not in the outer blackness of the\nMohune vault, not on a floor of sand; but in a bed of sweet clean linen,\nand in a little whitewashed room, through the window of which the spring\nsunlight streamed. Oh, the blessed sunshine, and how I praised God for\nthe light! At first I thought I was in my own bed at my aunt's house, and\nhad dreamed of the vault and the smugglers, and that my being prisoned in\nthe darkness was but the horror of a nightmare. I was for getting up, but\nfell back on my pillow in the effort to rise, with a weakness and sick\nlanguor which I had never known before. And as I sunk down, I felt\nsomething swing about my neck, and putting up my hand, found 'twas\nColonel John Mohune's black locket, and so knew that part at least of\nthis adventure was no dream.\n\nThen the door opened, and to my wandering thought it seemed that I was\nback again in the vault, for in came Elzevir Block. Then I held up my\nhands, and cried--\n\n'O Elzevir, save me, save me; I am not come to spy.'\n\nBut he, with a kind look on his face, put his hand on my shoulder, and\npushed me gently back, saying--\n\n'Lie still, lad, there is none here will hurt thee, and drink this.'\n\nHe held out to me a bowl of steaming broth, that filled the room with a\nsavour sweeter, ten thousand times, to me than every rose and lily of the\nworld; yet would not let me drink it at a gulp, but made me sip it with a\nspoon like any baby. Thus while I drank, he told me where I was, namely,\nin an attic at the Why Not?, but would not say more then, bidding me get\nto sleep again, and I should know all afterwards. And so it was ten days\nor more before youth and health had their way, and I was strong again;\nand all that time Elzevir Block sat by my bed, and nursed me tenderly as\na woman. So piece by piece I learned the story of how they found me.\n\n'Twas Mr. Glennie who first moved to seek me; for when the second day\ncame that I was not at school, he thought that I was ill, and went to my\naunt's to ask how I did, as was his wont when any ailed. But Aunt Jane\nanswered him stiffly that she could not say how I did.\n\n'For,' says she, 'he is run off I know not where, but as he makes his\nbed, must he lie on't; and if he run away for his pleasure, may stay away\nfor mine. I have been pestered with this lot too long, and only bore with\nhim for poor sister Martha's sake; but 'tis after his father that the\ngraceless lad takes, and thus rewards me.'\n\nWith that she bangs the door in the parson's face and off he goes to\nRatsey, but can learn nothing there, and so concludes that I have run\naway to sea, and am seeking ship at Poole or Weymouth.\n\nBut that same day came Sam Tewkesbury to the Why Not? about nightfall,\nand begged a glass of rum, being, as he said, 'all of a shake', and\ntelling a tale of how he passed the churchyard wall on his return from\nwork, and in the dusk heard screams and wailing voices, and knew 'twas\nBlackbeard piping his lost Mohunes to hunt for treasure. So, though he\nsaw nothing, he turned tail and never stopped running till he stood at\nthe inn door. Then, forthwith, Elzevir leaves Sam to drink at the Why\nNot? alone, and himself sets off running up the street to call for Master\nRatsey; and they two make straight across the sea-meadows in the dark.\n\n'For as soon as I heard Tewkesbury tell of screams and wailings in the\nair, and no one to be seen,' said Elzevir, 'I guessed that some poor soul\nhad got shut in the vault, and was there crying for his life. And to this\nI was not guided by mother wit, but by a surer and a sadder token. Thou\nwilt have heard how thirteen years ago a daft body we called Cracky Jones\nwas found one morning in the churchyard dead. He was gone missing for a\nweek before, and twice within that week I had sat through the night upon\nthe hill behind the church, watching to warn the lugger with a flare she\ncould not put in for the surf upon the beach. And on those nights, the\nair being still though a heavy swell was running, I heard thrice or more\na throttled scream come shivering across the meadows from the graveyard.\nYet beyond turning my blood cold for a moment, it gave me little trouble,\nfor evil tales have hung about the church; and though I did not set much\nstore by the old yarns of Blackbeard piping up his crew, yet I thought\nstrange things might well go on among the graves at night. And so I never\nbudged, nor stirred hand or foot to save a fellow-creature in his agony.\n\n'But when the surf fell enough for the boats to get ashore, and Greening\nheld a lantern for me to jump down into the passage, after we had got the\nside out of the tomb, the first thing the light fell on at the bottom\nwas a white face turned skyward. I have not forgot that, lad, for 'twas\nCracky Jones lay there, with his face thin and shrunk, yet all the doited\nlook gone out of it. We tried to force some brandy in his mouth, but he\nwas stark and dead; with knees drawn up towards his head, so stiff we had\nto lift him doubled as he was, and lay him by the churchyard wall for\nsome of us to find next day. We never knew how he got there, but guessed\nthat he had hung about the landers some night when they ran a cargo, and\nslipped in when the watchman's back was turned. Thus when Sam Tewkesbury\nspoke of screams and wailings, and no one to be seen, I knew what 'twas,\nbut never guessed who might be shut in there, not knowing thou wert gone\namissing. So ran to Ratsey to get his help to slip the side stone off,\nfor by myself I cannot stir it now, though once I did when I was younger;\nand from him learned that thou wert lost, and knew whom we should find\nbefore we got there.'\n\nI shuddered while Elzevir talked, for I thought how Cracky Jones had\nperhaps hidden behind the self-same coffin that sheltered me, and how\nnarrowly I had escaped his fate. And that old story came back into my\nmind, how, years ago, there once arose so terrible a cry from the vault\nat service-time, that parson and people fled from the church; and I\ndoubted not now that some other poor soul had got shut in that awful\nplace, and was then calling for help to those whose fears would not let\nthem listen.\n\n'There we found thee,' Elzevir went on, 'stretched out on the sand,\nsenseless and far gone; and there was something in thy face that made me\nthink of David when he lay stretched out in his last sleep. And so I put\nthee on my shoulder and bare thee back, and here thou art in David's\nroom, and shalt find board and bed with me as long as thou hast mind\nto.' We spoke much together during the days when I was getting\nstronger, and I grew to like Elzevir well, finding his grimness was but\non the outside, and that never was a kinder man. Indeed, I think that my\nbeing with him did him good; for he felt that there was once more\nsomeone to love him, and his heart went out to me as to his son David.\nNever once did he ask me to keep my counsel as to the vault and what I\nhad seen there, knowing, perhaps, he had no need, for I would have died\nrather than tell the secret to any. Only, one day Master Ratsey, who\noften came to see me, said--\n\n'John, there is only Elzevir and I who know that you have seen the\ninside of our bond-cellar; and 'tis well, for if some of the landers\nguessed, they might have ugly ways to stop all chance of prating. So\nkeep our secret tight, and we'll keep yours, for \"he that refraineth his\nlips is wise\".'\n\nI wondered how Master Ratsey could quote Scripture so pat, and yet cheat\nthe revenue; though, in truth, 'twas thought little sin at Moonfleet to\nrun a cargo; and, perhaps, he guessed what I was thinking, for he added--\n\n'Not that a Christian man has aught to be ashamed of in landing a cask of\ngood liquor, for we read that when Israel came out of Egypt, the chosen\npeople were bid trick their oppressors out of jewels of silver and jewels\nof gold; and among those cruel taskmasters, Some of the worst must\ncertainly have been the tax-gatherers.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe first walk I took when I grew stronger and was able to get about was\nup to Aunt Jane's, notwithstanding she had never so much as been to ask\nafter me all these days. She knew, indeed, where I was, for Ratsey had\ntold her I lay at the Why Not?, explaining that Elzevir had found me one\nnight on the ground famished and half-dead, yet not saying where. But my\naunt greeted me with hard words, which I need not repeat here; for,\nperhaps, she meant them not unkindly, but only to bring me back again to\nthe right way. She did not let me cross the threshold, holding the door\najar in her hand, and saying she would have no tavern-loungers in her\nhouse, but that if I liked the Why Not? so well, I could go back there\nagain for her. I had been for begging her pardon for playing truant; but\nwhen I heard such scurvy words, felt the devil rise in my heart, and only\nlaughed, though bitter tears were in my eyes. So I turned my back upon\nthe only home that I had ever known, and sauntered off down the village,\nfeeling very lone, and am not sure I was not crying before I came again\nto the Why Not?\n\nThen Elzevir saw that my face was downcast, and asked what ailed me, and\nso I told him how my aunt had turned me away, and that I had no home to\ngo to. But he seemed pleased rather than sorry, and said that I must come\nnow and live with him, for he had plenty for both; and that since chance\nhad led him to save my life, I should be to him a son in David's place.\nSo I went to keep house with him at the Why Not? and my aunt sent down my\nbag of clothes, and would have made over to Elzevir the pittance that my\nfather left for my keep, but he said it was not needful, and he would\nhave none of it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\nAN ASSAULT\n\n                   Surely after all,\nThe noblest answer unto such\nIs perfect stillness when they brawl--_Tennyson_\n\n\nI have more than once brought up the name of Mr. Maskew; and as I shall\nhave other things to tell of him later on, I may as well relate here what\nmanner of man he was. His stature was but medium, not exceeding five feet\nfour inches, I think; and to make the most of it, he flung his head far\nback, and gave himself a little strut in walking. He had a thin face with\na sharp nose that looked as if it would peck you, and grey eyes that\ncould pierce a millstone if there was a guinea on the far side of it. His\nhair, for he wore his own, had been red, though it was now grizzled; and\nthe colour of it was set down in Moonfleet to his being a Scotchman, for\nwe thought all Scotchmen were red-headed. He was a lawyer by profession,\nand having made money in Edinburgh, had gone so far south as Moonfleet to\nget quit, as was said, of the memories of rascally deeds. It was about\nfour years since he bought a parcel of the Mohune Estate, which had been\nbreaking up and selling piecemeal for a generation; and on his land stood\nthe Manor House, or so much of it as was left. Of the mansion I have\nspoken before. It was a very long house of two storeys, with a projecting\ngable and doorway in the middle, and at each end gabled wings running out\ncrosswise. The Maskews lived in one of these wings, and that was the only\nhabitable portion of the place; for as to the rest, the glass was out of\nthe windows, and in some places the roofs had fallen in. Mr. Maskew made\nno attempt to repair house or grounds, and the bough of the great cedar\nwhich the snows had brought down in '49 still blocked the drive. The\nentrance to the house was through the porchway in the middle, but more\nthan one tumble-down corridor had to be threaded before one reached\nthe inhabited wing; while fowls and pigs and squirrels had possession of\nthe terrace lawns in front. It was not for want of money that Maskew let\nthings remain thus, for men said that he was rich enough, only that his\nmood was miserly; and perhaps, also, it was the lack of woman's company\nthat made him think so little of neatness and order. For his wife was\ndead; and though he had a daughter, she was young, and had not yet weight\nenough to make her father do things that he did not choose.\n\nTill Maskew came there had been none living in the Manor House for a\ngeneration, so the village children used the terrace for a playground,\nand picked primroses in the woods; and the men thought they had a right\nto snare a rabbit or shoot a pheasant in the chase. But the new owner\nchanged all this, hiding gins and spring-guns in the coverts, and nailing\nup boards on the trees to say he would have the law of any that\ntrespassed. So he soon made enemies for himself, and before long had\neveryone's hand against him. Yet he preferred his neighbour's enmity to\ntheir goodwill, and went about to make it more bitter by getting himself\nposted for magistrate, and giving out that he would put down the\ncontraband thereabouts. For no one round Moonfleet was for the Excise;\nbut farmers loved a glass of Schnapps that had never been gauged, and\ntheir wives a piece of fine lace from France. And then came the affair\nbetween the _Elector_ and the ketch, with David Block's death; and after\nthat they said it was not safe for Maskew to walk at large, and that he\nwould be found some day dead on the down; but he gave no heed to it, and\nwent on as if he had been a paid exciseman rather than a magistrate.\n\nWhen I was a little boy the Manor woods were my delight, and many a sunny\nafternoon have I sat on the terrace edge looking down over the village,\nand munching red quarantines from the ruined fruit gardens. And though\nthis was now forbidden, yet the Manor had still a sweeter attraction to\nme than apples or bird-batting, and that was Grace Maskew. She was an\nonly child, and about my own age, or little better, at the time of which\nI am speaking. I knew her, because she went every day to the old\nalmshouses to be taught by the Reverend Mr. Glennie, from whom I also\nreceived my schooling. She was tall for her age, and slim, with a thin\nface and a tumble of tawny hair, which flew about her in a wind or when\nshe ran. Her frocks were washed and patched and faded, and showed more of\nher arms and legs than the dressmaker had ever intended, for she was a\ngrowing girl, and had none to look after her clothes. She was a favourite\nplayfellow with all, and an early choice for games of 'prisoner's base',\nand she could beat most of us boys at speed. Thus, though we all hated\nher father, and had for him many jeering titles among ourselves; yet we\nnever used an evil nickname nor a railing word against him when she was\nby, because we liked her well.\n\nThere were a half-dozen of us boys, and as many girls, whom Mr. Glennie\nused to teach; and that you may see what sort of man Maskew was, I will\ntell you what happened one day in school between him and the parson. Mr.\nGlennie taught us in the almshouses; for though there were now no\nbedesmen, and the houses themselves were fallen to decay, yet the little\nhall in which the inmates had once dined was still maintained, and served\nfor our schoolroom. It was a long and lofty room, with a high wainscot\nall round it, a carved oak screen at one end, and a broad window at the\nother. A very heavy table, polished by use, and sadly besmirched with\nink, ran down the middle of the hall with benches on either side of it\nfor us to use; and a high desk for Mr. Glennie stood under the window at\nthe end of the room. Thus we were sitting one morning with our\nsumming-slates and grammars before us when the door in the screen opens\nand Mr. Maskew enters.\n\nI have told you already of the verses which Mr. Glennie wrote for David\nBlock's grave; and when the floods had gone down Ratsey set up the\nheadstone with the poetry carved on it. But Maskew, through not going to\nchurch, never saw the stone for weeks, until one morning, walking through\nthe churchyard, he lighted on it, and knew the verses for Mr. Glennie's.\nSo 'twas to have it out with the parson that he had come to school this\nday; and though we did not know so much then, yet guessed from his\npresence that something was in the wind, and could read in his face that\nhe was very angry. Now, for all that we hated Maskew, yet were we glad\nenough to see him there, as hoping for something strange to vary the\nsameness of school, and scenting a disturbance in the air. Only Grace was\nill at ease for fear her father should say something unseemly, and kept\nher head down with shocks of hair falling over her book, though I could\nsee her blushing between them. So in vapours Maskew, and with an angry\nglance about him makes straight for the desk where our master sits at the\ntop of the room.\n\nFor a moment Mr. Glennie, being shortsighted, did not see who 'twas; but\nas his visitor drew near, rose courteously to greet him.\n\n'Good day to you, Mister Maskew,' says he, holding out his hand.\n\nBut Maskew puts his arms behind his back and bubbles out, 'Hold not out\nyour hand to me lest I spit on it. 'Tis like your snivelling cant to\nwrite sweet psalms for smuggling rogues and try to frighten honest men\nwith your judgements.'\n\nAt first Mr. Glennie did not know what the other would be at, and\nafterwards understanding, turned very pale; but said as a minister he\nwould never be backward in reproving those whom he considered in the\nwrong, whether from the pulpit or from the gravestone. Then Maskew\nflies into a great passion, and pours out many vile and insolent words,\nsaying Mr. Glennie is in league with the smugglers and fattens on their\ncrimes; that the poetry is a libel; and that he, Maskew, will have the\nlaw of him for calumny.\n\nAfter that he took Grace by the arm, and bade her get hat and cape and\ncome with him. 'For,' says he, 'I will not have thee taught any more by a\npsalm-singing hypocrite that calls thy father murderer.' And all the\nwhile he kept drawing up closer to Mr. Glennie, until the two stood very\nnear each other.\n\nThere was a great difference between them; the one short and blustering,\nwith a red face turned up; the other tall and craning down, ill-clad,\nill-fed, and pale. Maskew had in his left hand a basket, with which he\nwent marketing of mornings, for he made his own purchases, and liked\nfish, as being cheaper than meat. He had been chaffering with the\nfishwives this very day, and was bringing back his provend with him when\nhe visited our school.\n\nThen he said to Mr. Glennie: 'Now, Sir Parson, the law has given into\nyour fool's hands a power over this churchyard, and 'tis your trade to\nstop unseemly headlines from being set up within its walls, or once set\nup, to turn them out forthwith. So I give you a week's grace, and if\ntomorrow sennight yon stone be not gone, I will have it up and flung in\npieces outside the wall.'\n\nMr. Glennie answered him in a low voice, but quite clear, so that we\ncould hear where we sat: 'I can neither turn the stone out myself, nor\nstop you from turning it out if you so mind; but if you do this thing,\nand dishonour the graveyard, there is One stronger than either you or I\nthat must be reckoned with.'\n\nI knew afterwards that he meant the Almighty, but thought then that\n'twas of Elzevir he spoke; and so, perhaps, did Mr. Maskew, for he fell\ninto a worse rage, thrust his hand in the basket, whipped out a great\nsole he had there, and in a twinkling dashes it in Mr. Glennie's face,\nwith a 'Then, take that for an unmannerly parson, for I would not foul my\nfist with your mealy chops.'\n\nBut to see that stirred my choler, for Mr. Glennie was weak as wax, and\nwould never have held up his hand to stop a blow, even were he strong as\nGoliath. So I was for setting on Maskew, and being a stout lad for my\nage, could have had him on the floor as easy as a baby; but as I rose\nfrom my seat, I saw he held Grace by the hand, and so hung back for a\nmoment, and before I got my thoughts together he was gone, and I saw the\ntail of Grace's cape whisk round the screen door.\n\nA sole is at the best an ugly thing to have in one's face, and this sole\nwas larger than most, for Maskew took care to get what he could for his\nmoney, so it went with a loud smack on Mr. Glennie's cheek, and then fell\nwith another smack on the floor. At this we all laughed, as children\nwill, and Mr. Glennie did not check us, but went back and sat very quiet\nat his desk; and soon I was sorry I had laughed, for he looked sad, with\nhis face sanded and a great red patch on one side, and beside that the\nfin had scratched him and made a blood-drop trickle down his cheek. A few\nminutes later the thin voice of the almshouse clock said twelve, and away\nwalked Mr. Glennie without his usual 'Good day, children', and there was\nthe sole left lying on the dusty floor in front of his desk.\n\nIt seemed a shame so fine a fish should be wasted, so I picked it up and\nslipped it in my desk, sending Fred Burt to get his mother's gridiron\nthat we might grill it on the schoolroom fire. While he was gone I went\nout to the court to play, and had not been there five minutes when back\ncomes Maskew through our playground without Grace, and goes into the\nschoolroom. But in the screen at the end of the room was a chink, against\nwhich we used to hold our fingers on bright days for the sun to shine\nthrough, and show the blood pink; so up I slipped and fixed my eye to the\nhole, wanting to know what he was at. He had his basket with him, and I\nsoon saw he had come back for the sole, not having the heart to leave so\ngood a bit of fish. But look where he would, he could not find it, for he\nnever searched my desk, and had to go off with a sour countenance; but\nFred Burt and I cooked the sole, and found it well flavoured, for all it\nhad given so much pain to Mr. Glennie.\n\nAfter that Grace came no more to school, both because her father had\nsaid she should not, and because she was herself ashamed to go back\nafter what Maskew had done to Mr. Glennie. And then it was that I took to\nwandering much in the Manor woods, having no fear of man-traps, for I\nknew their place as soon as they were put down, but often catching sight\nof Grace, and sometimes finding occasion to talk with her. Thus time\npassed, and I lived with Elzevir at the Why Not?, still going to school\nof mornings, but spending the afternoons in fishing, or in helping him\nin the garden, or with the boats. As soon as I got to know him well, I\nbegged him to let me help run the cargoes, but he refused, saying I was\nyet too young, and must not come into mischief. Yet, later, yielding to\nmy importunity, he consented; and more than one dark night I was in the\nlanding-boats that unburdened the lugger, though I could never bring\nmyself to enter the Mohune vault again, but would stand as sentry at the\npassage-mouth. And all the while I had round my neck Colonel John\nMohune's locket, and at first wore it next myself, but finding it black\nthe skin, put it between shirt and body-jacket. And there by dint of\nwear it grew less black, and showed a little of the metal underneath,\nand at last I took to polishing it at odd times, until it came out quite\nwhite and shiny, like the pure silver that it was. Elzevir had seen this\nlocket when he put me to bed the first time I came to the Why Not? and\nafterwards I told him whence I got it; but though we had it out more\nthan once of an evening, we could never come at any hidden meaning.\nIndeed, we scarce tried to, judging it to be certainly a sacred charm to\nkeep evil spirits from Blackbeard's body.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\nAN AUCTION\n\nWhat if my house be troubled with a rat,\nAnd I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats\nTo have it baned--_Shakespeare_\n\n\nOne evening in March, when the days were lengthening fast, there came a\nmessenger from Dorchester, and brought printed notices for fixing to the\nshutters of the Why Not? and to the church door, which said that in a\nweek's time the bailiff of the duchy of Cornwall would visit Moonfleet.\nThis bailiff was an important person, and his visits stood as events in\nvillage history. Once in five years he made a perambulation, or journey,\nthrough the whole duchy, inspecting all the Royal property, and arranging\nfor new leases. His visits to Moonfleet were generally short enough, for\nowing to the Mohunes owning all the land, the only duchy estate there was\nthe Why Not? and the only duty of the bailiff to renew that five-year\nlease, under which Blocks had held the inn, father and son, for\ngenerations. But for all that, the business was not performed without\nceremony, for there was a solemn show of putting up the lease of the inn\nto the highest bidder, though it was well understood that no one except\nElzevir would make an offer.\n\nSo one morning, a week later, I went up to the top end of the village\nto watch for the bailiff's postchaise, and about eleven of the forenoon\nsaw it coming down the hill with four horses and two postillions.\nPresently it came past, and I saw there were two men in it--a clerk\nsitting with his back to the horses, and in the seat opposite a little\nman in a periwig, whom I took for the bailiff. Then I ran down to my\naunt's house, for Elzevir had asked me to beg one of her best winter\ncandles for a purpose which I will explain presently. I had not seen\nAunt Jane, except in church, since the day that she dismissed me, but\nshe was no stiffer than usual, and gave me the candle readily enough.\n'There,' she said, 'take it, and I wish it may bring light into your\ndark heart, and show you what a wicked thing it is to leave your own\nkith and kin and go to dwell in a tavern.' I was for saying that it was\nkith and kin that left me, and not I them; and as for living in a\ntavern, it was better to live there than nowhere at all, as she would\nwish me to do in turning me out of her house; but did not, and only\nthanked her for the candle, and was off.\n\nWhen I came to the inn, there was the postchaise in front of the door,\nthe horses being led away to bait, and a little group of villagers\nstanding round; for though the auction of the Why Not? was in itself a\ntrite thing with a foregone conclusion, yet the bailiff's visit always\nstirred some show of interest. There were a few children with their noses\nflattened against the windows of the parlour, and inside were Mr. Bailiff\nand Mr. Clerk hard at work on their dinner. Mr. Bailiff, who was, as I\nguessed, the little man in the periwig, sat at the top of the table, and\nMr. Clerk sat at the bottom, and on chairs were placed their hats, and\ntravelling-cloaks, and bundles of papers tied together with green tape.\nYou may be sure that Elzevir had a good dinner for them, with hot rabbit\npie and cold round of brawn, and a piece of blue vinny, which Mr. Bailiff\nate heartily, but his clerk would not touch, saying he had as lief chew\nsoap. There was also a bottle of Ararat milk, and a flagon of ale, for we\nwere afraid to set French wines before them, lest they should fall to\nwondering how they were come by.\n\nElzevir took the candle, chiding me a little for being late, and set it\nin a brass candlestick in the middle of the table. Then Mr. Clerk takes a\nlittle rule from his pocket, measures an inch down on the candle, sticks\ninto the grease at that point a scarf-pin with an onyx head that Elzevir\nlent him, and lights the wick. Now the reason of this was, that the\ncustom ran in Moonfleet when either land or lease was put up to bidding,\nto stick a pin in a candle; and so long as the pin held firm, it was open\nto any to make a better offer, but when the flame burnt down and the pin\nfell out, then land or lease fell to the last bidder. So after dinner was\nover and the table cleared, Mr. Clerk takes out a roll of papers and\nreads a legal description of the Why Not?, calling it the Mohune Arms, an\nexcellent messuage or tenement now used as a tavern, and speaking of the\nconvenient paddocks or parcels of grazing land at the back of it, called\nMoons'-lease, amounting to sixteen acres more or less. Then he invites\nthe company to make an offer of rent for such a desirable property under\na five years' lease, and as Elzevir and I are the only company present,\nthe bidding is soon done; for Elzevir offers a rent of 12 a year, which\nhas always been the value of the Why Not? The clerk makes a note of\nthis; but the business is not over yet, for we must wait till the pin\ndrops out of the candle before the lease is finally made out. So the men\nfell to smoking to pass the time, till there could not have been more\nthan ten minutes' candle to burn, and Mr. Bailiff, with a glass of Ararat\nmilk in his hand, was saying, 'Tis a curious and fine tap of Hollands you\nkeep here, Master Block,' when in walked Mr. Maskew.\n\nA thunderbolt would not have astonished me so much as did his appearance,\nand Elzevir's face grew black as night; but the bailiff and clerk showed\nno surprise, not knowing the terms on which persons in our village stood\nto one another, and thinking it natural that someone should come in to\nsee the pin drop, and the end of an ancient custom. Indeed, Maskew seemed\nto know the bailiff, for he passed the time of day with him, and was then\nfor sitting down at the table without taking any notice of Elzevir or me.\nBut just as he began to seat himself, Block shouted out, 'You are no\nwelcome visitor in my house, and I would sooner see your back than see\nyour face, but sit at this table you shall not.' I knew what he meant;\nfor on that table they had laid out David's body, and with that he struck\nhis fist upon the board so smart as to make the bailiff jump and nearly\nbring the pin out of the candle.\n\n'Heyday, sirs,' says Mr. Bailiff, astonished, 'let us have no brawling\nhere, the more so as this worshipful gentleman is a magistrate and\nsomething of a friend of mine.' Yet Maskew refrained from sitting, but\nstood by the bailiff's chair, turning white, and not red, as he did with\nMr. Glennie; and muttered something, that he had as lief stand as sit,\nand that it should soon be Block's turn to ask sitting-room of _him_.\n\nI was wondering what possibly could have brought Maskew there, when the\nbailiff, who was ill at ease, said--'Come, Mr. Clerk, the pin hath but\nanother minute's hold; rehearse what has been done, for I must get this\nlease delivered and off to Bridport, where much business waits.'\n\nSo the clerk read in a singsong voice that the property of the duchy of\nCornwall, called the Mohune Arms, an inn or tavern, with all its land,\ntenements, and appurtenances, situate in the Parish of St. Sebastian,\nMoonfleet, having been offered on lease for five years, would be let to\nElzevir Block at a rent of 12 per annum, unless anyone offered a higher\nrent before the pin fell from the candle.\n\nThere was no one to make another offer, and the bailiff said to Elzevir,\n'Tell them to have the horses round, the pin will be out in a minute, and\n'twill save time.' So Elzevir gave the order, and then we all stood round\nin silence, waiting for the pin to fall. The grease had burnt down to the\nmark, or almost below it, as it appeared; but just where the pin stuck in\nthere was a little lump of harder tallow that held bravely out, refusing\nto be melted. The bailiff gave a stamp of impatience with his foot under\nthe table as though he hoped thus to shake out the pin, and then a little\ndry voice came from Maskew, saying--\n\n'I offer 13 a year for the inn.'\n\nThis fell upon us with so much surprise, that all looked round, seeking\nas it were some other speaker, and never thinking that it could be\nMaskew. Elzevir was the first, I believe, to fully understand 'twas he;\nand without turning to look at bailiff or Maskew, but having his elbows\non the table, his face between his hands, and looking straight out to\nsea said in a sturdy voice, 'I offer 20.'\n\nThe words were scarce out of his mouth when Maskew caps them with 21,\nand so in less than a minute the rent of the Why Not? was near doubled.\nThen the bailiff looked from one to the other, not knowing what to make\nof it all, nor whether 'twas comedy or serious, and said--\n\n'Kind sir, I warn ye not to trifle; I have no time to waste in April\nfooling, and he who makes offers in sport will have to stand to them\nin earnest.'\n\nBut there was no lack of earnest in one at least of the men that he had\nbefore him, and the voice with which Elzevir said 30 was still sturdy.\nMaskew called 31 and 41, and Elzevir 40 and 50, and then I looked at\nthe candle, and saw that the head of the pin was no longer level, it had\nsunk a little--a very little. The clerk awoke from his indifference, and\nwas making notes of the bids with a squeaking quill, the bailiff frowned\nas being puzzled, and thinking that none had a right to puzzle him. As\nfor me, I could not sit still, but got on my feet, if so I might better\nbear the suspense; for I understood now that Maskew had made up his mind\nto turn Elzevir out, and that Elzevir was fighting for his home. _His_\nhome, and had he not made it my home too, and were we both to be made\noutcasts to please the spite of this mean little man?\n\nThere were some more bids, and then I knew that Maskew was saying 91,\nand saw the head of the pin was lower; the hard lump of tallow in Aunt\nJane's candle was thawing. The bailiff struck in: 'Are ye mad, sirs, and\nyou, Master Block, save your breath, and spare your money; and if this\nworshipful gentleman must become innkeeper at any price, let him have the\nplace in the Devil's name, and I will give thee the Mermaid, at Bridport,\nwith a snug parlour, and ten times the trade of this.'\n\nElzevir seemed not to hear what he said, but only called out 100, with\nhis face still looking out to sea, and the same sturdiness in his voice.\nThen Maskew tried a spring, and went to 120, and Elzevir capped him with\n130, and 140, 150, 160, 170 followed quick. My breath came so fast\nthat I was almost giddy, and I had to clench my hands to remind myself of\nwhere I was, and what was going on. The bidders too were breathing hard,\nElzevir had taken his head from his hands, and the eyes of all were on\nthe pin. The lump of tallow was worn down now; it was hard to say why the\npin did not fall. Maskew gulped out 180, and Elzevir said 190, and then\nthe pin gave a lurch, and I thought the Why Not? was saved, though at the\nprice of ruin. No; the pin had not fallen, there was a film that held it\nby the point, one second, only one second. Elzevir's breath, which was\nready to outbid whatever Maskew said, caught in his throat with the\ncatching pin, and Maskew sighed out 200, before the pin pattered on the\nbottom of the brass candlestick.\n\nThe clerk forgot his master's presence and shut his notebook with a bang,\n'Congratulate you, sir,' says he, quite pert to Maskew; 'you are the\nlandlord of the poorest pothouse in the Duchy at 200 a year.'\n\nThe bailiff paid no heed to what his man did, but took his periwig\noff and wiped his head. 'Well, I'm hanged,' he said; and so the Why\nNot? was lost.\n\nJust as the last bid was given, Elzevir half-rose from his chair, and\nfor a moment I expected to see him spring like a wild beast on Maskew;\nbut he said nothing, and sat down again with the same stolid look on his\nface. And, indeed, it was perhaps well that he thus thought better of\nit, for Maskew stuck his hand into his bosom as the other rose; and\nthough he withdrew it again when Elzevir got back to his chair, yet the\nfront of his waistcoat was a little bulged, and, looking sideways, I saw\nthe silver-shod butt of a pistol nestling far down against his white\nshirt. The bailiff was vexed, I think, that he had been betrayed into\nsuch strong words; for he tried at once to put on as indifferent an air\nas might be, saying in dry tones, 'Well, gentlemen, there seems to be\nhere some personal matter into which I shall not attempt to spy. Two\nhundred pounds more or less is but a flea-bite to the Duchy; and if you,\nsir,' turning to Maskew, 'wish later on to change your mind, and be quit\nof the bargain, I shall not be the man to stand in your way. In any\ncase, I imagine 'twill be time enough to seal the lease if I send it\nfrom London.'\n\nI knew he said this, and hinted at delay as wishing to do Elzevir a good\nturn; for his clerk had the lease already made out pat, and it only\nwanted the name and rent filled in to be sealed and signed. But, 'No,'\nsays Maskew, 'business is business, Mr. Bailiff, and the post uncertain\nto parts so distant from the capital as these; so I'll thank you to make\nout the lease to me now, and on May Day place me in possession.'\n\n'So be it then,' said the bailiff a little testily, 'but blame me not for\ndriving hard bargains; for the Duchy, whose servant I am,' and he raised\nhis hat, 'is no daughter of the horse-leech. Fill in the figures, Mr.\nScrutton, and let us away.'\n\nSo Mr. Scrutton, for that was Mr. Clerk's name, scratches a bit with his\nquill on the parchment sheet to fill in the money, and then Maskew\nscratches his name, and Mr. Bailiff scratches his name, and Mr. Clerk\nscratches again to witness Mr. Bailiff's name, and then Mr. Bailiff takes\nfrom his mails a little shagreen case, and out from the case comes\nsealing-wax and the travelling seal of the Duchy.\n\nThere was my aunt's best winter-candle still burning away in the\ndaylight, for no one had taken any thought to put it out; and Mr. Bailiff\nmelts the wax at it, till a drop of sealing-wax falls into the grease and\nmakes a gutter down one side, and then there is a sweating of the\nparchment under the hot wax, and at last on goes the seal. 'Signed,\nsealed, and delivered,' says Mr. Clerk, rolling up the sheet and handing\nit to Maskew; and Maskew takes and thrusts it into his bosom underneath\nhis waistcoat front--all cheek by jowl with that silver-hafted pistol,\nwhose butt I had seen before.\n\nThe postchaise stood before the door, the horses were stamping on the\ncobble-stones, and the harness jingled. Mr. Clerk had carried out his\nmails, but Mr. Bailiff stopped for a moment as he flung the travelling\ncloak about his shoulders to say to Elzevir, 'Tut, man, take things not\ntoo hardly. Thou shalt have the Mermaid at 20 a year, which will be\nworth ten times as much to thee as this dreary place; and canst send thy\nson to Bryson's school, where they will make a scholar of him, for he is\na brave lad'; and he touched my shoulder, and gave me a kindly look as\nhe passed.\n\n'I thank your worship,' said Elzevir, 'for all your goodness; but when I\nquit this place, I shall not set up my staff again at any inn door.'\n\nMr. Bailiff seemed nettled to see his offer made so little of, and left\nthe room with a stiff, 'Then I wish you good day.'\n\nMaskew had slipped out before him, and the children's noses left the\nwindow-pane as the great man walked down the steps. There was a little\ngroup to see the start, but it quickly melted; and before the clatter of\nhoofs died away, the report spread through the village that Maskew had\nturned Elzevir out of the Why Not?\n\nFor a long time after all had gone, Elzevir sat at the table with his\nhead between his hands, and I kept quiet also, both because I was myself\nsorry that we were to be sent adrift, and because I wished to show\nElzevir that I felt for him in his troubles. But the young cannot enter\nfully into their elders' sorrows, however much they may wish to, and\nafter a time the silence palled upon me. It was getting dusk, and the\ncandle which bore itself so bravely through auction and lease-sealing\nburnt low in the socket. A minute later the light gave some flickering\nflashes, failings, and sputters, and then the wick tottered, and out\npopped the flame, leaving us with the chilly grey of a March evening\ncreeping up in the corners of the room. I could bear the gloom no longer,\nbut made up the fire till the light danced ruddy across pewter and\nporcelain on the dresser. 'Come, Master Block,' I said, 'there is time\nenough before May Day to think what we shall do, so let us take a cup of\ntea, and after that I will play you a game of backgammon.' But he still\nremained cast down, and would say nothing; and as chance would have it,\nthough I wished to let him win at backgammon, that so, perhaps, he might\nget cheered, yet do what I would that night I could not lose. So as his\nluck grew worse his moodiness increased, and at last he shut the board\nwith a bang, saying, in reference to that motto that ran round its edge,\n'Life is like a game of hazard, and surely none ever flung worse throws,\nor made so little of them as I.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\nTHE LANDING\n\nLet my lamp at midnight hour\nBe seen in some high lonely tower--_Milton_\n\n\nMaskew got ugly looks from the men, and sour words from the wives, as he\nwent up through the village that afternoon, for all knew what he had\ndone, and for many days after the auction he durst not show his face\nabroad. Yet Damen of Ringstave and some others of the landers' men, who\nmade it their business to keep an eye upon him, said that he had been\ntwice to Weymouth of evenings, and held converse there with Mr. Luckham\nof the Excise, and with Captain Henning, who commanded the troopers then\nin quarters on the Nothe. And by degrees it got about, but how I do not\nknow, that he had persuaded the Revenue to strike hard at the smugglers,\nand that a strong posse was to be held in readiness to take the landers\nin the act the next time they should try to run a cargo. Why Maskew\nshould so put himself about to help the Revenue I cannot tell, nor did\nanyone ever certainly find out; but some said 'twas out of sheer\nwantonness, and a desire to hurt his neighbours; and others, that he saw\nwhat an apt place this was for landing cargoes, and wished first to make\na brave show of zeal for the Excise, and afterwards to get the whole of\nthe contraband trade into his own hands. However that may be, I think he\nwas certainly in league with the Revenue men, and more than once I saw\nhim on the Manor terrace with a spy glass in his hand, and guessed that\nhe was looking for the lugger in the offing. Now, word was mostly given\nto the lander, by safe hands, of the night on which a cargo should be\nrun, and then in the morning or afternoon, the lugger would come just\nnear enough the land to be made out with glasses, and afterwards lie off\nagain out of sight till nightfall. The nights chosen for such work were\nwithout moon, but as still as might be, so long as there was wind enough\nto fill the sails; and often the lugger could be made out from the beach,\nbut sometimes 'twas necessary to signal with flares, though they were\nused as little as might be. Yet after there had been a long spell of\nrough weather, and a cargo had to be run at all hazards, I have known the\nboats come in even on the bright moonlight and take their risk, for 'twas\nsaid the Excise slept sounder round us than anywhere in all the Channel.\n\nThese tales of Maskew's doings failed not to reach Elzevir, and for some\ndays he thought best not to move, though there was a cargo on the other\nside that wanted landing badly. But one evening when he had won at\nbackgammon, and was in an open mood, he took me into confidence, setting\ndown the dice box on the table, and saying--\n\n'There is word come from the shippers that we must take a cargo, for that\nthey cannot keep the stuff by them longer at St. Malo. Now with this\ndevil at the Manor prowling round, I dare not risk the job on Moonfleet\nbeach, nor yet stow the liquor in the vault; so I have told the\n_Bonaventure_ to put her nose into this bay tomorrow afternoon that\nMaskew may see her well, and then to lie out again to sea, as she has\ndone a hundred times before. But instead of waiting in the offing, she\nwill make straight off up Channel to a little strip of shingle underneath\nHoar Head.' I nodded to show I knew the place, and he went on--'Men used\nto choose that spot in good old times to beach a cargo before the\npassage to the vault was dug; and there is a worked-out quarry they\ncalled Pyegrove's Hole, not too far off up the down, and choked with\nbrambles, where we can find shelter for a hundred kegs. So we'll be under\nHoar Head at five tomorrow morn with the pack-horses. I wish we could be\nearlier, for the sun rises thereabout, but the tide will not serve\nbefore.'\n\nIt was at that moment that I felt a cold touch on my shoulders, as of the\nfresh air from outside, and thought beside I had a whiff of salt seaweed\nfrom the beach. So round I looked to see if door or window stood ajar.\nThe window was tight enough, and shuttered to boot, but the door was not\nto be seen plainly for a wooden screen, which parted it from the parlour,\nand was meant to keep off draughts. Yet I could just see a top corner of\nthe door above the screen and thought it was not fast. So up I got to\nshut it, for the nights were cold; but coming round the corner of the\nscreen found that 'twas closed, and yet I could have sworn I saw the\nlatch fall to its place as I walked towards it. Then I dashed forward,\nand in a trice had the door open, and was in the street. But the night\nwas moonless and black, and I neither saw nor heard aught stirring, save\nthe gentle sea-wash on Moonfleet beach beyond the salt meadows.\n\nElzevir looked at me uneasily as I came back.\n\n'What ails thee, boy?' said he.\n\n'I thought I heard someone at the door,' I answered; 'did you not feel a\ncold wind as if it was open?'\n\n'It is but the night is sharp, the spring sets in very chill; slip the\nbolt, and sit down again,' and he flung a fresh log on the fire, that\nsent a cloud of sparks crackling up the chimney and out into the room.\n\n'Elzevir,' I said, 'I think there was one listening at the door, and\nthere may be others in the house, so before we sit again let us take\ncandle and go through the rooms to make sure none are prying on us.'\n\nHe laughed and said, ''Twas but the wind that blew the door open,' but\nthat I might do as I pleased. So I lit another candle, and was for\nstarting on my search; but he cried, 'Nay, thou shalt not go alone'; and\nso we went all round the house together, and found not so much as a\nmouse stirring.\n\nHe laughed the more when we came back to the parlour. ''Tis the cold\nhas chilled thy heart and made thee timid of that skulking rascal of\nthe Manor; fill me a glass of Ararat milk, and one for thyself, and let\nus to bed.'\n\nI had learned by this not to be afraid of the good liquor, and while we\nsat sipping it, Elzevir went on--\n\n'There is a fortnight yet to run, and then you and I shall be cut adrift\nfrom our moorings. It is a cruel thing to see the doors of this house\nclosed on me, where I and mine have lived a century or more, but I must\nsee it. Yet let us not be too cast down, but try to make something even\nof this worst of throws.'\n\nI was glad enough to hear him speak in this firmer strain, for I had seen\nwhat a sore thought it had been for these days past that he must leave\nthe Why Not?, and how it often made him moody and downcast.\n\n'We will have no more of innkeeping,' he said; 'I have been sick and\ntired of it this many a day, and care not now to see men abuse good\nliquor and addle their silly pates to fill my purse. And I have\nsomething, boy, put snug away in Dorchester town that will give us bread\nto eat and beer to drink, even if the throws run still deuce-ace. But we\nmust seek a roof to shelter us when the Why Not? is shut, and 'tis best\nwe leave this Moonfleet of ours for a season, till Maskew finds a rope's\nend long enough to hang himself withal. So, when our work is done\ntomorrow night, we will walk out along the cliff to Worth, and take a\nlook at a cottage there that Damen spoke about, with a walled orchard at\nthe back, and fuchsia hedge in front--'tis near the Lobster Inn, and has\na fine prospect of the sea; and if we live there, we will leave the vault\nalone awhile and use this Pyegrove's Hole for storehouse, till the watch\nis relaxed.'\n\nI did not answer, having my thoughts on other things, and he tossed off\nhis liquor, saying, 'Thou'rt tired; so let's to bed, for we shall get\nlittle sleep tomorrow night.'\n\nIt was true that I was tired, and yet I could not get to sleep, but\ntossed and turned in my bed for thinking of many things, and being vexed\nthat we were to leave Moonfleet. Yet mine was a selfish sorrow; for I had\nlittle thought for Elzevir and the pain that it must be to him to quit,\nthe Why Not?: nor yet was it the grief of leaving Moonfleet that so\ntroubled me, although that was the only place I ever had known, and\nseemed to me then--as now--the only spot on earth fit to be lived in; but\nthe real care and canker was that I was going away from Grace Maskew. For\nsince she had left school I had grown fonder of her; and now that it was\ndifficult to see her, I took the more pains to accomplish it, and met her\nsometimes in Manor Woods, and more than once, when Maskew was away, had\nwalked with her on Weatherbeech Hill. So we bred up a boy-and-girl\naffection, and must needs pledge ourselves to be true to one another, not\nknowing what such silly words might mean. And I told Grace all my\nsecrets, not even excepting the doings of the contraband, and the Mohune\nvault and Blackbeard's locket, for I knew all was as safe with her as\nwith me, and that her father could never rack aught from her. Nay, more,\nher bedroom was at the top of the gabled wing of the Manor House, and\nlooked right out to sea; and one clear night, when our boat was coming\nlate from fishing, I saw her candle burning there, and next day told her\nof it. And then she said that she would set a candle to burn before the\npanes on winter nights, and be a leading light for boats at sea. And so\nshe did, and others beside me saw and used it, calling it 'Maskew's\nMatch', and saying that it was the attorney sitting up all night to pore\nover ledgers and add up his fortune.\n\nSo this night as I lay awake I vexed and vexed myself for thinking of\nher, and at last resolved to go up next morning to the Manor Woods and\nlie in wait for Grace, to tell her what was up, and that we were going\naway to Worth.\n\nNext day, the 16th of April--a day I have had cause to remember all my\nlife--I played truant from Mr. Glennie, and by ten in the forenoon found\nmyself in the woods.\n\nThere was a little dimple on the hillside above the house, green with\nburdocks in summer and filled with dry leaves in winter--just big enough\nto hold one lying flat, and not so deep but that I could look over the\nlip of it and see the house without being seen. Thither I went that day,\nand lay down in the dry leaves to wait and watch for Grace.\n\nThe morning was bright enough. The chills of the night before had given\nway to sunlight that seemed warm as summer, and yet had with it the soft\nfreshness of spring. There was scarce a breath moving in the wood, though\nI could see the clouds of white dust stalking up the road that climbs\nRidge down, and the trees were green with buds, yet without leafage to\nkeep the sunbeams from lighting up the ground below, which glowed with\nyellow king-cups. So I lay there for a long, long while; and to make time\npass quicker, took from my bosom the silver locket, and opening it, read\nagain the parchment, which I had read times out of mind before, and knew\nindeed by heart.\n\n'The days of our age are threescore years and ten', and the rest.\n\nNow, whenever I handled the locket, my thoughts were turned to Mohune's\ntreasure; and it was natural that it should be so, for the locket\nreminded me of my first journey to the vault; and I laughed at myself,\nremembering how simple I had been, and had hoped to find the place\nlittered with diamonds, and to see the gold lying packed in heaps. And\nthus for the hundredth time I came to rack my brain to know where the\ndiamond could be hid, and thought at last it must be buried in the\nchurchyard, because of the talk of Blackbeard being seen on wild nights\ndigging there for his treasure. But then, I reasoned, that very like it\nwas the contrabandiers whom men had seen with spades when they were\ndigging out the passage from the tomb to the vault, and set them down for\nghosts because they wrought at night. And while I was busy with such\nthoughts, the door opened in the house below me, and out came Grace with\na hood on her head and a basket for wild flowers in her hand.\n\nI watched to see which way she would walk; and as soon as she took the\npath that leads up Weatherbeech, made off through the dry brushwood to\nmeet her, for we had settled she should never go that road except when\nMaskew was away. So there we met and spent an hour together on the hill,\nthough I shall not write here what we said, because it was mostly silly\nstuff. She spoke much of the auction and of Elzevir leaving the Why Not?,\nand though she never said a word against her father, let me know what\npain his doing gave her. But most she grieved that we were leaving\nMoonfleet, and showed her grief in such pretty ways, as made me almost\nglad to see her sorry. And from her I learned that Maskew was indeed\nabsent from home, having been called away suddenly last night. The\nevening was so fine, he said (and this surprised me, remembering how dark\nand cold it was with us), that he must needs walk round the policies; but\nabout nine o'clock came back and told her he had got a sudden call to\nbusiness, which would take him to Weymouth then and there. So to saddle,\nand off he went on his mare, bidding Grace not to look for him for two\nnights to come.\n\nI know not why it was, but what she said of Maskew made me thoughtful and\nsilent, and she too must be back home lest the old servant that kept\nhouse for them should say she had been too long away, and so we parted.\nThen off I went through the woods and down the village street, but as I\npassed my old home saw Aunt Jane standing on the doorstep. I bade her\n'Good day', and was for running on to the Why Not?, for I was late enough\nalready, but she called me to her, seeming in a milder mood, and said she\nhad something for me in the house. So left me standing while she went off\nto get it, and back she came and thrust into my hand a little\nprayer-book, which I had often seen about the parlour in past days,\nsaying, 'Here is a Common Prayer which I had meant to send thee with thy\nclothes. It was thy poor mother's, and I pray may some day be as precious\na balm to thee as it once was to that godly woman.' With that she gave me\nthe 'Good day', and I pocketed the little red leather book, which did\nindeed afterwards prove precious to me, though not in the way she meant,\nand ran down street to the Why Not?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat same evening Elzevir and I left the Why Not?, went up through the\nvillage, climbed the down, and were at the brow by sunset. We had started\nearlier than we fixed the night before, because word had come to Elzevir\nthat morning that the tide called Gulder would serve for the beaching of\nthe _Bonaventure_ at three instead of five. 'Tis a strange thing the\nGulder, and not even sailors can count closely with it; for on the Dorset\ncoast the tide makes four times a day, twice with the common flow, and\ntwice with the Gulder, and this last being shifty and uncertain as to\ntime, flings out many a sea-reckoning.\n\nIt was about seven o'clock when we were at the top of the hill, and there\nwere fifteen good miles to cover to get to Hoar Head. Dusk was upon us\nbefore we had walked half an hour; but when the night fell, it was not\nblack as on the last evening, but a deep sort of blue, and the heat of\nthe day did not die with the sun, but left the air still warm and balmy.\nWe trudged on in silence, and were glad enough when we saw by a white\nstone here and there at the side of the path that we were nearing the\ncliff; for the Preventive men mark all the footpaths on the cliff with\nwhitewashed stones, so that one can pick up the way without risk on a\ndark night. A few minutes more, and we reached a broad piece of open\nsward, which I knew for the top of Hoar Head.\n\nHoar Head is the highest of that line of cliffs, which stretches twenty\nmiles from Weymouth to St. Alban's Head, and it stands up eighty fathoms\nor more above the water. The seaward side is a great sheer of chalk, but\nfalls not straight into the sea, for three parts down there is a lower\nledge or terrace, called the under-cliff.\n\n'Twas to this ledge that we were bound; and though we were now straight\nabove, I knew we had a mile or more to go before we could get down to\nit. So on we went again, and found the bridle-path that slopes down\nthrough a deep dip in the cliff line; and when we reached this\nunder-ledge, I looked up at the sky, the night being clear, and guessed\nby the stars that 'twas past midnight. I knew the place from having once\nbeen there for blackberries; for the brambles on the under-cliff being\nsheltered every way but south, and open to the sun, grow the finest in\nall those parts.\n\nWe were not alone, for I could make out a score of men, some standing in\ngroups, some resting on the ground, and the dark shapes of the\npack-horses showing larger in the dimness. There were a few words of\ngreeting muttered in deep voices, and then all was still, so that one\nheard the browsing horses trying to crop something off the turf. It was\nnot the first cargo I had helped to run, and I knew most of the men, but\ndid not speak with them, being tired, and wishing to rest till I was\nwanted. So cast myself down on the turf, but had not lain there long when\nI saw someone coming to me through the brambles, and Master Ratsey said,\n'Well, Jack, so thou and Elzevir are leaving Moonfleet, and I fain would\nflit myself, but then who would be left to lead the old folk to their\nlast homes, for dead do not bury their dead in these days.'\n\nI was half-asleep, and took little heed of what he said, putting him off\nwith, 'That need not keep you, Master; they will find others to fill your\nplace.' Yet he would not let me be, but went on talking for the pleasure\nof hearing his own voice.\n\n'Nay, child, you know not what you say. They may find men to dig a grave,\nand perhaps to fill it, but who shall toss the mould when Parson Glennie\ngives the \"earth to earth\"; it takes a mort of knowledge to make it\nrattle kindly on the coffin-lid.'\n\nI felt sleep heavy on my eyelids, and was for begging him to let me rest,\nwhen there came a whistle from below, and in a moment all were on their\nfeet. The drivers went to the packhorses' heads, and so we walked down to\nthe strand, a silent moving group of men and horses mixed; and before we\ncame to the bottom, heard the first boat's nose grind on the beach, and\nthe feet of the seamen crunching in the pebbles. Then all fell to the\nbusiness of landing, and a strange enough scene it was, what with the\nmedley of men, the lanthorns swinging, and a frothy Upper from the sea\nrunning up till sometimes it was over our boots; and all the time there\nwas a patter of French and Dutch, for most of the _Bonaventure's_ men\nwere foreigners. But I shall not speak more of this; for, after all, one\nlanding is very like another, and kegs come ashore in much the same way,\nwhether they are to pay excise or not.\n\nIt must have been three o'clock before the lugger's boats were off again\nto sea, and by that time the horses were well laden, and most of the men\nhad a keg or two to carry beside. Then Elzevir, who was in command, gave\nthe word, and we began to file away from the beach up to the under-cliff.\nNow, what with the cargo being heavy, we were longer than usual in\ngetting away; and though there was no sign of sunrise, yet the night was\ngreyer, and not so blue as it had been.\n\nWe reached the under-cliff, and were moving across it to address\nourselves to the bridle-path, and so wind sideways up the steep, when I\nsaw something moving behind one of the plumbs of brambles with which the\nplace is beset. It was only a glimpse of motion that I had perceived, and\ncould not say whether 'twas man or animal, or even frightened bird behind\nthe bushes. But others had seen it as well; there was some shouting, half\na dozen flung down their kegs and started in pursuit.\n\nAll eyes were turned to the bridle-path, and in a twinkling hunters and\nhunted were in view. The greyhounds were Damen and Garrett, with some\nothers, and the hare was an older man, who leapt and bounded forward,\nfaster than I should have thought any but a youth could run; but then he\nknew what men were after him, and that 'twas a race for life. For though\nit was but a moment before all were lost in the night, yet this was long\nenough to show me that the man was none other than Maskew, and I knew\nthat his life was not worth ten minutes' purchase.\n\nNow I hated this man, and had myself suffered something at his hand,\nbesides seeing him put much grievous suffering on others; but I wished\nthen with all my heart he might escape, and had a horrible dread of what\nwas to come. Yet I knew all the time escape was impossible; for though\nMaskew ran desperately, the way was steep and stony, and he had behind\nhim some of the fleetest feet along that coast. We had all stopped with\none accord, as not wishing to move a step forward till we had seen the\nissue of the chase; and I was near enough to look into Elzevir's face,\nbut saw there neither passion nor bloodthirstiness, but only a calm\nresolve, as if he had to deal with something well expected.\n\nWe had not long to wait, for very soon we heard a rolling of stones and\ntrampling of feet coming down the path, and from the darkness issued a\ngroup of men, having Maskew in the middle of them. They were hustling him\nalong fast, two having hold of him by the arms, and a third by the neck\nof his shirt behind. The sight gave me a sick qualm, like an overdose of\ntobacco, for it was the first time I had ever seen a man man-handled, and\na fellow-creature abused. His cap was lost, and his thin hair tangled\nover his forehead, his coat was torn off, so that he stood in his\nwaistcoat alone; he was pale, and gasped terribly, whether from the sharp\nrun, or from violence, or fear, or all combined.\n\nThere was a babel of voices when they came up of desperate men who had a\nbitterest enemy in their clutch; and some shouted, 'Club him', 'Shoot\nhim', 'Hang him', while others were for throwing him over the cliff. Then\nsomeone saw under the flap of his waistcoat that same silver-hafted\npistol that lay so lately next the lease of the Why Not? and snatching it\nfrom him, flung it on the grass at Block's feet.\n\nBut Elzevir's deep voice mastered their contentions--\n\n'Lads, ye remember how I said when this man's reckoning day should come\n'twas I would reckon with him, and had your promise to it. Nor is it\nright that any should lay hand on him but I, for is he not sealed to me\nwith my son's blood? So touch him not, but bind him hand and foot, and\nleave him here with me and go your ways; there is no time to lose, for\nthe light grows apace.'\n\nThere was a little muttered murmuring, but Elzevir's will overbore them\nhere as it had done in the vault; and they yielded the more easily,\nbecause every man knew in his heart that he would never see Maskew again\nalive. So within ten minutes all were winding up the bridle-path, horses\nand men, all except three; for there were left upon the brambly\ngreensward of the under-cliff Maskew and Elzevir and I, and the pistol\nlay at Elzevir's feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\nA JUDGEMENT\n\nLet them fight it out, friend. Things have gone too far,\nGod must judge the couple: leave them as they are--_Browning_\n\n\nI made as if I would follow the others, not wishing to see what I must\nsee if I stayed behind, and knowing that I was powerless to bend Elzevir\nfrom his purpose. But he called me back and bade me wait with him, for\nthat I might be useful by and by. So I waited, but was only able to make\na dreadful guess at how I might be of use, and feared the worst.\n\nMaskew sat on the sward with his hands lashed tight behind his back, and\nhis feet tied in front. They had set him with his shoulders against a\ngreat block of weather-worn stone that was half-buried and half-stuck up\nout of the turf. There he sat keeping his eyes on the ground, and was\nbreathing less painfully than when he was first brought, but still very\npale. Elzevir stood with the lanthorn in his hand, looking at Maskew\nwith a fixed gaze, and we could hear the hoofs of the heavy-laden horses\nbeating up the path, till they turned a corner, and all was still.\n\nThe silence was broken by Maskew: 'Unloose me, villain, and let me go. I\nam a magistrate of the county, and if you do not, I will have you\ngibbeted on this cliff-top.'\n\nThey were brave words enough, yet seemed to me but bad play-acting; and\nbrought to my remembrance how, when I was a little fellow, Mr. Glennie\nonce made me recite a battle-piece of Mr. Dryden before my betters; and\nhow I could scarce get out the bloody threats for shyness and rising\ntears. So it was with Maskew's words; for he had much ado to gather\nbreath to say them, and they came in a thin voice that had no sting of\nwrath or passion in it.\n\nThen Elzevir spoke to him, not roughly, but resolved; and yet with\nmelancholy, like a judge sentencing a prisoner:\n\n'Talk not to me of gibbets, for thou wilt neither hang nor see men hanged\nagain. A month ago thou satst under my roof, watching the flame burn down\ntill the pin dropped and gave thee right to turn me out from my old home.\nAnd now this morning thou shalt watch that flame again, for I will give\nthee one inch more of candle, and when the pin drops, will put this thine\nown pistol to thy head, and kill thee with as little thought as I would\nkill a stoat or other vermin.'\n\nThen he opened the lanthorn slide, took out from his neckcloth that same\npin with the onyx head which he had used in the Why Not? and fixed it in\nthe tallow a short inch from the top, setting the lanthorn down upon the\nsward in front of Maskew.\n\nAs for me, I was dismayed beyond telling at these words, and made\ngiddy with the revulsion of feeling; for, whereas, but a few minutes\nago, I would have thought nothing too bad for Maskew, now I was turned\nround to wish he might come off with his life, and to look with terror\nupon Elzevir.\n\nIt had grown much lighter, but not yet with the rosy flush of sunrise;\nonly the stars had faded out, and the deep blue of the night given way to\na misty grey. The light was strong enough to let all things be seen, but\nnot to call the due tints back to them. So I could see cliffs and ground,\nbushes and stones and sea, and all were of one pearly grey colour, or\nrather they were colourless; but the most colourless and greyest thing of\nall was Maskew's face. His hair had got awry, and his head showed much\nbalder than when it was well trimmed; his face, too, was drawn with heavy\nlines, and there were rings under his eyes. Beside all that, he had got\nan ugly fall in trying to escape, and one cheek was muddied, and down it\ntrickled a blood-drop where a stone had cut him. He was a sorry sight\nenough, and looking at him, I remembered that day in the schoolroom when\nthis very man had struck the parson, and how our master had sat patient\nunder it, with a blood-drop trickling down his cheek too. Maskew kept his\neyes fixed for a long time on the ground, but raised them at last, and\nlooked at me with a vacant yet pity-seeking look. Now, till that moment I\nhad never seen a trace of Grace in his features, nor of him in hers; and\nyet as he gazed at me then, there was something of her present in his\nface, even battered as it was, so that it seemed as if she looked at me\nbehind his eyes. And that made me the sorrier for him, and at last I felt\nI could not stand by and see him done to death.\n\nWhen Elzevir had stuck the pin into the candle he never shut the slide\nagain; and though no wind blew, there was a light breath moving in the\nmorning off the sea, that got inside the lanthorn and set the flame\naskew. And so the candle guttered down one side till but little tallow\nwas left above the pin; for though the flame grew pale and paler to the\nview in the growing morning light, yet it burnt freely all the time. So\nat last there was left, as I judged, but a quarter of an hour to run\nbefore the pin should fall, and I saw that Maskew knew this as well as I,\nfor his eyes were fixed on the lanthorn.\n\nAt last he spoke again, but the brave words were gone, and the thin voice\nwas thinner. He had dropped threats, and was begging piteously for his\nlife. 'Spare me,' he said; 'spare me, Mr. Block: I have an only daughter,\na young girl with none but me to guard her. Would you rob a young girl of\nher only help and cast her on the world? Would you have them find me dead\nupon the cliff and bring me back to her a bloody corpse?'\n\nThen Elzevir answered: 'And had I not an only son, and was he not brought\nback to me a bloody corpse? Whose pistol was it that flashed in his face\nand took his life away? Do you not know? It was this very same that shall\nflash in yours. So make what peace you may with God, for you have little\ntime to make it.'\n\nWith that he took the pistol from the ground where it had lain, and\nturning his back on Maskew, walked slowly to and fro among the\nbramble-plumps.\n\nThough Maskew's words about his daughter seemed but to feed Elzevir's\nanger, by leading him to think of David, they sank deep in my heart; and\nif it had seemed a fearful thing before to stand by and see a\nfellow-creature butchered, it seemed now ten thousand times more fearful.\nAnd when I thought of Grace, and what such a deed would mean to her, my\npulse beat so fierce that I must needs spring to my feet and run to\nreason with Elzevir, and tell him this must not be.\n\nHe was still walking among the bushes when I found him, and let me say\nmy say till I was out of breath, and bore with me if I talked fast, and\nif my tongue outran my judgement.\n\n'Thou hast a warm heart, lad,' he said, 'and 'tis for that I like thee.\nAnd if thou hast a chief place in thy heart for me, I cannot grumble if\nthou find a little room there even for our enemies. Would I could set thy\nsoul at ease, and do all that thou askest. In the first flush of wrath,\nwhen he was taken plotting against our lives, it seemed a little thing\nenough to take his evil life. But now these morning airs have cooled me,\nand it goes against my will to shoot a cowering hound tied hand and foot,\neven though he had murdered twenty sons of mine. I have thought if\nthere be any way to spare his life, and leave this hour's agony to read a\nlesson not to be unlearned until the grave. For such poltroons dread\ndeath, and in one hour they die a hundred times. But there is no way out:\nhis life lies in the scale against the lives of all our men, yes, and thy\nlife too. They left him in my hands well knowing I should take account of\nhim; and am I now to play them false and turn him loose again to hang\nthem all? It cannot be.'\n\nStill I pleaded hard for Maskew's life, hanging on Elzevir's arm, and\nusing every argument that I could think of to soften his purpose; but he\npushed me off; and though I saw that he was loth to do it, I had a\nterrible conviction that he was not a man to be turned back from his\nresolve, and would go through with it to the end.\n\nWe came back together from the brambles to the piece of sward, and there\nsat Maskew where we had left him with his back against the stone. Only,\nwhile we were away he had managed to wriggle his watch out of the fob,\nand it lay beside him on the turf, tied to him with a black silk riband.\nThe face of it was turned upwards, and as I passed I saw the hand pointed\nto five. Sunrise was very near; for though the cliff shut out the east\nfrom us, the west over Portland was all aglow with copper-red and gold,\nand the candle burnt low. The head of the pin was drooping, though very\nslightly, but as I saw it droop a month before, and I knew that the final\nact was not far off.\n\nMaskew knew it too, for he made his last appeal, using such passionate\nwords as I cannot now relate, and wriggling with his body as if to get\nhis hands from behind his back and hold them up in supplication. He\noffered money; a thousand, five thousand, ten thousand pounds to be set\nfree; he would give back the Why Not?; he would leave Moonfleet; and all\nthe while the sweat ran down his furrowed face, and at last his voice was\nchoked with sobs, for he was crying for his life in craven fear.\n\nHe might have spoken to a deaf man for all he moved his judge; and\nElzevir's answer was to cock the pistol and prime the powder in the pan.\n\nThen I stuck my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes, that I might\nneither see nor hear what followed, but in a second changed my mind and\nopened them again, for I had made a great resolve to stop this matter,\ncome what might.\n\nMaskew was making a dreadful sound between a moan and strangled cry; it\nalmost seemed as if he thought that there were others by him beside\nElzevir and me, and was shouting to them for help. The sun had risen, and\nhis first rays blazed on a window far away in the west on top of Portland\nIsland, and then there was a tinkle in the inside of the lanthorn, and\nthe pin fell.\n\nElzevir looked full at Maskew, and raised his pistol; but before he had\ntime to take aim, I dashed upon him like a wild cat, springing on his\nright arm, and crying to him to stop. It was an unequal struggle, a lad,\nthough full-grown and lusty, against one of the powerfullest of men, but\nindignation nerved my arms, and his were weak, because he doubted of his\nright. So 'twas with some effort that he shook me off, and in the\nstruggle the pistol was fired into the air.\n\nThen I let go of him, and stumbled for a moment, tired with that bout,\nbut pleased withal, because I saw what peace even so short a respite had\nbrought to Maskew. For at the pistol shot 'twas as if a mask of horror\nhad fallen from his face, and left him his old countenance again; and\nthen I saw he turned his eyes towards the cliff-top, and thought that he\nwas looking up in thankfulness to heaven.\n\nBut now a new thing happened; for before the echoes of that pistol-shot\nhad died on the keen morning air, I thought I heard a noise of distant\nshouting, and looked about to see whence it could come. Elzevir looked\nround too, but Maskew forgetting to upbraid me for making him miss his\naim, still kept his face turned up towards the cliff. Then the voices\ncame nearer, and there was a mingled sound as of men shouting to one\nanother, and gathering in from different places. 'Twas from the cliff-top\nthat the voices came, and thither Elzevir and I looked up, and there too\nMaskew kept his eyes fixed. And in a moment there were a score of men\nstood on the cliff's edge high above our heads. The sky behind them was\npink flushed with the keenest light of the young day, and they stood out\nagainst it sharp cut and black as the silhouette of my mother that used\nto hang up by the parlour chimney. They were soldiers, and I knew the\ntall mitre-caps of the 13th, and saw the shafts of light from the sunrise\ncome flashing round their bodies, and glance off the barrels of their\nmatchlocks.\n\nI knew it all now; it was the Posse who had lain in ambush. Elzevir saw\nit too, and then all shouted at once. 'Yield at the King's command: you\nare our prisoners!' calls the voice of one of those black silhouettes,\nfar up on the cliff-top.\n\n'We are lost,' cries Elzevir; 'it is the Posse; but if we die, this\ntraitor shall go before us,' and he makes towards Maskew to brain him\nwith the pistol.\n\n'Shoot, shoot, in the Devil's name,' screams Maskew, 'or I am a\ndead man.'\n\nThen there came a flash of fire along the black line of silhouettes,\nwith a crackle like a near peal of thunder, and a fut, fut, fut, of\nbullets in the turf. And before Elzevir could get at him, Maskew had\nfallen over on the sward with a groan, and with a little red hole in the\nmiddle of his forehead.\n\n'Run for the cliff-side,' cried Elzevir to me; 'get close in, and they\ncannot touch thee,' and he made for the chalk wall. But I had fallen on\nmy knees like a bullock felled by a pole-axe, and had a scorching pain in\nmy left foot. Elzevir looked back. 'What, have they hit thee too?' he\nsaid, and ran and picked me up like a child. And then there is another\nflash and fut, fut, in the turf; but the shots find no billet this time,\nand we are lying close against the cliff, panting but safe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\nTHE ESCAPE\n\n            ... How fearful\nAnd dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!\n   ... I'll look no more\nLest my brain turn--_Shakespeare_\n\n\nThe while chalk was a bulwark between us and the foe; and though one or\ntwo of them loosed off their matchlocks, trying to get at us sideways,\nthey could not even see their quarry, and 'twas only shooting at a\nventure. We were safe. But for how short a time! Safe just for so long as\nit should please the soldiers not to come down to take us, safe with a\ndischarged pistol in our grasp, and a shot man lying at our feet.\n\nElzevir was the first to speak: 'Can you stand, John? Is the bone\nbroken?'\n\n'I cannot stand,' I said; 'there is something gone in my leg, and I feel\nblood running down into my boot.'\n\nHe knelt, and rolled down the leg of my stocking; but though he only\nmoved my foot ever so little, it caused me sharp pain, for feeling was\ncoming back after the first numbness of the shot.\n\n'They have broke the leg, though it bleeds little,' Elzevir said. 'We\nhave no time to splice it here, but I will put a kerchief round, and\nwhile I wrap it, listen to how we lie, and then choose what we shall do.'\n\nI nodded, biting my lips hard to conceal the pain he gave me, and he went\non: 'We have a quarter of an hour before the Posse can get down to us.\nBut come they will, and thou canst judge what chance we have to save\nliberty or life with that carrion lying by us'--and he jerked his thumb\nat Maskew--'though I am glad 'twas not my hand that sent him to his\nreckoning, and therefore do not blame thee if thou didst make me waste a\ncharge in air. So one thing we can do is to wait here until they come,\nand I can account for a few of them before they shoot me down; but thou\ncanst not fight with a broken leg, and they will take thee alive, and\nthen there is a dance on air at Dorchester Jail.'\n\nI felt sick with pain and bitterly cast down to think that I was like to\ncome so soon to such a vile end; so only gave a sigh, wishing heartily\nthat Maskew were not dead, and that my leg were not broke, but that I was\nback again at the Why Not? or even hearing one of Dr. Sherlock's sermons\nin my aunt's parlour.\n\nElzevir looked down at me when I sighed, and seeing, I suppose, that I\nwas sorrowful, tried to put a better face on a bad business. 'Forgive me,\nlad,' he said, 'if I have spoke too roughly. There is yet another way\nthat we may try; and if thou hadst but two whole legs, I would have tried\nit, but now 'tis little short of madness. And yet, if thou fear'st not, I\nwill still try it. Just at the end of this flat ledge, farthest from\nwhere the bridle-path leads down, but not a hundred yards from where we\nstand, there is a sheep-track leading up the cliff. It starts where the\nunder-cliff dies back again into the chalk face, and climbs by slants and\nelbow-turns up to the top. The shepherds call it the Zigzag, and even\nsheep lose their footing on it; and of men I never heard but one had\nclimbed it, and that was lander Jordan, when the Excise was on his heels,\nhalf a century back. But he that tries it stakes all on head and foot,\nand a wounded bird like thee may not dare that flight. Yet, if thou art\ncontent to hang thy life upon a hair, I will carry thee some way; and\nwhere there is no room to carry, thou must down on hands and knees and\ntrail thy foot.'\n\nIt was a desperate chance enough, but came as welcome as a patch of blue\nthrough lowering skies. 'Yes,' I said, 'dear Master Elzevir, let us get\nto it quickly; and if we fall, 'tis better far to die upon the rocks\nbelow than to wait here for them to hale us off to jail.' And with that I\ntried to stand, thinking I might go dot and carry even with a broken leg.\nBut 'twas no use, and down I sank with a groan. Then Elzevir caught me\nup, holding me in his arms, with my head looking over his back, and made\noff for the Zigzag. And as we slunk along, close to the cliff-side, I\nsaw, between the brambles, Maskew lying with his face turned up to the\nmorning sky. And there was the little red hole in the middle of his\nforehead, and a thread of blood that welled up from it and trickled off\non to the sward.\n\nIt was a sight to stagger any man, and would have made me swoon perhaps,\nbut that there was no time, for we were at the end of the under-cliff,\nand Elzevir set me down for a minute, before he buckled to his task. And\n'twas a task that might cow the bravest, and when I looked upon the\nZigzag, it seemed better to stay where we were and fall into the hands\nof the Posse than set foot on that awful way, and fall upon the rocks\nbelow. For the Zigzag started off as a fair enough chalk path, but in a\nfew paces narrowed down till it was but a whiter thread against the\ngrey-white cliff-face, and afterwards turned sharply back, crossing a\nhundred feet direct above our heads. And then I smelt an evil stench,\nand looking about, saw the blown-out carcass of a rotting sheep lie\nclose at hand.\n\n'Faugh,' said Elzevir, 'tis a poor beast has lost his foothold.'\n\nIt was an ill omen enough, and I said as much, beseeching him to make his\nown way up the Zigzag and leave me where I was, for that they might have\nmercy on a boy.\n\n'Tush!' he cried; 'it is thy heart that fails thee, and 'tis too late now\nto change counsel. We have fifteen minutes yet to win or lose with, and\nif we gain the cliff-top in that time we shall have an hour's start, or\nmore, for they will take all that to search the under-cliff. And Maskew,\ntoo, will keep them in check a little, while they try to bring the life\nback to so good a man. But if we fall, why, we shall fall together, and\noutwit their cunning. So shut thy eyes, and keep them tight until I bid\nthee open them.' With that he caught me up again, and I shut my eyes\nfirm, rebuking myself for my faint-heartedness, and not telling him how\nmuch my foot hurt me. In a minute I knew from Elzevir's steps that he\nhad left the turf and was upon the chalk. Now I do not believe that there\nwere half a dozen men beside in England who would have ventured up that\npath, even free and untrammelled, and not a man in all the world to do it\nwith a full-grown lad in his arms. Yet Elzevir made no bones of it, nor\nspoke a single word; only he went very slow, and I felt him scuffle with\nhis foot as he set it forward, to make sure he was putting it down firm.\n\nI said nothing, not wishing to distract him from his terrible task, and\nheld my breath, when I could, so that I might lie quieter in his arms.\nThus he went on for a time that seemed without end, and yet was really\nbut a minute or two; and by degrees I felt the wind, that we could scarce\nperceive at all on the under-cliff, blow fresher and cold on the\ncliff-side. And then the path grew steeper and steeper, and Elzevir went\nslower and slower, till at last he spoke:\n\n'John, I am going to stop; but open not thy eyes till I have set thee\ndown and bid thee.'\n\nI did as bidden, and he lowered me gently, setting me on all-fours upon\nthe path; and speaking again:\n\n'The path is too narrow here for me to carry thee, and thou must creep\nround this corner on thy hands and knees. But have a care to keep thy\nouter hand near to the inner, and the balance of thy body to the cliff,\nfor there is no room to dance hornpipes here. And hold thy eyes fixed on\nthe chalk-wall, looking neither down nor seaward.'\n\n'Twas well he told me what to do, and well I did it; for when I opened my\neyes, even without moving them from the cliff-side, I saw that the ledge\nwas little more than a foot wide, and that ever so little a lean of the\nbody would dash me on the rocks below. So I crept on, but spent much time\nthat was so precious in travelling those ten yards to take me round the\nfirst elbow of the path; for my foot was heavy and gave me fierce pain to\ndrag, though I tried to mask it from Elzevir. And he, forgetting what I\nsuffered, cried out, 'Quicken thy pace, lad, if thou canst, the time is\nshort.' Now so frail is man's temper, that though he was doing more than\nany ever did to save another's life, and was all I had to trust to in the\nworld; yet because he forgot my pain and bade me quicken, my choler rose,\nand I nearly gave him back an angry word, but thought better of it and\nkept it in.\n\nThen he told me to stop, for that the way grew wider and he would pick me\nup again. But here was another difficulty, for the path was still so\nnarrow and the cliff-wall so close that he could not take me up in his\narms. So I lay flat on my face, and he stepped over me, setting his foot\nbetween my shoulders to do it; and then, while he knelt down upon the\npath, I climbed up from behind upon him, putting my arms round his neck;\nand so he bore me 'pickaback'. I shut my eyes firm again, and thus we\nmoved along another spell, mounting still and feeling the wind still\nfreshening.\n\nAt length he said that we were come to the last turn of the path, and he\nmust set me down once more. So down upon his knees and hands he went, and\nI slid off behind, on to the ledge. Both were on all-fours now; Elzevir\nfirst and I following. But as I crept along, I relaxed care for a moment,\nand my eyes wandered from the cliff-side and looked down. And far below I\nsaw the blue sea twinkling like a dazzling mirror, and the gulls wheeling\nabout the sheer chalk wall, and then I thought of that bloated carcass of\na sheep that had fallen from this very spot perhaps, and in an instant\nfelt a sickening qualm and swimming of the brain, and knew that I was\ngiddy and must fall.\n\nThen I called out to Elzevir, and he, guessing what had come over me,\ncries to turn upon my side, and press my belly to the cliff. And how he\ndid it in such a narrow strait I know not; but he turned round, and lying\ndown himself, thrust his hand firmly in my back, pressing me closer to\nthe cliff. Yet it was none too soon, for if he had not held me tight, I\nshould have flung myself down in sheer despair to get quit of that\ndreadful sickness.\n\n'Keep thine eyes shut, John,' he said, 'and count up numbers loud to me,\nthat I may know thou art not turning faint.' So I gave out, 'One, two,\nthree,' and while I went on counting, heard him repeating to himself,\nthough his words seemed thin and far off: 'We must have taken ten minutes\nto get here, and in five more they will be on the under-cliff; and if we\never reach the top, who knows but they have left a guard! No, no, they\nwill not leave a guard, for not a man knows of the Zigzag; and, if they\nknew, they would not guess that we should try it. We have but fifty yards\nto go to win, and now this cursed giddy fit has come upon the child, and\nhe will fall and drag me with him; or they will see us from below, and\npick us off like sitting guillemots against the cliff-face.'\n\nSo he talked to himself, and all the while I would have given a world to\npluck up heart and creep on farther; yet could not, for the deadly\nsweating fear that had hold of me. Thus I lay with my face to the cliff,\nand Elzevir pushing firmly in my back; and the thing that frightened me\nmost was that there was nothing at all for the hand to take hold of, for\nhad there been a piece of string, or even a thread of cotton, stretched\nalong to give a semblance of support, I think I could have done it; but\nthere was only the cliff-wall, sheer and white, against that narrowest\nway, with never cranny to put a finger into. The wind was blowing in\nfresh puffs, and though I did not open my eyes, I knew that it was moving\nthe little tufts of bent grass, and the chiding cries of the gulls\nseemed to invite me to be done with fear and pain and broken leg, and\nfling myself off on to the rocks below.\n\nThen Elzevir spoke. 'John' he said, 'there is no time to play the woman;\nanother minute of this and we are lost. Pluck up thy courage, keep thy\neyes to the cliff, and forward.'\n\nYet I could not, but answered: 'I cannot, I cannot; if I open my eyes, or\nmove hand or foot, I shall fall on the rocks below.'\n\nHe waited a second, and then said: 'Nay, move thou must, and 'tis better\nto risk falling now, than fall for certain with another bullet in thee\nlater on.' And with that he shifted his hand from my back and fixed it\nin my coat-collar, moving backwards himself, and setting to drag me\nafter him.\n\nNow, I was so besotted with fright that I would not budge an inch,\nfearing to fall over if I opened my eyes. And Elzevir, for all he was so\nstrong, could not pull a helpless lump backwards up that path. So he gave\nit up, leaving go hold on me with a groan, and at that moment there rose\nfrom the under-cliff, below a sound of voices and shouting.\n\n'Zounds, they are down already!' cried Elzevir, 'and have found Maskew's\nbody; it is all up; another minute and they will see us.'\n\nBut so strange is the force of mind on body, and the power of a greater\nto master a lesser fear, that when I heard those voices from below, all\nfright of falling left me in a moment, and I could open my eyes without a\ntrace of giddiness. So I began to move forward again on hands and knees.\nAnd Elzevir, seeing me, thought for a moment I had gone mad, and was\ndragging myself over the cliff; but then saw how it was, and moved\nbackwards himself before me, saying in a low voice, 'Brave lad! Once\ncreep round this turn, and I will pick thee up again. There is but fifty\nyards to go, and we shall foil these devils yet!'\n\nThen we heard the voices again, but farther off, and not so loud; and\nknew that our pursuers had left the under-cliff and turned down on to the\nbeach, thinking that we were hiding by the sea.\n\nFive minutes later Elzevir stepped on to the cliff-top, with me\nupon his back.\n\n'We have made something of this throw,' he said, 'and are safe for\nanother hour, though I thought thy giddy head had ruined us.'\n\nThen he put me gently upon the springy turf, and lay down himself upon\nhis back, stretching his arms out straight on either side, and breathing\nhard to recover from the task he had performed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe day was still young, and far below us was stretched the moving floor\nof the Channel, with a silver-grey film of night-mists not yet lifted in\nthe offing. A hummocky up-and-down line of cliffs, all projections,\ndents, bays, and hollows, trended southward till it ended in the great\nbluff of St. Alban's Head, ten miles away. The cliff-face was gleaming\nwhite, the sea tawny inshore, but purest blue outside, with the straight\nsunpath across it, spangled and gleaming like a mackerel's back.\n\nThe relief of being once more on firm ground, and the exultation of an\nescape from immediate danger, removed my pain and made me forget that my\nleg was broken. So I lay for a moment basking in the sun; and the wind,\nwhich a few minutes before threatened to blow me from that narrow ledge,\nseemed now but the gentlest of breezes, fresh with the breath of the\nkindly sea. But this was only for a moment, for the anguish came back\nand grew apace, and I fell to thinking dismally of the plight we were in.\nHow things had been against us in these last days! First there was losing\nthe Why Not? and that was bad enough; second, there was the being known\nby the Excise for smugglers, and perhaps for murderers; third and last,\nthere was the breaking of my leg, which made escape so difficult. But,\nmost of all, there came before my eyes that grey face turned up against\nthe morning sun, and I thought of all it meant for Grace, and would have\ngiven my own life to call back that of our worst enemy.\n\nThen Elzevir sat up, stretching himself like one waking out of sleep, and\nsaid: 'We must be gone. They will not be back for some time yet, and,\nwhen they come, will not think to search closely for us hereabouts; but\nthat we cannot risk, and must get clear away. This leg of thine will keep\nus tied for weeks, and we must find some place where we can lie hid, and\ntend it. Now, I know such a hiding-hole in Purbeck, which they call\nJoseph's Pit, and thither we must go; but it will take all the day to get\nthere, for it is seven miles off, and I am older than I was, and thou too\nheavy a babe to carry over lightly.'\n\nI did not know the pit he spoke of, but was glad to hear of some place,\nhowever far off, where I could lie still and get ease from the pain. And\nso he took me in his arms again and started off across the fields.\n\nI need not tell of that weary journey, and indeed could not, if I wished;\nfor the pain went to my head and filled me with such a drowsy anguish\nthat I knew nothing except when some unlooked-for movement gave me a\nsharper twinge, and made me cry out. At first Elzevir walked briskly, but\nas the day wore on went slower, and was fain more than once to put me\ndown and rest, till at last he could only carry me a hundred yards at a\ntime. It was after noon, for the sun was past the meridian, and very hot\nfor the time of year, when the face of the country began to change; and\ninstead of the short sward of the open down, sprinkled with tiny white\nsnail-shells, the ground was brashy with flat stones, and divided up into\ntillage fields. It was a bleak wide-bitten place enough, looking as if\n'twould never pay for turning, and instead of hedges there were dreary\nwalls built of dry stone without mortar. Behind one of these walls,\nbroken down in places, but held together with straggling ivy, and\nbuttressed here and there with a bramble-bush, Elzevir put me down at\nlength and said, 'I am beat, and can carry thee no farther for this\npresent, though there is not now much farther to go. We have passed\nPurbeck Gates, and these walls will screen us from prying eyes if any\nchance comer pass along the down. And as for the soldiers, they are not\nlike to come this way so soon, and if they come I cannot help it; for\nweariness and the sun's heat have made my feet like lead. A score of\nyears ago I would have laughed at such a task, but now 'tis different,\nand I must take a little sleep and rest till the air is cooler. So sit\nthee here and lean thy shoulder up against the wall, and thus thou canst\nlook through this broken place and watch both ways. Then, if thou see\naught moving, wake me up.--I wish I had a thimbleful of powder to make\nthis whistle sound'--and he took Maskew's silver-butted pistol again from\nhis bosom, and handled it lovingly,--'tis like my evil luck to carry\nfire-arms thirty years, and leave them at home at a pinch like this.'\nWith that he flung himself down where there was a narrow shadow close\nagainst the bottom of the wall, and in a minute I knew from his heavy\nbreathing that he was asleep.\n\nThe wind had freshened much, and was blowing strong from the west; and\nnow that I was under the lee of the wall I began to perceive that\ndrowsiness creeping upon me which overtakes a man who has been tousled\nfor an hour or two by the wind, and gets at length into shelter.\nMoreover, though I was not tired by grievous toil like Elzevir, I had\npassed a night without sleep, and felt besides the weariness of pain to\nlull me to slumber. So it was, that before a quarter of an hour was past,\nI had much ado to keep awake, for all I knew that I was left on guard.\nThen I sought something to fix my thoughts, and looking on that side of\nthe wall where the sward was, fell to counting the mole-hills that were\ncast up in numbers thereabout. And when I had exhausted them, and\nreckoned up thirty little heaps of dry and powdery brown earth, that lay\nat random on the green turf, I turned my eyes to the tillage field on the\nother side of the wall, and saw the inch-high blades of corn coming up\nbetween the stones. Then I fell to counting the blades, feeling glad to\nhave discovered a reckoning that would not be exhausted at thirty, but\nwould go on for millions, and millions, and millions; and before I had\nreached ten in so heroic a numeration was fast asleep.\n\nA sharp noise woke me with a start that set the pain tingling in my leg,\nand though I could see nothing, I knew that a shot had been fired very\nnear us. I was for waking Elzevir, but he was already full awake, and put\na finger on his lip to show I should not speak. Then he crept a few paces\ndown the wall to where an ivy bush over-topped it, enough for him to look\nthrough the leaves without being seen. He dropped down again with a look\nof relief, and said, ''Tis but a lad scaring rooks with a blunderbuss; we\nwill not stir unless he makes this way.'\n\nA minute later he said: 'The boy is coming straight for the wall; we\nshall have to show ourselves'; and while he spoke there was a rattle of\nfalling stones, where the boy was partly climbing and partly pulling\ndown the dry wall, and so Elzevir stood up. The boy looked frightened,\nand made as if he would run off, but Elzevir passed him the time of day\nin a civil voice, and he stopped and gave it back.\n\n'What are you doing here, son?' Block asked.\n\n'Scaring rooks for Farmer Topp,' was the answer.\n\n'Have you got a charge of powder to spare?' said Elzevir, showing his\npistol. 'I want to get a rabbit in the gorse for supper, and have dropped\nmy flask. Maybe you've seen a flask in walking through the furrows?'\n\nHe whispered to me to lie still, so that it might not be perceived my leg\nwas broken; and the boy replied:\n\n'No, I have seen no flask; but very like have not come the same way as\nyou, being sent out here from Lowermoigne; and as for powder, I have\nlittle left, and must save that for the rooks, or shall get a beating for\nmy pains.'\n\n'Come,' said Elzevir, 'give me a charge or two, and there is half a crown\nfor thee.' And he took the coin out of his pocket and showed it.\n\nThe boy's eyes twinkled, and so would mine at so valuable a piece, and\nhe took out from his pocket a battered cowskin flask. 'Give flask and\nall,' said Elzevir, 'and thou shalt have a crown,' and he showed him the\nlarger coin.\n\nNo time was wasted in words; Elzevir had the flask in his pocket, and the\nboy was biting the crown.\n\n'What shot have you?' said Elzevir.\n\n'What! have you dropped your shot-flask too?' asked the boy. And his\nvoice had something of surprise in it.\n\n'Nay, but my shot are over small; if thou hast a slug or two, I would\ntake them.'\n\n'I have a dozen goose-slugs, No. 2,' said the boy; 'but thou\nmust pay a shilling for them. My master says I never am to use them,\nexcept I see a swan or buzzard, or something fit to cook, come over: I\nshall get a sound beating for my pains, and to be beat is worth a\nshilling.'\n\n'If thou art beat, be beat for something more,' says Elzevir the tempter.\n'Give me that firelock that thou carriest, and take a guinea.'\n\n'Nay, I know not,' says the boy; 'there are queer tales afloat at\nLowermoigne, how that a Posse met the Contraband this morning, and shots\nwere fired, and a gauger got an overdose of lead--maybe of goose slugs\nNo. 2. The smugglers got off clear, but they say the hue and cry is up\nalready, and that a head-price will be fixed of twenty pound. So if I\nsell you a fowling-piece, maybe I shall do wrong, and have the Government\nupon me as well as my master.' The surprise in his voice was changed to\nsuspicion, for while he spoke I saw that his eye had fallen on my foot,\nthough I tried to keep it in the shadow; and that he saw the boot clotted\nwith blood, and the kerchief tied round my leg.\n\n''Tis for that very reason,' says Elzevir, 'that I want the firelock.\nThese smugglers are roaming loose, and a pistol is a poor thing to stop\nsuch wicked rascals on a lone hill-side. Come, come, _thou_ dost not want\na piece to guard thee; they will not hurt a boy.'\n\nHe had the guinea between his finger and thumb, and the gleam of the gold\nwas too strong to be withstood. So we gained a sorry matchlock, slugs,\nand powder, and the boy walked off over the furrow, whistling with his\nhand in his pocket, and a guinea and a crown-piece in his hand.\n\nHis whistle sounded innocent enough, yet I mistrusted him, having caught\nhis eye when he was looking at my bloody foot; and so I said as much to\nElzevir, who only laughed, saying the boy was simple and harmless. But\nfrom where I sat I could peep out through the brambles in the open gap,\nand see without being seen--and there was my young gentleman walking\ncarelessly enough, and whistling like any bird so long as Elzevir's head\nwas above the wall; but when Elzevir sat down, the boy gave a careful\nlook round, and seeing no one watching any more, dropped his whistling\nand made off as fast as heels would carry him. Then I knew that he had\nguessed who we were, and was off to warn the hue and cry; but before\nElzevir was on his feet again, the boy was out of sight, over the\nhill-brow.\n\n'Let us move on,' said Block; 'tis but a little distance now to go, and\nthe heat is past already. We must have slept three hours or more, for\nthou art but a sorry watchman, John. 'Tis when the sentry sleeps that\nthe enemy laughs, and for thee the Posse might have had us both like\ndaylight owls.'\n\nWith that he took me on his back and made off with a lusty stride,\nkeeping as much as possible under the brow of the hill and in the shelter\nof the walls. We had slept longer than we thought, for the sun was\nwestering fast, and though the rest had refreshed me, my leg had grown\nstiff, and hurt the more in dangling when we started again. Elzevir was\nstill walking strongly, in spite of the heavy burden he carried, and in\nless than half an hour I knew, though I had never been there before, we\nwere in the land of the old marble quarries at the back of Anvil Point.\n\nAlthough I knew little of these quarries, and certainly was in evil\nplight to take note of anything at that time, yet afterwards I learnt\nmuch about them. Out of such excavations comes that black Purbeck Marble\nwhich you see in old churches in our country, and I am told in other\nparts of England as well. And the way of making a marble quarry is to\nsink a tunnel, slanting very steeply down into the earth, like a well\nturned askew, till you reach fifty, seventy, or perhaps one hundred feet\ndeep. Then from the bottom of this shaft there spread out narrow passages\nor tunnels, mostly six feet high, but sometimes only three or four, and\nin these the marble is dug. These quarries were made by men centuries\nago, some say by the Romans themselves; and though some are still worked\nin other parts of Purbeck, those at the back of Anvil Point have been\ndisused beyond the memory of man.\n\nWe had left the stony village fields, and the face of the country was\ncovered once more with the closest sward, which was just putting on the\nbrighter green of spring. This turf was not smooth, but hummocky, for\nunder it lay heaps of worthless stone and marble drawn out of the\nquarries ages ago, which the green vestment had covered for the most\npart, though it left sometimes a little patch of broken rubble peering\nout at the top of a mound. There were many tumble-down walls and low\ngables left of the cottages of the old quarrymen; grass-covered ridges\nmarked out the little garden-folds, and here and there still stood a\nforlorn gooseberry-bush, or a stunted plum- or apple-tree with its\nbranches all swept eastward by the up-Channel gales. As for the quarry\nshafts themselves, they too were covered round the tips with the green\nturf, and down them led a narrow flight of steep-cut steps, with a slide\nof soap-stone at the side, on which the marble blocks were once hauled up\nby wooden winches. Down these steps no feet ever walked now, for not only\nwere suffocating gases said to beset the bottom of the shafts, but men\nwould have it that in the narrow passages below lurked evil spirits and\ndemons. One who ought to know about such things, told me that when St.\nAldhelm first came to Purbeck, he bound the old Pagan gods under a ban\ndeep in these passages, but that the worst of all the crew was a certain\ndemon called the Mandrive, who watched over the best of the black marble.\nAnd that was why such marble might only be used in churches or for\ngraves, for if it were not for this holy purpose, the Mandrive would\nhave power to strangle the man that hewed it.\n\nIt was by the side of one of these old shafts that Elzevir laid me down\nat last. The light was very low, showing all the little unevennesses of\nthe turf; and the sward crept over the edges of the hole, and every crack\nand crevice in steps and slide was green with ferns. The green ferns\nshrouded the walls of the hole, and ruddy brown brambles overgrew the\nsteps, till all was lost in the gloom that hung at the bottom of the pit.\n\nElzevir drew a deep breath or two of the cool evening air, like a man who\nhas come through a difficult trial.\n\n'There,' he said, 'this is Joseph's Pit, and here we must lie hid until\nthy foot is sound again. Once get to the bottom safe, and we can laugh at\nPosse, and hue and cry, and at the King's Crown itself. They cannot\nsearch all the quarries, and are not like to search any of them, for they\nare cowards at the best, and hang much on tales of the Mandrive. Ay, and\nsuch tales are true enough, for there lurk gases at the bottom of most of\nthe shafts, like devils to strangle any that go down. And if they do come\ndown this Joseph's Pit, we still have nineteen chances in a score they\ncannot thread the workings. But last, if they come down, and thread the\npath, there is this pistol and a rusty matchlock; and before they come to\nwhere we lie, we can hold the troop at bay and sell our lives so dear\nthey will not care to buy them.'\n\nWe waited a few minutes, and then he took me in his arms and began to\ndescend the steps, back first, as one goes down a hatchway. The sun was\nsetting in a heavy bank of clouds just as we began to go down, and I\ncould not help remembering how I had seen it set over peaceful Moonfleet\nonly twenty-four hours ago; and how far off we were now, and how long it\nwas likely to be before I saw that dear village and Grace again.\n\nThe stairs were still sharp cut and little worn, but Elzevir paid great\ncare to his feet, lest he should slip on the ferns and mosses with which\nthey were overgrown. When we reached the brambles he met them with his\nback, and though I heard the thorns tearing in his coat, he shoved them\naside with his broad shoulders, and screened my dangling leg from getting\ncaught. Thus he came safe without stumble to the bottom of the pit.\n\nWhen we got there all was dark, but he stepped off into a narrow opening\non the right hand, and walked on as if he knew the way. I could see\nnothing, but perceived that we were passing through endless galleries cut\nin the solid rock, high enough, for the most part, to allow of walking\nupright, but sometimes so low as to force him to bend down and carry me\nin a very constrained attitude. Only twice did he set me down at a\nturning, while he took out his tinder-box and lit a match; but at length\nthe darkness became less dark, and I saw that we were in a large cave or\nroom, into which the light came through some opening at the far end. At\nthe same time I felt a colder breath and fresh salt smell in the air that\ntold me we were very near the sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\nTHE SEA-CAVE\n\nThe dull loneness, the black shade,\nThat these hanging vaults have made:\nThe strange music of the waves\nBeating on these hollow caves--_Wither_\n\n\nHe set me down in one corner, where was some loose dry silver-sand upon\nthe floor, which others had perhaps used for a resting-place before.\n'Thou must lie here for a month or two, lad,' he said; 'tis a mean bed,\nbut I have known many worse, and will get straw tomorrow if I can, to\nbetter it.'\n\nI had eaten nothing all day, nor had Elzevir, yet I felt no hunger, only\na giddiness and burning thirst like that which came upon me when I was\nshut in the Mohune vault. So 'twas very music to me to hear a pat and\nsplash of water dropping from the roof into a little pool upon the floor,\nand Elzevir made a cup out of my hat and gave a full drink of it that was\nicy-cool and more delicious than any smuggled wine of France.\n\nAnd after that I knew little that happened for ten days or more, for\nfever had hold of me, and as I learnt afterwards, I talked wild and could\nscarce be restrained from jumping up and loosing the bindings that\nElzevir had put upon my leg. And all that time he nursed me as tenderly\nas any mother could her child, and never left the cave except when he was\nforced to seek food. But after the fever passed it left me very thin, as\nI could see from hands and arms, and weaker than a baby; and I used to\nlie the whole day, not thinking much, nor troubling about anything, but\neating what was given me and drawing a quiet pleasure from the knowledge\nthat strength was gradually returning. Elzevir had found a battered\nsea-chest up on Peveril Point, and from the side of it made splints to\nset my leg--using his own shirt for bandages. The sand-bed too was made\nmore soft and easy with some armfuls of straw, and in one corner of the\ncave was a little pile of driftwood and an iron cooking-pot. And all\nthese things had Elzevir got by foraging of nights, using great care that\nnone should see him, and taking only what would not be much missed or\nthought about; but soon he contrived to give Ratsey word of where we\nwere, and after that the sexton fended for us. There were none even of\nthe landers knew what was become of us, save only Ratsey; and he never\ncame down the quarry, but would leave what he brought in one of the\nruined cottages a half-mile from the shaft. And all the while there was\nstrict search being made for us, and mounted Excisemen scouring the\ncountry; for though at first the Posse took back Maskew's dead body and\nsaid we must have fallen over the cliff, for there was nothing to be\nfound of us, yet afterwards a farm-boy brought a tale of how he had come\nsuddenly on men lurking under a wall, and how one had a bloody foot and\nleg, and how the other sprung upon him and after a fierce struggle\nwrenched his master's rook-piece from his hands, rifled his pocket of a\npowder-horn, and made off with them like a hare towards Corfe. And as to\nMaskew, some of the soldiers said that Elzevir had shot him, and others\nthat he died by misadventure, being killed by a stray bullet of one of\nhis own men on the hill-top; but for all that they put a head-price on\nElzevir of 50, and 20 for me, so we had reason to lie close. It must\nhave been Maskew that listened that night at the door when Elzevir told\nme the hour at which the cargo was to be run; for the Posse had been\nordered to be at Hoar Head at four in the morning. So all the gang would\nhave been taken had it not been for the Gulder making earlier, and the\nsoldiers being delayed by tippling at the Lobster.\n\nAll this Elzevir learnt from Ratsey and told me to pass the time,\nthough in truth I had as lief not heard it, for 'tis no pleasant thing\nto see one's head wrote down so low as 20. And what I wanted most to\nknow, namely how Grace fared and how she took the bad news of her\nfather's death, I could not hear, for Elzevir said nothing, and I was\nshy to ask him.\n\nNow when I came entirely to myself, and was able to take stock of things,\nI found that the place in which I lay was a cave some eight yards square\nand three in height, whose straight-cut walls showed that men had once\nhewed stone therefrom. On one side was that passage through which we had\ncome in, and on the other opened a sort of door which gave on to a stone\nledge eight fathoms above high-water mark. For the cave was cut out just\ninside that iron cliff-face which lies between St. Alban's Head and\nSwanage. But the cliffs here are different from those on the other side\nof the Head, being neither so high as Hoar Head nor of chalk, but\nstanding for the most part only an hundred or an hundred and fifty feet\nabove the sea, and showing towards it a stern face of solid rock. But\nthough they rise not so high above the water, they go down a long way\nbelow it; so that there is fifty fathom right up to the cliff, and many a\ngood craft out of reckoning in fog, or on a pitch-dark night, has run\nfull against that frowning wall, and perished, ship and crew, without a\nsoul to hear their cries. Yet, though the rock looks hard as adamant, the\neternal washing of the wave has worn it out below, and even with the\nslightest swell there is a dull and distant booming of the surge in those\ncavernous deeps; and when the wind blows fresh, each roller smites the\ncliff like a thunder-clap, till even the living rock trembles again.\n\nIt was on a ledge of that rock-face that our cave opened, and sometimes\non a fine day Elzevir would carry me out thither, so that I might sun\nmyself and see all the moving Channel without myself being seen. For this\nledge was carved out something like a balcony, so that when the quarry\nwas in working they could lower the stone by pulleys to boats lying\nunderneath, and perhaps haul up a keg or two by the way of ballast, as\nmight be guessed by the stanchions still rusting in the rock.\n\nSuch was this gallery; and as for the inside of the cave, 'twas a great\nempty room, with a white floor made up of broken stone-dust trodden hard\nof old till one would say it was plaster; and dry, without those sweaty\ndamps so often seen in such places--save only in one corner a\nland-spring dropped from the roof trickling down over spiky\nrock-icicles, and falling into a little hollow in the floor. This basin\nhad been scooped out of set purpose, with a gutter seaward for the\noverflow, and round it and on the wet patch of the roof above grew a\ngarden of ferns and other clinging plants.\n\nThe weeks moved on until we were in the middle of May, when even the\nnights were no longer cold, as the sun gathered power. And with the\nwarmer days my strength too increased, and though I dared not yet stand,\nmy leg had ceased to pain me, except for some sharp twinges now and then,\nwhich Elzevir said were caused by the bone setting. And then he would put\na poultice made of grass upon the place, and once walked almost as far as\nChaldron to pluck sorrel for a soothing mash.\n\nNow though he had gone out and in so many times in safety, yet I was\nalways ill at ease when he was away, lest he might fall into some ambush\nand never come back. Nor was it any thought of what would come to me if\nhe were caught that grieved me, but only care for him; for I had come to\nlean in everything upon this grim and grizzled giant, and love him like a\nfather. So when he was away I took to reading to beguile my thoughts; but\nfound little choice of matter, having only my aunt's red Prayer-book that\nI thrust into my bosom the afternoon that I left Moonfleet, and\nBlackbeard's locket. For that locket hung always round my neck; and I\noften had the parchment out and read it; not that I did not know it now\nby heart, but because reading it seemed to bring Grace to my thoughts,\nfor the last time I had read it was when I saw her in the Manor woods.\n\nElzevir and I had often talked over what was to be done when my leg\nshould be sound again, and resolved to take passage to St. Malo in the\n_Bonaventure_, and there lie hid till the pursuit against us should have\nceased. For though 'twas wartime, French and English were as brothers in\nthe contraband, and the shippers would give us bit and sup, and glad to,\nas long as we had need of them. But of this I need not say more, because\n'twas but a project, which other events came in to overturn.\n\nYet 'twas this very errand, namely, to fix with the _Bonaventure_'s men\nthe time to take us over to the other side, that Elzevir had gone out, on\nthe day of which I shall now speak. He was to go to Poole, and left our\ncave in the afternoon, thinking it safe to keep along the cliff-edge even\nin the daylight, and to strike across country when dusk came on. The wind\nhad blown fresh all the morning from south-west, and after Elzevir had\nleft, strengthened to a gale. My leg was now so strong that I could walk\nacross the cave with the help of a stout blackthorn that Elzevir had cut\nme: and so I went out that afternoon on to the ledge to watch the growing\nsea. There I sat down, with my back against a protecting rock, in such a\nplace that I could see up-Channel and yet shelter from the rushing wind.\nThe sky was overcast, and the long wall of rock showed grey with\norange-brown patches and a darker line of sea-weed at the base like the\nunder strake of a boat's belly, for the tide was but beginning to make.\nThere was a mist, half-fog, half-spray, scudding before the wind, and\nthrough it I could see the white-backed rollers lifting over Peveril\nPoint; while all along the cliff-face the sea-birds thronged the ledges,\nand sat huddled in snowy lines, knowing the mischief that was brewing in\nthe elements.\n\nIt was a melancholy scene, and bred melancholy in my heart; and about\nsun-down the wind southed a point or two, setting the sea more against\nthe cliff, so that the spray began to fly even over my ledge and drove me\nback into the cave. The night came on much sooner than usual, and before\nlong I was lying on my straw bed in perfect darkness. The wind had gone\nstill more to south, and was screaming through the opening of the cave;\nthe caverns down below bellowed and rumbled; every now and then a giant\nroller struck the rock such a blow as made the cave tremble, and then a\nsecond later there would fall, splattering on the ledge outside, the\nheavy spray that had been lifted by the impact.\n\nI have said that I was melancholy; but worse followed, for I grew timid,\nand fearful of the wild night, and the loneliness, and the darkness. And\nall sorts of evil tales came to my mind, and I thought much of baleful\nheathen gods that St. Aldhelm had banished to these underground cellars,\nand of the Mandrive who leapt on people in the dark and strangled them.\nAnd then fancy played another trick on me, and I seemed to see a man\nlying on the cave-floor with a drawn white face upturned, and a red hole\nin the forehead; and at last could bear the dark no longer, but got up\nwith my lame leg and groped round till I found a candle, for we had two\nor three in store. 'Twas only with much ado I got it lit and set up in\nthe corner of the cave, and then I sat down close by trying to screen it\nwith my coat. But do what I would the wind came gusting round the corner,\nblowing the flame to one side, and making the candle gutter as another\ncandle guttered on that black day at the Why Not? And so thought whisked\nround till I saw Maskew's face wearing a look of evil triumph, when the\npin fell at the auction, and again his face grew deadly pale, and there\nwas the bullet-mark on his brow.\n\nSurely there were evil spirits in this place to lead my thoughts so much\nastray, and then there came to my mind that locket on my neck, which men\nhad once hung round Blackbeard's to scare evil spirits from his tomb. If\nit could frighten them from him, might it not rout them now, and make\nthem fly from me? And with that thought I took the parchment out, and\nopening it before the flickering light, although I knew all, word for\nword, conned it over again, and read it out aloud. It was a relief to\nhear a human voice, even though 'twas nothing but my own, and I took to\nshouting the words, having much ado even so to make them heard for the\nraging of the storm:\n\n'The days of our age are threescore years and ten; and though men be so\nstrong that they come to fourscore years; yet is their strength then but\nlabour and sorrow; so soon passeth it away, and we are gone.\n\n'And as for me, my feet were almost ...'\n\nAt the 'almost' I stopped, being brought up suddenly with a fierce beat\nof blood through my veins, and a jump fit to burst them, for I had heard\na scuffling noise in the passage that led to the cave, as if someone had\nstumbled against a loose stone in the dark. I did not know then, but have\nlearnt since, that where there is a loud noise, such as the roaring of a\ncascade, the churning of a mill, or, as here, the rage and bluster of a\nstorm--if there arise some different sound, even though it be as slight\nas the whistle of a bird, 'twill strike the ear clear above the general\ndin. And so it was this night, for I caught that stumbling tread even\nwhen the gale blew loudest, and sat motionless and breathless, in my\neagerness of listening, and then the gale lulled an instant, and I heard\nthe slow beat of footsteps as of one groping his way down the passage in\nthe dark. I knew it was not Elzevir, for first he could not be back from\nPoole for many hours yet, and second, he always whistled in a certain way\nto show 'twas he coming and gave besides a pass-word; yet, if not\nElzevir, who could it be? I blew out the light, for I did not want to\nguide the aim of some unknown marksman shooting at me from the dark; and\nthen I thought of that gaunt strangler that sprang on marbleworkers in\nthe gloom; yet it could not be the Mandrive, for surely he would know his\nown passages better than to stumble in them in the dark. It was more\nlikely to be one of the hue and cry who had smelt us out, and hoped\nperhaps to be able to reconnoitre without being perceived on so awful a\nnight. Whenever Elzevir went out foraging, he carried with him that\nsilver-butted pistol which had once been Maskew's, but left behind the\nold rook-piece. We had plenty of powder and slugs now, having obtained a\nstore of both from Ratsey, and Elzevir had bid me keep the matchlock\ncharged, and use it or not after my own judgement, if any came to the\ncave; but gave as his counsel that it was better to die fighting than to\nswing at Dorchester, for that we should most certainly do if taken. We\nhad agreed, moreover, on a pass-word, which was _Prosper the\nBonaventure_, so that I might challenge betimes any that I heard coming,\nand if they gave not back this countersign might know it was not Elzevir.\n\nSo now I reached out for the piece, which lay beside me on the floor, and\nscrambled to my feet; lifting the deckle in the darkness, and feeling\nwith my fingers in the pan to see 'twas full of powder.\n\nThe lull in the storm still lasted, and I heard the footsteps\nadvancing, though with uncertain slowness, and once after a heavy\nstumble I thought I caught a muttereth oath, as if someone had struck\nhis foot against a stone.\n\nThen I shouted out clear in the darkness a 'Who goes there?' that rang\nagain through the stone roofs. The footsteps stopped, but there was no\nanswer. 'Who goes there?' I repeated. 'Answer, or I fire.'\n\n'_Prosper the Bonaventure_,' came back out of the darkness, and I knew\nthat I was safe. 'The devil take thee for a hot-blooded young bantam to\nshoot thy best friend with powder and ball, that he was fool enough to\ngive thee'; and by this time I had guessed 'twas Master Ratsey, and\nrecognized his voice. 'I would have let thee hear soon enough that 'twas\nI, if I had known I was so near thy lair; but 'tis more than a man's life\nis worth to creep down moleholes in the dark, and on a night like this.\nAnd why I could not get out the gibberish about the _Bonaventure_ sooner,\nwas because I matched my shin to break a stone, and lost the wager and my\nbreath together. And when my wind returned 'tis very like that I was\ntrapped into an oath, which is sad enough for me, who am sexton, and so\nto say in small orders of the Church of England as by law established.'\n\nBy the time I had put down the gun and coaxed the candle again to light,\nRatsey stepped into the cave. He wore a sou'wester, and was dripping with\nwet, but seemed glad to see me and shook me by the hand. He was welcome\nenough to me also, for he banished the dreadful loneliness, and his\ncoming was a bit out of my old pleasant life that lay so far away, and\nseemed to bring me once more within reach of some that were dearest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\nA FUNERAL\n\nHow he lies in his rights of a man!\nDeath has done all death can--_Browning_\n\n\nWe stood for a moment holding one another's hands; then Ratsey spoke.\n'John, these two months have changed thee from boy to man. Thou wast a\nchild when I turned that morning as we went up Hoar Head with the\npack-horses, and looked back on thee and Elzevir below, and Maskew lying\non the ground. 'Twas a sorry business, and has broken up the finest gang\nthat ever ran a cargo, besides driving thee and Elzevir to hide in caves\nand dens of the earth. Thou shouldst have come with us that morn; not\nhave stayed behind. The work was too rough for boys: the skipper should\nhave piped the reefing-hands.'\n\nIt was true enough, or seemed to me true then, for I felt much cast down;\nbut only said, 'Nay, Master Ratsey, where Master Block stays, there I\nmust stay too, and where he goes I follow.'\n\nThen I sat down upon the bed in the corner, feeling my leg began to ache;\nand the storm, which had lulled for a few minutes, came up again all the\nfiercer with wilder gusts and showers of spray and rain driving into the\ncave from seaward. So I was scarce sat down when in came a roaring blast,\nfilling even our corner with cold, wet air, that quenched the weakling\ncandle flame.\n\n'God save us, what a night!' Ratsey cried.\n\n'God save poor souls at sea,' said I.\n\n'Amen to that,' says he, 'and would that every Amen I have said had come\nas truly from my heart. There will be sea enough on Moonfleet Beach this\nnight to lift a schooner to the top of it, and launch her down into the\nfields behind. I had as lief be in the Mohune vault as in this fearsome\nplace, and liefer too, if half the tales men tell are true of faces that\nmay meet one here. For God's sake let us light a fire, for I caught sight\nof a store of driftwood before that sickly candle went out.'\n\nIt was some time before we got a fire alight, and even after the flame\nhad caught well hold, the rush of the wind would every now and again blow\nthe smoke into our eyes, or send a shower of sparks dancing through the\ncave. But by degrees the logs began to glow clear white, and such a\ncheerful warmth came out, as was in itself a solace and remedy for man's\nafflictions.\n\n'Ah!' said Ratsey, 'I was shrammed with wet and cold, and half-dead with\nthis baffling wind. It is a blessed thing a fire,' and he unbuttoned his\npilot-coat, 'and needful now, if ever. My soul is very low, lad, for\nthis place has strange memories for me; and I recollect, forty years ago\n(when I was just a boy like thee), old lander Jordan's gang, and I among\nthem, were in this very cave on such another night. I was new to the\ntrade then, as thou might be, and could not sleep for noise of wind and\nsea. And in the small hours of an autumn morning, as I lay here, just\nwhere we lie now, I heard such wailing cries above the storm, ay, and\nsuch shrieks of women, as made my blood run cold and have not yet forgot\nthem. And so I woke the gang who were all deep asleep as seasoned\ncontrabandiers should be; but though we knew that there were\nfellow-creatures fighting for their lives in the seething flood beneath\nus, we could not stir hand or foot to save them, for nothing could be\nseen for rain and spray, and 'twas not till next morning that we learned\nthe _Florida_ had foundered just below with every soul on board. Ay,\n'tis a queer life, and you and Block are in a queer strait now, and that\nis what I came to tell you. See here.' And he took out of his pocket an\noblong strip of printed paper:\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nG.R.\n\nWHITEHALL, 15 May 1758\n\nWhereas it hath been humbly represented to the King that on Friday, the\nnight of the 16th of April last, THOMAS MASKEW, a Justice of the Peace,\nwas most inhumanly murdered at Hoar Head, a lone place in the Parish of\nChaldron, in the County of Dorset, by one ELZEVIR BLOCK and one JOHN\nTRENCHARD, both of the Parish of Moonfleet, in the aforesaid County: His\nMajesty, for the better discovering and bringing to Justice these\nPersons, is pleased to promise His Most Gracious PARDON to any of the\nPersons concerned therein, except the Persons who actually committed the\nsaid Murder; and, as a further Encouragement, a REWARD OF FIFTY POUNDS to\nany Person who shall furnish such INFORMATION as shall lead to the\nAPPREHENSION of the said ELZEVIR BLOCK, and a REWARD of TWENTY POUNDS to\nany Person who shall furnish such INFORMATION as shall lead to the\nAPPREHENSION of the said JOHN TRENCHARD. Such INFORMATION to be given to\nME, or to the GOVERNOUR of His MAJESTY'S GAOL in Dorchester.\n\nHOLDERNESSE.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n'There--that's the bill,' he said; 'and a vastly fine piece it is, and\nyet I wish that 'twas played with other actors. Now, in Moonfleet there\nis none that know your hiding-place, and not a man, nor woman either,\nthat would tell if they knew it ten times over. But fifty pounds for\nElzevir, and twenty pounds for an empty pumpkin-top like thine, is a fair\nround sum, and there are vagabonds about this countryside scurvy enough\nto try to earn it. And some of these have set the Excisemen on _my_\ntrack, with tales of how it is I that know where you lie hid, and bring\nyou meat and drink. So it is that I cannot stir abroad now, no, not even\nto the church o' Sundays, without having some rogue lurking at my heels\nto watch my movements. And that is why I chose such a night to come\nhither, knowing these knaves like dry skins, but never thinking that the\nwind would blow like this. I am come to tell Block that 'tis not safe for\nme to be so much in Purbeck, and that I dare no longer bring food or what\nnot, or these man-hounds will scent you out. Your leg is sound again, and\n'tis best to be flitting while you may, and there's the _Éperon d'Or,_\nand Chauvelais to give you welcome on the other side.'\n\nI told him how Elzevir was gone this very night to Poole to settle with\nthe _Bonaventure_, when she should come to take us off; and at that\nRatsey seemed pleased. There were many things I wished to learn of him,\nand especially how Grace did, but felt a shyness, and durst not ask him.\nAnd he said no more for a minute, seeming low-hearted and crouching over\nthe fire. So we sat huddled in the corner by the glowing logs, the red\nlight flickering on the cave roof, and showing the lines on Ratsey's\nface; while the steam rose from his drying clothes. The gale blew as\nfiercely as ever, but the tide had fallen, and there was not so much\nspray coming into the cave. Then Ratsey spoke again--\n\n'My heart is very heavy, John, tonight, to think how all the good old\ntimes are gone, and how that Master Block can never again go back to\nMoonfleet. It was as fine a lander's crew as ever stood together, not\neven excepting Captain Jordan's, and now must all be broken up; for this\nmess of Maskew's has made the place too hot to hold us, and 'twill be\nmany a long day before another cargo's run on Moonfleet Beach. But how to\nget the liquor out of Mohune's vault I know not; and that reminds me, I\nhave something in my pouches for Elzevir an' thee'; and with that he drew\nforth either lapel a great wicker-bound flask. He put one to his lips,\ntilting it and drinking long and deep, and then passed it to me, with a\nsigh of satisfaction. 'Ah, that has the right smack. Here, take it,\nchild, and warm thy heart; 'tis the true milk of Ararat, and the last\nthou'lt taste this side the Channel.'\n\nThen I drank too, but lightly, for the good liquor was no stranger to me,\nthough it was only so few months ago that I had tasted it for the first\ntime in the Why Not? and in a minute it tingled in my fingertips. Soon a\ngrateful sense of warmth and comfort stole over me, and our state seemed\nnot so desperate, nor even the night so wild. Ratsey, too, wore a more\ncheerful air, and the lines in his face were not so deeply marked; the\ngolden, sparkling influence of the flask had loosed his tongue, and he\nwas talking now of what I most wanted to hear.\n\n'Yes, yes, it is a sad break-up, and what will happen to the old Why Not?\nI cannot tell. None have passed the threshold since you left, only the\nDuchy men came and sealed the doors, making it felony to force them. And\neven these lawyer chaps know not where the right stands, for Maskew never\npaid a rent and died before he took possession; and Master Block's term\nis long expired, and now he is in hiding and an outlaw.\n\n'But I am sorriest for Maskew's girl, who grows thin and pale as any\nlily. For when the soldiers brought the body back, the men stood at their\ndoors and cursed the clay, and some of the fishwives spat at it; and old\nMother Veitch, who kept house for him, swore he had never paid her a\npenny of wages, and that she was afear'd to stop under the same roof with\nsuch an evil corpse. So out she goes from the Manor House, leaving that\npoor child alone in it with her dead father; and there were not wanting\nsome to say it was all a judgement; and called to mind how Elzevir had\nbeen once left alone with his dead son at the Why Not? But in the village\nthere was not a man that doubted that 'twas Block had sent Maskew to his\naccount, nor did I doubt it either, till a tale got abroad that he was\nkilled by a stray shot fired by the Posse from the cliff. And when they\ntook the hue-and-cry papers to the Manor House for his lass, as next of\nkin, to sign the requisition, she would not set her name to it, saying\nthat Block had never lifted his hand against her father when they met at\nMoonfleet or on the road, and that she never would believe he was the man\nto let his anger sleep so long and then attack an enemy in cold blood.\nAnd as for thee, she knew thee for a trusty lad, who would not do such\nthings himself, nor yet stand by whilst others did them.'\n\nNow what Ratsey said was sweeter than any music in my ears, and I felt\nmyself a better man, as anyone must of whom a true woman speaks well, and\nthat I must live uprightly to deserve such praise. Then I resolved that\ncome what might I would make my way once more to Moonfleet, before we\nfled from England, and see Grace; so that I might tell her all that\nhappened about her father's death, saving only that Elzevir had meant\nhimself to put Maskew away; for it was no use to tell her this when she\nhad said that he could never think to do such a thing, and besides, for\nall I knew, he never did mean to shoot, but only to frighten him. Though\nI thus resolved, I said nothing of it to Master Ratsey, but only nodded,\nand he went on--\n\n'Well, seeing there was no one save this poor girl to look to putting\nMaskew under ground, I must needs take it in hand myself; roughing\ntogether a sound coffin and digging as fair a grave for him as could be\nmade for any lord, except that lords have always vaults to sleep in. Then\nI got Mother Nutting's fish-cart to carry the body down, for there was\nnot a man in Moonfleet would lay hand to the coffin to bear it; and off\nwe started down the street, I leading the wall-eyed pony, and the coffin\nfollowing on the trolley. There was no mourner to see him home except his\ndaughter, and she without a bit of black upon her, for she had no time to\nget her crapes; and yet she needed none, having grief writ plain enough\nupon her face.\n\n'When we got to the churchyard, a crowd was gathered there, men and women\nand children, not only from Moonfleet but from Ringstave and Monkbury.\nThey were not come to mourn, but to make gibes to show how much they\nhated him, and many of the children had old pots and pans for rough\nmusic. Parson Glennie was waiting in the church, and there he waited, for\nthe cart could not pass the gate, and we had no bearers to lift the\ncoffin. Then I looked round to see if there was any that would help to\nlift, but when I tried to meet a man's eye he looked away, and all I\ncould see was the bitter scowling faces of the women. And all the while\nthe girl stood by the trolley looking on the ground. She had a little\nkerchief over her head that let the hair fall about her shoulders, and\nher face was very white, with eyes red and swollen through weeping. But\nwhen she knew that all that crowd was there to mock her father, and that\nthere was not a man would raise hand to lift him, she laid her head upon\nthe coffin, hiding her face in her hands, and sobbed bitterly.'\n\nRatsey stopped for a moment and drank again deep at the flask; and as for\nme, I still said nothing, feeling a great lump in my throat; and\nreflecting how hatred and passion have power to turn men to brutes.\n\n'I am a rough man,' Ratsey resumed, 'but tender-like withal, and when I\nsaw her weep, I ran off to the church to tell the parson how it was, and\nbeg him to come out and try if we two could lift the coffin. So out he\ncame just as he was, with surplice on his back and book in hand. But when\nthe men knew what he was come for, and looked upon that tall, fair girl\nbowed down over her father's coffin, their hearts were moved, and first\nTom Tewkesbury stepped out with a sheepish air, and then Garrett, and\nthen four others. So now we had six fine bearers, and 'twas only women\nthat could still look hard and scowling, and even they said no word, and\nnot a boy beat on his pan.\n\n'Then Mr. Glennie, seeing he was not wanted for bearer, changed to\nparson, and strikes up with \"I am the resurrection and the life\". 'Tis a\ngreat text, John, and though I've heard it scores and scores of times, it\nnever sounded sweeter than on that day. For 'twas a fine afternoon, and\nwhat with there being no wind, but the sun bright and the sea still and\nblue, there was a calm on everything that seemed to say \"Rest in Peace,\nRest in Peace\". And was not the spring with us, and the whole land\npreaching of resurrection, the birds singing, trees and flowers waking\nfrom their winter sleep, and cowslips yellow on the very graves? Then\nsurely 'tis a fond thing to push our enmities beyond the grave, and\nperhaps even _he_ was not so bad as we held him, but might have tricked\nhimself into thinking he did right to hunt down the contraband. I know\nnot how it was, but something like this came into my mind, and did\nperhaps to others, for we got him under without a sign or word from any\nthat stood there. There was not one sound heard inside the church or out,\nexcept Mr. Glennie's reading and my amens, and now and then a sob from\nthe poor child. But when 'twas all over, and the coffin safe lowered, up\nshe walks to Tom Tewkesbury saying, through her tears, \"I thank you, sir,\nfor your kindness,\" and holds out her hand. So he took it, looking askew,\nand afterwards the five other bearers; and then she walked away by\nherself, and no one moved till she had left the churchyard gate, letting\nher pass out like a queen.'\n\n'And so she is a queen,' I said, not being able to keep from speaking,\nfor very pride to hear how she had borne herself, and because she had\nalways shown kindness to me. 'So she is, and fairer than any queen to boot.'\n\nRatsey gave me a questioning look, and I could see a little smile upon\nhis face in the firelight. 'Ay, she is fair enough,' said he, as though\nreflecting to himself, 'but white and thin. Mayhap she would make a match\nfor thee--if ye were man and woman, and not boy and girl; if she were not\nrich, and thou not poor and an outlaw; and--if she would have thee.'\n\nIt vexed me to hear his banter, and to think how I had let my secret out,\nso I did not answer, and we sat by the embers for a while without\nspeaking, while the wind still blew through the cave like a funnel.\n\nRatsey spoke first. 'John, pass me the flask; I can hear voices mounting\nthe cliff of those poor souls of the _Florida_.'\n\nWith that he took another heavy pull, and flung a log on the fire, till\nsparks flew about as in a smithy, and the flame that had slumbered woke\nagain and leapt out white, blue, and green from the salt wood. Now, as\nthe light danced and flickered I saw a piece of parchment lying at\nRatsey's feet: and this was none other than the writing out of\nBlackbeard's locket, which I had been reading when I first heard\nfootsteps in the passage, and had dropped in my alarm of hostile\nvisitors. Ratsey saw it too, and stretched out his hand to pick it up. I\nwould have concealed it if I could, because I had never told him how I\nhad rifled Blackbeard's coffin, and did not want to be questioned as to\nhow I had come by the writing. But to try to stop him getting hold of it\nwould only have spurred his curiosity, and so I said nothing when he took\nit in his hands.\n\n'What is this, son?' asked he.\n\n'It is only Scripture verses,' I answered, 'which I got some time ago.\n'Tis said they are a spell against Spirits of Evil, and I was reading\nthem to keep off the loneliness of this place, when you came in and made\nme drop them.'\n\nI was afraid lest he should ask whence I had got them, but he did not,\nthinking perhaps that my aunt had given them to me. The heat of the\nflames had curled the parchment a little, and he spread it out on his\nknee, conning it in the firelight.\n\n''Tis well written,' he said, 'and good verses enough, but he who put\nthem together for a spell knew little how to keep off evil spirits, for\nthis would not keep a flea from a black cat. I could do ten times better\nmyself, being not without some little understanding of such things,' and\nhe nodded seriously; 'and though I never yet met any from the other\nworld, they would not take me unprepared if they should come. For I have\nspent half my life in graveyard or church, and 'twould be as foolish to\nmove about such places and have no words to meet an evil visitor withal,\nas to bear money on a lonely road without a pistol. So one day, after\nParson Glennie had preached from Habakkuk, how that \"the vision is for an\nappointed time, but at the end it shall speak and not lie: though it\ntarry, wait for it, because it will surely come, it will not tarry\", I\ntalked with him on these matters, and got from him three or four rousing\ntexts such as spectres fear more than a burned child does the fire. I\nwill learn them all to thee some day, but for the moment take this Latin\nwhich I got by heart: \"_Abite a me in ignem etenum qui paratus est\ndiabolo at angelis ejus.\"_ Englished it means: \"Depart from me into\neternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels,\" but hath at least\ndouble that power in Latin. So get that after me by heart, and use it\nfreely if thou art led to think that there are evil presences near, and\nin such lonely places as this cave.' I humoured him by doing as he\ndesired; and that the rather because I hoped his thoughts would thus be\nturned away from the writing; but as soon as I had the spell by rote he\nturned back to the parchment, saying, 'He was but a poor divine who wrote\nthis, for beside choosing ill-fitting verses, he cannot even give right\nnumbers to them. For see here, \"The days of our age are three-score years\nand ten; and though men be so strong that they come to four-score years,\nyet is their strength then but labour and sorrow, so soon passeth it away\nand we are gone\", and he writes Psalm 90,21. Now I have said that Psalm\nwith parson verse and verse about for every sleeper we have laid to rest\nin churchyard mould for thirty years; and know it hath not twenty verses\nin it, all told, and this same verse is the clerk's verse and cometh\ntenth, and yet he calls it twenty-first. I wish I had here a Common\nPrayer, and I would prove my words.'\n\nHe stopped and flung me back the parchment scornfully; but I folded it\nand slipped it in my pocket, brooding all the while over a strange\nthought that his last words had brought to me. Nor did I tell him that I\nhad by me my aunt's prayer-book, wishing to examine for myself more\nclosely whether he was right, after he should have gone.\n\n'I must be away,' he said at last, 'though loath to leave this good fire\nand liquor. I would fain wait till Elzevir was back, and fainer till this\ngale was spent, but it may not be; the nights are short, and I must be\nout of Purbeck before sunrise. So tell Block what I say, that he and thou\nmust flit; and pass the flask, for I have fifteen miles to walk against\nthe wind, and must keep off these midnight chills.'\n\nHe drank again, and then rose to his feet, shaking himself like a dog;\nand walking briskly across the cave twice or thrice to make sure, as I\nthought, that the Ararat milk had not confused his steps. Then he shook\nmy hand warmly, and disappeared in the deep shadow of the passage-mouth.\n\nThe wind was blowing more fitfully than before, and there was some sign\nof a lull between the gusts. I stood at the opening of the passage, and\nlistened till the echo of Ratsey's footsteps died away, and then\nreturning to the corner, flung more wood on the fire, and lit the candle.\nAfter that I took out again the parchment, and also my aunt's red\nprayer-book, and sat down to study them. First I looked out in the book\nthat text about the 'days of our life', and found that it was indeed in\nthe ninetieth Psalm, but the tenth verse, just as Ratsey said, and not\nthe twenty-first as it was writ on the parchment. And then I took the\nsecond text, and here again the Psalm was given correct, but the verse\nwas two, and not six, as my scribe had it. It was just the same with the\nother three--the number of the Psalm was right but the verse wrong. So\nhere was a discovery, for all was painfully written smooth and clean\nwithout a blot, and yet in every verse an error. But if the second number\ndid not stand for the verse, what else should it mean? I had scarce\nformed the question to myself before I had the answer, and knew that it\nmust be the number of the word chosen in each text to make a secret\nmeaning. I was in as great a fever and excitement now as when I found the\nlocket in the Mohune vault, and could scarce count with trembling fingers\nas far as twenty-one, in the first verse, for hurry and amaze. It was\n'fourscore' that the number fell on in the first text, 'feet' in the\nsecond, 'deep' in the third, 'well' in the fourth, 'north' in the fifth.\n\nFourscore--feet--deep--well--north.\n\nThere was the cipher read, and what an easy trick! and yet I had not\nlighted on it all this while, nor ever should have, but for Sexton Ratsey\nand his burial verse. It was a cunning plan of Blackbeard; but other folk\nwere quite as cunning as he, and here was all his treasure at our feet. I\nchuckled over that to myself, rubbing my hands, and read it through\nagain:\n\nFourscore--feet--deep--well--north.\n\n'Twas all so simple, and the word in the fourth verse 'well' and not\n'vale' or 'pool' as I had stuck at so often in trying to unriddle it. How\nwas it I had not guessed as much before? and here was something to tell\nElzevir when he came back, that the clue was found to the cipher, and the\nsecret out. I would not reveal it all at once, but tease him by making\nhim guess, and at last tell him everything, and we would set to work at\nonce to make ourselves rich men. And then I thought once more of Grace,\nand how the laugh would be on my side now, for all Master Ratsey's banter\nabout her being rich and me being poor!\n\nFourscore--feet--deep--well--north.\n\nI read it again, and somehow it was this time a little less clear, and I\nfell to thinking what it was exactly that I should tell Elzevir, and how\nwe were to get to work to find the treasure. 'Twas hid in a _well_--that\nwas plain enough, but in what well?--and what did 'north' mean? Was it\nthe _north well,_ or to _north of the well_--or, was it fourscore feet\n_north_ of the _deep well_? I stared at the verses as if the ink would\nchange colour and show some other sense, and then a veil seemed drawn\nacross the writing, and the meaning to slip away, and be as far as ever\nfrom my grasp. _Fourscore--feet--deep--well--north_: and by degrees\nexulting gladness gave way to bewilderment and disquiet of spirit, and\nin the gusts of wind I heard Blackbeard himself laughing and mocking me\nfor thinking I had found his treasure. Still I read and re-read it,\njuggling with the words and turning them about to squeeze new meaning\nfrom them.\n\n'Fourscore feet deep _in the north well_,'--'fourscore feet deep in the\nwell _to north_'--'fourscore feet _north of the deep well_,'--so the\nwords went round and round in my head, till I was tired and giddy, and\nfell unawares asleep.\n\nIt was daylight when I awoke, and the wind had fallen, though I could\nstill hear the thunder of the swell against the rock-face down below. The\nfire was yet burning, and by it sat Elzevir, cooking something in the\npot. He looked fresh and keen, like a man risen from a long night's\nsleep, rather than one who had spent the hours of darkness in struggling\nagainst a gale, and must afterwards remain watching because, forsooth,\nthe sentinel sleeps.\n\nHe spoke as soon as he saw that I was awake, laughing and saying: 'How\ngoes the night, Watchman? This is the second time that I have caught thee\nnapping, and didst sleep so sound it might have taken a cold pistol's\nlips against thy forehead to awake thee.'\n\nI was too full of my story even to beg his pardon, but began at once to\ntell him what had happened; and how, by following the hint that Ratsey\ndropped, I had made out, as I thought, a secret meaning in these verses.\nElzevir heard me patiently, and with more show of interest towards the\nend; and then took the parchment in his hands, reading it carefully, and\nchecking the errors of numbering by the help of the red prayer-book.\n\n'I believe thou art right,' he said at length; 'for why should the\nfigures all be false if there is no hidden trickery in it? If't had been\none or two were wrong, I would have said some priest had copied them in\nerror; for priests are thriftless folk, and had as lief set a thing down\nwrong as right; but with all wrong there is no room for chance. So if he\nmeans it, let us see what 'tis he means. First he says 'tis in a well.\nBut what well? and the depth he gives of fourscore feet is over-deep for\nany well near Moonfleet.'\n\nI was for saying it must be the well at the Manor House, but before the\nwords left my mouth, remembered there was no well at the manor at all,\nfor the house was watered by a runnel brook that broke out from the woods\nabove, and jumping down from stone to stone ran through the manor\ngardens, and emptied itself into the Fleet below.\n\n'And now I come to think on it,' Elzevir went on, ''tis more likely that\nthe well he speaks of was not in these parts at all. For see here, this\nBlackbeard was a spendthrift, squandering all he had, and would most\nsurely have squandered the jewel too, could he have laid his hands on it.\nAnd yet 'tis said he did not, therefore I think he must have stowed it\nsafe in some place where afterwards he could not get at it. For if't had\nbeen near Moonfleet, he would have had it up a hundred times. But thou\nhast often talked of Blackbeard and his end with Parson Glennie; so speak\nup, lad, and let us hear all that thou know'st of these tales. Maybe\n'twill help us to come to some judgement.'\n\nSo I told him all that Mr. Glennie had told me, how that Colonel John\nMohune, whom men called Blackbeard, was a wastrel from his youth, and\nsquandered all his substance in riotous living. Thus being at his last\nturn, he changed from royalist to rebel, and was set to guard the king in\nthe castle of Carisbrooke. But there he stooped to a bribe, and took from\nhis royal prisoner a splendid diamond of the crown to let him go; then,\nwith the jewel in his pocket, turned traitor again, and showed a file of\nsoldiers into the room where the king was stuck between the window bars,\nescaping. But no one trusted Blackbeard after that, and so he lost his\npost, and came back in his age, a broken man, to Moonfleet. There he\nrusted out his life, but when he neared his end was filled with fear, and\nsent for a clergyman to give him consolation. And 'twas at the parson's\ninstance that he made a will, and bequeathed the diamond, which was the\nonly thing he had left, to the Mohune almshouses at Moonfleet. These were\nthe very houses that he had robbed and let go to ruin, and they never\nbenefited by his testament, for when it was opened there was the bequest\nplain enough, but not a word to say where was the jewel. Some said that\nit was all a mockery, and that Blackbeard never had the jewel; others\nthat the jewel was in his hand when he died, but carried off by some that\nstood by. But most thought, and handed down the tale, that being taken\nsuddenly, he died before he could reveal the safe place of the jewel; and\nthat in his last throes he struggled hard to speak as if he had some\nsecret to unburden.\n\nAll this I told Elzevir, and he listened close as though some of it was\nnew to him. When I was speaking of Blackbeard being at Carisbrooke, he\nmade a little quick move as though to speak, but did not, waiting till I\nhad finished the tale. Then he broke out with: 'John, the diamond is yet\nat Carisbrooke. I wonder I had not thought of Carisbrooke before you\nspoke; and there he can get fourscore feet, and twice and thrice\nfourscore, if he list, and none to stop him. 'Tis Carisbrooke. I have\nheard of that well from childhood, and once saw it when a boy. It is dug\nin the Castle Keep, and goes down fifty fathoms or more into the bowels\nof the chalk below. It is so deep no man can draw the buckets on a winch,\nbut they must have an ass inside a tread-wheel to hoist them up. Now,\nwhy this Colonel John Mohune, whom we call Blackbeard, should have chosen\na well at all to hide his jewel in, I cannot say; but given he chose a\nwell, 'twas odds he would choose Carisbrooke. 'Tis a known place, and I\nhave heard that people come as far as from London to see the castle and\nthis well.'\n\nHe spoke quick and with more fire than I had known him use before, and I\nfelt he was right. It seemed indeed natural enough that if Blackbeard was\nto hide the diamond in a well, it would be in the well of that very\ncastle where he had earned it so evilly.\n\n'When he says the \"well north\",' continued Elzevir, ''tis clear he means\nto take a compass and mark north by needle, and at eighty feet in the\nwell-side below that point will lie the treasure. I fixed yesterday with\nthe _Bonaventure's_ men that they should lie underneath this ledge\ntomorrow sennight, if the sea be smooth, and take us off on the\nspring-tide. At midnight is their hour, and I said eight days on, to give\nthy leg a week wherewith to strengthen. I thought to make for St. Malo,\nand leave thee at the _Éperon d'Or_ with old Chauvelais, where thou\ncouldst learn to patter French until these evil times have blown by. But\nnow, if thou art set to hunt this treasure up, and hast a mind to run thy\nhead into a noose; why, I am not so old but that I too can play the fool,\nand we will let St. Malo be, and make for Carisbrooke. I know the castle;\nit is not two miles distant from Newport, and at Newport we can lie at\nthe Bugle, which is an inn addicted to the contraband. The king's writ\nruns but lamely in the Channel Isles and Wight, and if we wear some other\nkit than this, maybe we shall find Newport as safe as St. Malo.'\n\nThis was just what I wanted, and so we settled there and then that we\nwould get the _Bonaventure_ to land us in the Isle of Wight instead of at\nSt. Malo. Since man first walked upon this earth, a tale of buried\ntreasure must have had a master-power to stir his blood, and mine was\nhotly stirred. Even Elzevir, though he did not show it, was moved, I\nthought, at heart; and we chafed in our cave prison, and those eight days\nwent wearily enough. Yet 'twas not time lost, for every day my leg grew\nstronger; and like a wolf which I saw once in a cage at Dorchester Fair,\nI spent hours in marching round the cave to kill the time and put more\nvigour in my steps. Ratsey did not visit us again, but in spite of what\nhe said, met Elzevir more than once, and got money for him from\nDorchester and many other things he needed. It was after meeting Ratsey\nthat Elzevir came back one night, bringing a long whip in one hand, and\nin the other a bundle which held clothes to mask us in the next scene.\nThere was a carter's smock for him, white and quilted over with\nneedlework, such as carters wear on the Down farms, and for me a smaller\none, and hats and leather leggings all to match. We tried them on, and\nwere for all the world carter and carter's boy; and I laughed long to see\nElzevir stand there and practise how to crack his whip and cry 'Who-ho'\nas carters do to horses. And for all he was so grave, there was a smile\non his face too, and he showed me how to twist a wisp of straw out of the\nbed to bind above my ankles at the bottom of the leggings. He had cut off\nhis beard, and yet lost nothing of his looks; for his jaw and deep chin\nshowed firm and powerful. And as for me, we made a broth of young walnut\nleaves and twigs, and tanned my hands and face with it a ruddy brown, so\nthat I looked a different lad.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\nAN INTERVIEW\n\nNo human creature stirred to go or come,\n  No face looked forth from shut or open casement,\nNo chimney smoked, there was no sign of home\n  From parapet to basement--_Hood_\n\n\nAnd so the days went on, until there came to be but two nights more\nbefore we were to leave our cave. Now I have said that the delay chafed\nus, because we were impatient to get at the treasure; but there was\nsomething else that vexed me and made me more unquiet with every day that\npassed. And this was that I had resolved to see Grace before I left these\nparts, and yet knew not how to tell it to Elzevir. But on this evening,\nseeing the time was grown so short, I knew that I must speak or drop my\npurpose, and so spoke.\n\nWe were sitting like the sea-birds on the ledge outside our cave, looking\ntowards St. Alban's Head and watching the last glow of sunset. The\nevening vapours began to sweep down Channel, and Elzevir shrugged his\nshoulders. 'The night turns chill,' he said, and got up to go back to the\ncave. So then I thought my time was come, and following him inside said:\n\n'Dear Master Elzevir, you have watched over me all this while and tended\nme kinder than any father could his son; and 'tis to you I owe my life,\nand that my leg is strong again. Yet I am restless this night, and beg\nthat you will give me leave to climb the shaft and walk abroad. It is two\nmonths and more that I have been in the cave and seen nothing but stone\nwalls, and I would gladly tread once more upon the Down.'\n\n'Say not that I have saved thy life,' Elzevir broke in; ''twas I who\nbrought thy life in danger; and but for me thou mightst even now be\nlying snug abed at Moonfleet, instead of hiding in the chambers of these\nrocks. So speak not of that, but if thou hast a mind to air thyself an\nhour, I see little harm in it. These wayward fancies fall on men as they\nget better of sickness; and I must go tonight to that ruined house of\nwhich I spoke to thee, to fetch a pocket compass Master Ratsey was to put\nthere. So thou canst come with me and smell the night air on the Down.'\n\nHe had agreed more readily than I looked for, and so I pushed the\nmatter, saying:\n\n'Nay, master, grant me leave to go yet a little farther afield. You know\nthat I was born in Moonfleet, and have been bred there all my life, and\nlove the trees and stream and very stones of it. And I have set my heart\non seeing it once more before we leave these parts for good and all. So\ngive me leave to walk along the Down and look on Moonfleet but this once,\nand in this ploughboy guise I shall be safe enough, and will come back to\nyou tomorrow night'\n\nHe looked at me a moment without speaking; and all the while I felt he\nsaw me through and through, and yet he was not angry. But I turned red,\nand cast my eyes upon the ground, and then he spoke:\n\n'Lad, I have known men risk their lives for many things: for gold, and\nlove, and hate; but never one would play with death that he might see a\ntree or stream or stones. And when men say they love a place or town,\nthou mayst be sure 'tis not the place they love but some that live there;\nor that they loved some in the past, and so would see the spot again to\nkindle memory withal. Thus when thou speakest of Moonfleet, I may guess\nthat thou hast someone there to see--or hope to see. It cannot be thine\naunt, for there is no love lost between ye; and besides, no man ever\nperilled his life to bid adieu to an aunt. So have no secrets from me,\nJohn, but tell me straight, and I will judge whether this second\ntreasure that thou seekest is true gold enough to fling thy life into the\nscale against it.'\n\nThen I told him all, keeping nothing back, but trying to make him see\nthat there was little danger in my visiting Moonfleet, for none would\nknow me in a carter's dress, and that my knowledge of the place would let\nme use a hedge or wall or wood for cover; and finally, if I were seen, my\nleg was now sound, and there were few could beat me in a running match\nupon the Down. So I talked on, not so much in the hope of convincing him\nas to keep saying something; for I durst not look up, and feared to hear\nan angry word from him when I should stop. But at last I had spoken all I\ncould, and ceased because I had no more. Yet he did not break out as I\nhad thought, but there was silence; and after a moment I looked up, and\nsaw by his face that his thoughts were wandering. When he spoke there was\nno anger in his voice, but only something sad.\n\n'Thou art a foolish lad,' he said. 'Yet I was young once myself, and my\nways have been too dark to make me wish to darken others, or try to chill\nyoung blood. Now thine own life has got a shadow on't already that I have\nhelped to cast, so take the brightness of it while thou mayst, and get\nthee gone. But for this girl, I know her for a comely lass and\ngood-hearted, and have wondered often how she came to have _him_ for her\nfather. I am glad now I have not his blood on my hands; and never would\nhave gone to take it then, for all the evil he had brought on me, but\nthat the lives of every mother's son hung on his life. So make thy mind\nat ease, and get thee gone and see these streams and trees and stones\nthou talkest of. Yet if thou'rt shot upon the Down, or taken off to jail,\nblame thine own folly and not me. And I will walk with thee to Purbeck\nGates tonight, and then come back and wait. But if thou art not here\nagain by midnight tomorrow, I shall believe that thou art taken in some\nsnare, and come out to seek thee.'\n\nI took his hand, and thanked him with what words I could that he had let\nme go, and then got on the smock, putting some bread and meat in my\npockets, as I was likely to find little to eat on my journey. It was\ndark before we left the cave, for there is little dusk with us, and the\ndivision between day and night sharper than in more northern parts.\nElzevir took me by the hand and led me through the darkness of the\nworkings, telling me where I should stoop, and when the way was uneven.\nThus we came to the bottom of the shaft, and looking up through ferns\nand brambles, I could see the deep blue of the sky overhead, and a great\nstar gazing down full at us. We climbed the steps with the soap-stone\nslide at one side, and then walked on briskly over the springy turf\nthrough the hillocks of the covered quarry-heaps and the ruins of the\ndeserted cottages.\n\nThere was a heavy dew which got through my boots before we had gone half\na mile, and though there was no moon, the sky was very clear, and I could\nsee the veil of gossamers spread silvery white over the grass. Neither of\nus spoke, partly because it was safer not to speak, for the voice carries\nfar in a still night on the Downs; and partly, I think, because the\nbeauty of the starry heaven had taken hold upon us both, ruling our\nhearts with thoughts too big for words. We soon reached that ruined\ncottage of which Elzevir had spoken, and in what had once been an oven,\nfound the compass safe enough as Ratsey had promised. Then on again over\nthe solitary hills, not speaking ourselves, and neither seeing light in\nwindow nor hearing dog stir, until we reached that strange defile which\nmen call the Gates of Purbeck. Here is a natural road nicking the\nhighest summit of the hill, with walls as sharp as if the hand of man had\ncut them, through which have walked for ages all the few travellers in\nthis lonely place, shepherds and sailors, soldiers and Excisemen. And\nalthough, as I suppose, no carts have been through it for centuries,\nthere are ruts in the chalk floor as wide and deep as if the cars of\ngiants used it in past times.\n\nSo here Elzevir stopped, and drawing from his bosom that silver-butted\npistol of which I have spoken, thrust it in my hand. 'Here, take it,\nchild,' he said, 'but use it not till thou art closely pressed, and then\nif thou _must_ shoot, shoot low--it flings.' I took it and gripped his\nhand, and so we parted, he going back to Purbeck, and I making along the\ntop of the ridge at the back of Hoar Head. It must have been near three\nwhen I reached a great grass-grown mound called Culliford Tree, that\nmarks the resting-place of some old warrior of the past. The top is\nplanted with a clump of trees that cut the skyline, and there I sat\nawhile to rest. But not for long, for looking back towards Purbeck, I\ncould see the faint hint of dawn low on the sea-line behind St. Alban's\nHead, and so pressed forward knowing I had a full ten miles to cover yet.\n\nThus I travelled on, and soon came to the first sign of man, namely a\nflock of lambs being fed with turnips on a summer fallow. The sun was\nwell up now, and flushed all with a rosy glow, showing the sheep and the\nroots they eat white against the brown earth. Still I saw no shepherd,\nnor even dog, and about seven o'clock stood safe on Weatherbeech Hill\nthat looks down over Moonfleet.\n\nThere at my feet lay the Manor woods and the old house, and lower down\nthe white road and the straggling cottages, and farther still the Why\nNot? and the glassy Fleet, and beyond that the open sea. I cannot say\nhow sad, yet sweet, the sight was: it seemed like the mirage of the\ndesert, of which I had been told--so beautiful, but never to be reached\nagain by me. The air was still, and the blue smoke of the morning\nwood-fires rose straight up, but none from the Why Not? or Manor House.\nThe sun was already very hot, and I dropped at once from the hill-top,\ndigging my heels into the brown-burned turf, and keeping as much as might\nbe among the furze champs. So I was soon in the wood, and made straight\nfor the little dell and lay down there, burying myself in the wild\nrhubarb and burdocks, yet so that I could see the doorway of the Manor\nHouse over the lip of the hill.\n\nThen I reflected what I was to do, or how I should get to speak with\nGrace: and thought I would first wait an hour or two, and see whether she\ncame out, and afterwards, if she did not, would go down boldly and knock\nat the door. This seemed not very dangerous, for it was likely, from what\nRatsey had said, that there was no one with her in the house, and if\nthere was it would be but an old woman, to whom I could pass as a\nstranger in my disguise, and ask my way to some house in the village. So\nI lay still and munched a piece of bread, and heard the clock in the\nchurch tower strike eight and afterwards nine, but saw no one move in the\nhouse. The wood was all alive with singing-birds, and with the calling of\ncuckoo and wood-pigeon. There were deep patches of green shade and\nlighter patches of yellow sunlight, in which the iris leaves gleamed with\na sheeny white, and a shimmering blue sea of ground-ivy spread all\nthrough the wood. It struck ten, and as the heat increased the birds sang\nless and the droning of the bees grew more distinct, and at last I got\nup, shook myself, smoothed my smock, and making a turn, came out on the\nroad that led to the house.\n\nThough my disguise was good, I fear I made but an indifferent bad\nploughboy when walking, and found a difficulty in dealing with my hands,\nnot knowing how ploughboys are wont to carry them. So I came round in\nfront of the house, and gave a rat-tat on the door, while my pulse beat\nas loud inside of me as ever did the knocker without. The sound ran round\nthe building, and backwards among the walks, and all was silent as\nbefore. I waited a minute, and was for knocking again, thinking there\nmight be no one in the house, and then heard a light footstep coming\nalong the corridor, yet durst not look through the window to see who it\nwas in passing, as I might have done, but kept myself close to the door.\n\nThe bolts were being drawn, and a girl's voice asked, 'Who is there?' I\ngave a jump to hear that voice, knowing it well for Grace's, and had a\nmind to shout out my name. But then I remembered there might be some in\nthe house with her besides, and that I must remain disguised. Moreover,\nlaughing is so mixed with crying in our world, and trifling things with\nserious, that even in this pass I believe I was secretly pleased to have\nto play a trick on her, and test whether she would find me out in this\ndress or not. So I spoke out in our round Dorset speech, such as they\ntalk it out in the vale, saying, 'A poor boy who is out of his way.'\n\nThen she opened one leaf of the door, and asked me whither I would go,\nlooking at me as one might at a stranger and not knowing who it was.\n\nI answered that I was a farm lad who had walked from Purbeck, and sought\nan inn called the Why Not? kept by one Master Block. When she heard that,\nshe gave a little start, and looked me over again, yet could make nothing\nof it, but said:\n\n'Good lad, if you will step on to this terrace I can show you the Why\nNot? inn, but 'tis shut these two months or more, and Master Block away.'\n\nWith that she turned towards the terrace, I following, but when we\nwere outside of ear-shot from the door, I spoke in my own voice,\nquick but low:\n\n'Grace, it is I, John Trenchard, who am come to say goodbye before I\nleave these parts, and have much to tell that you would wish to hear. Are\nthere any beside in the house with you?'\n\nNow many girls who had suffered as she had, and were thus surprised,\nwould have screamed, or perhaps swooned, but she did neither, only\nflushing a little and saying, also quick and low, 'Let us go back to the\nhouse; I am alone.'\n\nSo we went back, and after the door was bolted, took both hands and stood\nup face to face in the passage looking into one another's eyes. I was\ntired with a long walk and sleepless night, and so full of joy to see her\nagain that my head swam and all seemed a sweet dream. Then she squeezed\nmy hands, and I knew 'twas real, and was for kissing her for very love;\nbut she guessed what I would be at, perhaps, and cast my hands loose,\ndrawing back a little, as if to see me better, and saying, 'John, you\nhave grown a man in these two months.' So I did not kiss her.\n\nBut if it was true that I was grown a man, it was truer still that she\nwas grown a woman, and as tall as I. And these recent sufferings had\ntaken from her something of light and frolic girlhood, and left her with\na manner more staid and sober. She was dressed in black, with longer\nskirts, and her hair caught up behind; and perhaps it was the mourning\nfrock that made her look pale and thin, as Ratsey said. So while I looked\nat her, she looked at me, and could not choose but smile to see my\ncarter's smock; and as for my brown face and hands, thought I had been\nhiding in some country underneath the sun, until I told her of the\nwalnut-juice. Then before we fell to talking, she said it was better we\nshould sit in the garden, for that a woman might come in to help her with\nthe house, and anyway it was safer, so that I might get out at the back\nin case of need. So she led the way down the corridor and through the\nliving-part of the house, and we passed several rooms, and one little\nparlour lined with shelves and musty books. The blinds were pulled, but\nlet enough light in to show a high-backed horsehair chair that stood at\nthe table. In front of it lay an open volume, and a pair of horn-rimmed\nspectacles, that I had often seen on Maskew's nose; so I knew it was his\nstudy, and that nothing had been moved since last he sat there. Even now\nI trembled to think in whose house I was, and half-expected the old\nattorney to step in and hale me off to jail; till I remembered how all my\ntrouble had come about, and how I last had seen him with his face turned\nup against the morning sun.\n\nThus we came to the garden, where I had never been before. It was a great\nsquare, shut in with a brick wall of twelve or fifteen feet, big enough\nto suit a palace, but then ill kept and sorely overgrown. I could spend\nlong in speaking of that plot; how the flowers, and fruit-trees,\npot-herbs, spice, and simples ran all wild and intermixed. The pink brick\nwalls caught every ray of sun that fell, and that morning there was a\nhushed, close heat in it, and a warm breath rose from the strawberry\nbeds, for they were then in full bearing. I was glad enough to get out of\nthe sun when Grace led the way into a walk of medlar-trees and quinces,\nwhere the boughs interlaced and formed an alley to a brick summer-house.\nThis summer-house stands in the angle of the south wall, and by it two\nfig-trees, whose tops you can see from the outside. They are well known\nfor the biggest and the earliest bearing of all that part, and Grace\nshowed me how, if danger threatened, I might climb up their boughs and\nscale the wall.\n\nWe sat in the summer-house, and I told her all that had happened at her\nfather's death, only concealing that Elzevir had meant to do the deed\nhimself; because it was no use to tell her that, and besides, for all I\nknew, he never did mean to shoot, but only to frighten.\n\nShe wept again while I spoke, but afterwards dried her tears, and must\nneeds look at my leg to see the bullet-wound, and if it was all\nsoundly healed.\n\nThen I told her of the secret sense that Master Ratsey's words put into\nthe texts written on the parchment. I had showed her the locket before,\nbut we had it out again now; and she read and read again the writing,\nwhile I pointed out how the words fell, and told her I was going away to\nget the diamond and come back the richest man in all the countryside.\n\nThen she said, 'Ah, John! set not your heart too much upon this diamond.\nIf what they say is true, 'twas evilly come by, and will bring evil with\nit. Even this wicked man durst not spend it for himself, but meant to\ngive it to the poor; so, if indeed you ever find it, keep it not for\nyourself, but set his soul at rest by doing with it what he meant to do,\nor it will bring a curse upon you.'\n\nI only smiled at what she said, taking it to be a girlish fancy, and did\nnot tell her why I wanted so much to be rich--namely, to marry her one\nday. Then, having talked long about my own concerns as selfishly as a man\nalways does, I thought to ask after herself, and what she was going to\ndo. She told me that a month past lawyers had come to Moonfleet, and\npressed her to leave the place, and they would give her in charge to a\nlady in London, because, said they, her father had died without a will,\nand so she must be made a ward of Chancery. But she had begged them to\nlet her be, for she could never live anywhere else than in Moonfleet,\nand that the air and commodity of the place suited her well. So they went\noff, saying that they must take direction of the Court to know whether\nshe might stay here or not, and here she yet was. This made me sad, for\nall I knew of Chancery was that whatever it put hand on fell to ruin, as\nwitness the Chancery Mills at Cerne, or the Chancery Wharf at Wareham;\nand certainly it would take little enough to ruin the Manor House, for it\nwas three parts in decay already.\n\nThus we talked, and after that she put on a calico bonnet and picked me a\ndish of strawberries, staying to pull the finest, although the sun was\nbeating down from mid-heaven, and brought me bread and meat from the\nhouse. Then she rolled up a shawl to make me a pillow, and bade me lie\ndown on the seat that ran round the summer-house and get to sleep, for I\nhad told her that I had walked all night, and must be back again at the\ncave come midnight She went back to the house, and that was the most\nsweet and peaceful sleep that ever I knew, for I was very tired, and had\nthis thought to soothe me as I fell asleep--that I had seen Grace, and\nthat she was so kind to me.\n\nShe was sitting beside me when I awoke and knitting a piece of work. The\nheat of the day was somewhat less, and she told me that it was past five\no'clock by the sun-dial; so I knew that I must go. She made me take a\npacket of victuals and a bottle of milk, and as she put it into my\npocket the bottle struck on the butt of Maskew's pistol, which I had in\nmy bosom. 'What have you there?' she said; but I did not tell her,\nfearing to call up bitter memories.\n\nWe stood hand in hand again, as we had done in the morning, and she said:\n'John, you will wander on the sea, and may perhaps put into Moonfleet.\nThough you have not been here of late, I have kept a candle burning at\nthe window every night, as in the past. So, if you come to beach on any\nnight you will see that light, and know Grace remembers you. And if you\nsee it not, then know that I am dead or gone, for I will think of you\nevery night till you come back again.' I had nothing to say, for my heart\nwas too full with her sweet words and with the sorrow of parting, but\nonly drew her close to me and kissed her; and this time she did not step\nback, but kissed me again.\n\nThen I climbed up the fig-tree, thinking it safer so to get out over the\nwall than to go back to the front of the house, and as I sat on the wall\nready to drop the other side, turned to her and said good-bye.\n\n'Good-bye,' cried she; 'and have a care how you touch the treasure; it\nwas evilly come by, and will bring a curse with it.'\n\n'Good-bye, good-bye,' I said, and dropped on to the soft leafy bottom\nof the wood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\nTHE WELL-HOUSE\n\nFor those thou mayest not look upon\nAre gathering fast round the yawning stone--_Scott_\n\n\nIt wanted yet half an hour of midnight when I found myself at the shaft\nof the marble quarry, and before I had well set foot on the steps to\ndescend, heard Elzevir's voice challenging out of the darkness below. I\ngave back '_Prosper the Bonaventure',_ and so came home again to sleep\nthe last time in our cave.\n\nThe next night was well suited to flight. There was a spring-tide with\nfull moon, and a light breeze setting off the land which left the water\nsmooth under the cliff. We saw the _Bonaventure_ cruising in the Channel\nbefore sundown, and after the darkness fell she lay close in and took us\noff in her boat. There were several men on board of her that I knew, and\nthey greeted us kindly, and made much of us. I was indeed glad to be\namong them again, and yet felt a pang at leaving our dear Dorset coast,\nand the old cave that had been hospital and home to me for two months.\n\nThe wind set us up-Channel, and by daybreak they put us ashore at Cowes,\nso we walked to Newport and came there before many were stirring. Such as\nwe saw in the street paid no heed to us but took us doubtless for some\ncarter and his boy who had brought corn in from the country for the\nSouthampton packet, and were about early to lead the team home again.\n'Tis a little place enough this Newport, and we soon found the Bugle; but\nElzevir made so good a carter that the landlord did not know him, though\nhe had his acquaintance before. So they fenced a little with one another.\n\n'Have you bed and victuals for a plain country man and his boy?'\nsays Elzevir.\n\n'Nay, that I have not,' says the landlord, looking him up and down, and\nnot liking to take in strangers who might use their eyes inside, and\nperhaps get on the trail of the Contraband. ''Tis near the Summer\nStatute and the place over full already. I cannot move my gentlemen,\nand would bid you try the Wheatsheaf, which is a good house, and not so\nfull as this.'\n\n'Ay, 'tis a busy time, and 'tis these fairs that make things _prosper_,'\nand Elzevir marked the last word a little as he said it.\n\nThe man looked harder at him, and asked, 'Prosper what?' as if he were\nhard of hearing.\n\n'_Prosper the Bonaventure_,' was the answer, and then the landlord caught\nElzevir by the hand, shaking it hard and saying, 'Why, you are Master\nBlock, and I expecting you this morn, and never knew you.' He laughed as\nhe stared at us again, and Elzevir smiled too. Then the landlord led us\nin. 'And this is?' he said, looking at me.\n\n'This is a well-licked whelp,' replied Elzevir, 'who got a bullet in the\nleg two months ago in that touch under Hoar Head; and is worth more than\nhe looks, for they have put twenty golden guineas on his head--so have a\ncare of such a precious top-knot.'\n\nSo long as we stopped at the Bugle we had the best of lodging and the\nchoicest meat and drink, and all the while the landlord treated Elzevir\nas though he were a prince. And so he was indeed a prince among the\ncontrabandiers, and held, as I found out long afterwards, for captain of\nall landers between Start and Solent. At first the landlord would take no\nmoney of us, saying that he was in our debt, and had received many a good\nturn from Master Block in the past, but Elzevir had got gold from\nDorchester before we left the cave and forced him to take payment. I was\nglad enough to lie between clean sweet sheets at night instead of on a\nheap of sand, and sit once more knife and fork in hand before a\nwell-filled trencher. 'Twas thought best I should show myself as little\nas possible, so I was content to pass my time in a room at the back of\nthe house whilst Elzevir went abroad to make inquiries how we could find\nentrance to the Castle at Carisbrooke. Nor did the time hang heavy on my\nhands, for I found some old books in the Bugle, and among them several to\nmy taste, especially a _History of Corfe Castle_, which set forth how\nthere was a secret passage from the ruins to some of the old marble\nquarries, and perhaps to that very one that sheltered us.\n\nElzevir was out most of the day, so that I saw him only at breakfast and\nsupper. He had been several times to Carisbrooke, and told me that the\nCastle was used as a jail for persons taken in the wars, and was now full\nof French prisoners. He had met several of the turnkeys or jailers,\ndrinking with them in the inns there, and making out that he was himself\na carter, who waited at Newport till a wind-bound ship should bring\ngrindstones from Lyme Regis. Thus he was able at last to enter the Castle\nand to see well-house and well, and spent some days in trying to devise a\nplan whereby we might get at the well without making the man who had\ncharge of it privy to our full design; but in this did not succeed.\n\nThere is a slip of garden at the back of the Bugle, which runs down to a\nlittle stream, and one evening when I was taking the air there after\ndark, Elzevir returned and said the time was come for us to put\nBlackbeard's cipher to the proof.\n\n'I have tried every way,' he said, 'to see if we could work this\nsecretly; but 'tis not to be done without the privity of the man who\nkeeps the well, and even with his help it is not easy. He is a man I do\nnot trust, but have been forced to tell him there is treasure hidden in\nthe well, yet without saying where it lies or how to get it. He promises\nto let us search the well, taking one-third the value of all we find, for\nhis share; for I said not that thou and I were one at heart, but only\nthat there was a boy who had the key, and claimed an equal third with\nboth of us. Tomorrow we must be up betimes, and at the Castle gates by\nsix o'clock for him to let us in. And thou shalt not be carter any more,\nbut mason's boy, and I a mason, for I have got coats in the house,\nbrushes and trowels and lime-bucket, and we are going to Carisbrooke to\nplaster up a weak patch in this same well-side.'\n\nElzevir had thought carefully over this plan, and when we left the Bugle\nnext morning we were better masons in our splashed clothes than ever we\nhad been farm servants. I carried a bucket and a brush, and Elzevir a\nplasterer's hammer and a coil of stout twine over his arm. It was a wet\nmorning, and had been raining all night. The sky was stagnant, and\none-coloured without wind, and the heavy drops fell straight down out of\na grey veil that covered everything. The air struck cold when we first\ncame out, but trudging over the heavy road soon made us remember that it\nwas July, and we were very hot and soaking wet when we stood at the\ngateway of Carisbrooke Castle. Here are two flanking towers and a stout\ngate-house reached by a stone bridge crossing the moat; and when I saw it\nI remembered that 'twas here Colonel Mohune had earned the wages of his\nunrighteousness, and thought how many times he must have passed these\ngates. Elzevir knocked as one that had a right, and we were evidently\nexpected, for a wicket in the heavy door was opened at once. The man who\nlet us in was tall and stout, but had a puffy face, and too much flesh on\nhim to be very strong, though he was not, I think, more than thirty years\nof age. He gave Elzevir a smile, and passed the time of day civilly\nenough, nodding also to me; but I did not like his oily black hair, and a\nshifty eye that turned away uneasily when one met it.\n\n'Good-morning, Master Well-wright,' he said to Elzevir. 'You have brought\nugly weather with you, and are drowning wet; will you take a sup of ale\nbefore you get to work?'\n\nElzevir thanked him kindly but would not drink, so the man led on and we\nfollowed him. We crossed a bailey or outer court where the rain had made\nthe gravel very miry, and came on the other side to a door which led by\nsteps into a large hall. This building had once been a banquet-room, I\nthink, for there was an inscription over it very plain in lead: _He led\nme into his banquet hall, and his banner over me was love_.\n\nI had time to read this while the turnkey unlocked the door with one of a\nheavy bunch of keys that he carried at his girdle. But when we entered,\nwhat a disappointment!--for there were no banquets now, no banners, no\nlove, but the whole place gutted and turned into a barrack for French\nprisoners. The air was very close, as where men had slept all night, and\na thick steam on the windows. Most of the prisoners were still asleep,\nand lay stretched out on straw palliasses round the walls, but some were\nsitting up and making models of ships out of fish-bones, or building up\ncrucifixes inside bottles, as sailors love to do in their spare time.\nThey paid little heed to us as we passed, though the sleepy guards, who\nwere lounging on their matchlocks, nodded to our conductor, and thus we\nwent right through that evil-smelling white-washed room. We left it at\nthe other end, went down three steps into the open air again, crossed\nanother small court, and so came to a square building of stone with a\nhigh roof like the large dovecots that you may see in old stackyards.\n\nHere our guide took another key, and, while the door was being opened,\nElzevir whispered to me, 'It is the well-house,' and my pulse beat quick\nto think we were so near our goal.\n\nThe building was open to the roof, and the first thing to be seen in it\nwas that tread-wheel of which Elzevir had spoken. It was a great open\nwheel of wood, ten or twelve feet across, and very like a mill-wheel,\nonly the space between the rims was boarded flat, but had treads nailed\non it to give foothold to a donkey. The patient beast was lying loose\nstabled on some straw in a corner of the room, and, as soon as we came\nin, stood up and stretched himself, knowing that the day's work was to\nbegin. 'He was here long before my time,' the turnkey said, 'and knows\nthe place so well that he goes into the wheel and sets to work by\nhimself.' At the side of the wheel was the well-mouth, a dark, round\nopening with a low parapet round it, rising two feet from the floor.\n\nWe were so near our goal. Yet, were we near it at all? How did we know\nMohune had meant to tell the place of hiding for the diamond in those\nwords. They might have meant a dozen things beside. And if it was of the\ndiamond they spoke, then how did we know the well was this one? there\nwere a hundred wells beside. These thoughts came to me, making hope less\nsure; and perhaps it was the steamy overcast morning and the rain, or a\nscant breakfast, that beat my spirit down--for I have known men's mood\nchange much with weather and with food; but sure it was that now we stood\nso near to put it to the touch, I liked our business less and less.\n\nAs soon as we were entered the turnkey locked the door from the inside,\nand when he let the key drop to its place, and it jangled with the others\non his belt, it seemed to me he had us as his prisoners in a trap. I\ntried to catch his eye to see if it looked bad or good, but could not,\nfor he kept his shifty face turned always somewhere else; and then it\ncame to my mind that if the treasure was really fraught with evil, this\ncoarse dark-haired man, who could not look one straight, was to become a\nminister of ruin to bring the curse home to us.\n\nBut if I was weak and timid Elzevir had no misgivings. He had taken the\ncoil of twine off his arm and was undoing it. 'We will let an end of this\ndown the well,' he said, 'and I have made a knot in it at eighty feet.\nThis lad thinks the treasure is in the well wall, eighty feet below us,\nso when the knot is on well lip we shall know we have the right depth.' I\ntried again to see what look the turnkey wore when he heard where the\ntreasure was, but could not, and so fell to examining the well.\n\nA spindle ran from the axle of the wheel across the well, and on the\nspindle was a drum to take the rope. There was some clutch or fastening\nwhich could be fixed or loosed at will to make the drum turn with the\ntread-wheel, or let it run free, and a footbreak to lower the bucket fast\nor slow, or stop it altogether.\n\n'I will get into the bucket,' Elzevir said, turning to me, 'and this\ngood man will lower me gently by the break until I reach the string-end\ndown below. Then I will shout, and so fix you the wheel and give me time\nto search.'\n\nThis was not what I looked for, having thought that it was I should go;\nand though I liked going down the well little enough, yet somehow now I\nfelt I would rather do that than have Master Elzevir down the hole, and\nme left locked alone with this villainous fellow up above.\n\nSo I said, 'No, master, that cannot be; 'tis my place to go, being\nsmaller and a lighter weight than thou; and thou shalt stop here and help\nthis gentleman to lower me down.'\n\nElzevir spoke a few words to try to change my purpose, but soon gave in,\nknowing it was certainly the better plan, and having only thought to go\nhimself because he doubted if I had the heart to do it. But the turnkey\nshowed much ill-humour at the change, and strove to let the plan stand as\nit was, and for Elzevir to go down the well. Things that were settled, he\nsaid, should remain settled; he was not one for changes; it was a man's\ntask this and no child's play; a boy would not have his senses about him,\nand might overlook the place. I fixed my eyes on Elzevir to let him know\nwhat I thought, and Master Turnkey's words fell lightly on his ears as\nwater on a duck's back. Then this ill-eyed man tried to work upon my\nfears; saying that the well is deep and the bucket small, I shall get\ngiddy and be overbalanced. I do not say that these forebodings were\nwithout effect on me, but I had made up my mind that, bad as it might be\nto go down, it was yet worse to have Master Elzevir prisoned in the well,\nand I remain above. Thus the turnkey perceived at last that he was\nspeaking to deaf ears, and turned to the business.\n\nYet there was one fear that still held me, for thinking of what I had\nheard of the quarry shafts in Purbeck, how men had gone down to explore,\nand there been taken with a sudden giddiness, and never lived to tell\nwhat they had seen; and so I said to Master Elzevir, 'Art sure the well\nis clean, and that no deadly gases lurk below?'\n\n'Thou mayst be sure I knew the well was sweet before I let thee talk of\ngoing down,' he answered. 'For yesterday we lowered a candle to the\nwater, and the flame burned bright and steady; and where the candle\nlives, there man lives too. But thou art right: these gases change from\nday to day, and we will try the thing again. So bring the candle,\nMaster Jailer.'\n\nThe jailer brought a candle fixed on a wooden triangle, which he was wont\nto show strangers who came to see the well, and lowered it on a string.\nIt was not till then I knew what a task I had before me, for looking over\nthe parapet, and taking care not to lose my balance, because the parapet\nwas low, and the floor round it green and slippery with water-splashings,\nI watched the candle sink into that cavernous depth, and from a bright\nflame turn into a little twinkling star, and then to a mere point of\nlight. At last it rested on the water, and there was a shimmer where the\nwood frame had set ripples moving. We watched it twinkle for a little\nwhile, and the jailer raised the candle from the water, and dropped down\na stone from some he kept there for that purpose. This stone struck the\nwall half-way down, and went from side to side, crashing and whirring\ntill it met the water with a booming plunge; and there rose a groan and\nmoan from the eddies, like those dreadful sounds of the surge that I\nheard on lonely nights in the sea-caverns underneath our hiding-place in\nPurbeck. The jailer looked at me then for the first time, and his eyes\nhad an ugly meaning, as if he said, 'There--that is how you will sound\nwhen you fall from your perch.' But it was no use to frighten, for I had\nmade up my mind.\n\nThey pulled the candle up forthwith and put it in my hand, and I flung\nthe plasterer's hammer into the bucket, where it hung above the well, and\nthen got in myself. The turnkey stood at the break-wheel, and Elzevir\nleant over the parapet to steady the rope. 'Art sure that thou canst do\nit, lad?' he said, speaking low, and put his hand kindly on my shoulder.\n'Are head and heart sure? Thou art my diamond, and I would rather lose\nall other diamonds in the world than aught should come to thee. So, if\nthou doubtest, let me go, or let not any go at all.'\n\n'Never doubt, master,' I said, touched by tenderness, and wrung his\nhand. 'My head is sure; I have no broken leg to turn it silly\nnow'--for I guessed he was thinking of Hoar Head and how I had gone\ngiddy on the Zigzag.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\nTHE WELL\n\nThe grave doth gape and doting death is near--_Shakespeare_\n\n\nThe bucket was large, for all that the turnkey had tried to frighten me\ninto think it small, and I could crouch in it low enough to feel safe of\nnot falling out. Moreover, such a venture was not entirely new to me, for\nI had once been over Gad Cliff in a basket, to get two peregrines' eggs;\nyet none the less I felt ill at ease and fearful, when the bucket began\nto sink into that dreadful depth, and the air to grow chilly as I went\ndown. They lowered me gently enough, so that I was able to take stock of\nthe way the wall was made, and found that for the most part it was cut\nthrough solid chalk; but here and there, where the chalk failed or was\nbroken away, they had lined the walls with brick, patching them now on\nthis side, now on that, and now all round. By degrees the light, which\nwas dim even overground that rainy day, died out in the well, till all\nwas black as night but for my candle, and far overhead I could see the\nwell-mouth, white and round like a lustreless full-moon.\n\nI kept an eye all the time on Elzevir's cord that hung down the\nwell-side, and when I saw it was coming to a finish, shouted to them to\nstop, and they brought the bucket up near level with the end of it, so I\nknew I was about eighty feet deep. Then I raised myself, standing up in\nthe bucket and holding by the rope, and began to look round, knowing not\nall the while what I looked for, but thinking to see a hole in the wall,\nor perhaps the diamond itself shining out of a cranny. But I could\nperceive nothing; and what made it more difficult was, that the walls\nhere were lined completely with small flat bricks, and looked much the\nsame all round. I examined these bricks as closely as I might, and took\ncourse by course, looking first at the north side where the plumb-line\nhung, and afterwards turning round in the bucket till I was afraid of\ngetting giddy; but to little purpose. They could see my candle moving\nround and round from the well-top, and knew no doubt what I was at, but\nMaster Turnkey grew impatient, and shouted down, 'What are you doing?\nhave you found nothing? can you see no treasure?'\n\n'No,' I called back, 'I can see nothing,' and then, 'Are you sure, Master\nBlock, that you have measured the plummet true to eighty feet?'\n\nI heard them talking together, but could not make out what they said, for\nthe bim-bom and echo in the well, till Elzevir shouted again, 'They say\nthis floor has been raised; you must try lower.'\n\nThen the bucket began to move lower, slowly, and I crouched down in it\nagain, not wishing to look too much into the unfathomable, dark abyss\nbelow. And all the while there rose groanings and moanings from eddies in\nthe bottom of the well, as if the spirits that kept watch over the jewel\nwere yammering together that one should be so near it; and clear above\nthem all I heard Grace's voice, sweet and grave, 'Have a care, have a\ncare how you touch the treasure; it was evilly come by, and will bring a\ncurse with it.'\n\nBut I had set foot on this way now, and must go through with it, so when\nthe bucket stopped some six feet lower down, I fell again to diligently\nexamining the walls. They were still built of the shallow bricks, and\nscanning them course by course as before, I could at first see nothing,\nbut as I moved my eyes downward they were brought up by a mark scratched\non a brick, close to the hanging plummet-line.\n\nNow, however lightly a man may glance through a book, yet if his own\nname, or even only one nice it, should be printed on the page, his\neyes will instantly be stopped by it; so too, if his name be mentioned\nby others in their speech, though it should be whispered never so low,\nhis ears will catch it. Thus it was with this mark, for though it was\nvery slight, so that I think not one in a thousand would ever have\nnoticed it at all, yet it stopped my eyes and brought up my thoughts\nsuddenly, because I knew by instinct that it had something to do with\nme and what I sought.\n\nThe sides of this well are not moist, green, or clammy, like the sides of\nsome others where damp and noxious exhalations abound, but dry and clean;\nfor it is said that there are below hidden entrances and exits for the\nwater, which keep it always moving. So these bricks were also dry and\nclean, and this mark as sharp as if made yesterday, though the issue\nshowed that 'twas put there a very long time ago. Now the mark was not\ndeeply or regularly graven, but roughly scratched, as I have known boys\nscore their names, or alphabet letters, or a date, on the alabaster\nfigures that lie in Moonfleet Church. And here, too, was scored a letter\nof the alphabet, a plain 'Y', and would have passed for nothing more\nperhaps to any not born in Moonfleet; but to me it was the _cross-pall,_\nor black 'Y' of the Mohunes, under whose shadow we were all brought up.\nSo as soon as I saw that, I knew I was near what I sought, and that\nColonel John Mohune had put this sign there a century ago, either by his\nown hands or by those of a servant; and then I thought of Mr. Glennie's\nstory, that the Colonel's conscience was always unquiet, because of a\nservant whom he had put away, and now I seemed to understand something\nmore of it.\n\nMy heart throbbed fiercely, as many another's heart has throbbed when he\nhas come near the fulfilment of a great desire, whether lawful or guilty,\nand I tried to get at the brick. But though by holding on to the rope\nwith my left hand, I could reach over far enough to touch the brick with\nmy right 'twas as much as I could do, and so I shouted up the well that\nthey must bring me nearer in to the side. They understood what I would be\nat, and slipped a noose over the well-rope and so drew it in to the side,\nand made it fast till I should give the word to loose again. Thus I was\nbrought close to the well-wall, and the marked brick near about the level\nof my face when I stood up in the bucket. There was nothing to show that\nthis brick had been tampered with, nor did it sound hollow when tapped,\nthough when I came to look closely at the joints, it seemed as though\nthere was more cement than usual about the edges. But I never doubted\nthat what we sought was to be found behind it, and so got to work at\nonce, fixing the wooden frame of the candle in the fastening of the\nchain, and chipping out the mortar setting with the plasterer's hammer.\n\nWhen they saw above that first I was to be pulled in to the side, and\nafterwards fell to work on the wall of the well, they guessed, no doubt,\nhow matters were, and I had scarce begun chipping when I heard the\nturnkey's voice again, sharp and greedy, 'What are you doing? have you\nfound nothing?' It chafed me that this grasping fellow should be always\nshouting to me while Elzevir was content to stay quiet, so I cried back\nthat I had found nothing, and that he should know what I was doing in\ngood time.\n\nSoon I had the mortar out of the joints, and the brick loose enough to\nprise it forward, by putting the edge of the hammer in the crack. I\nlifted it clean out and put it in the bucket, to see later on, in case\nof need, if there was a hollow for anything to be hidden in; but never\nhad occasion to look at it again, for there, behind the brick, was a\nlittle hole in the wall, and in the hole what I sought. I had my fingers\nin the wall too quick for words, and brought out a little parchment bag,\nfor all the world like those dried fish-eggs cast up on the beach that\nchildren call shepherds' purses. Now, shepherds' purses are crisp, and\ncrackle to the touch, and sometimes I have known a pebble get inside one\nand rattle like a pea in a drum; and this little bag that I pulled out\nwas dry too, and crackling, and had something of the size of a small\npebble that rattled in the inside of it. Only I knew well that this was\nno pebble, and set to work to get it out. But though the little bag was\nparched and dry, 'twas not so easily torn, and at last I struck off the\ncorner of it with the sharp edge of my hammer against the bucket. Then I\nshook it carefully, and out into my hand there dropped a pure crystal as\nbig as a walnut. I had never in my life seen a diamond, either large or\nsmall--yet even if I had not known that Blackbeard had buried a diamond,\nand if we had not come hither of set purpose to find it, I should not\nhave doubted that what I had in my hand was a diamond, and this of\nmatchless size and brilliance. It was cut into many facets, and though\nthere was little or no light in the well save my candle, there seemed to\nbe in this stone the light of a thousand fires that flashed out,\nsparkling red and blue and green, as I turned it between my fingers. At\nfirst I could think of nothing else, neither how it got there, nor how I\nhad come to find it, but only of it, the diamond, and that with such a\nprize Elzevir and I could live happily ever afterwards, and that I should\nbe a rich man and able to go back to Moonfleet. So I crouched down in the\nbottom of the bucket, being filled entirely with such thoughts, and\nturned it over and over again, wondering continually more and more to see\nthe fiery light fly out of it. I was, as it were, dazed by its\nbrilliance, and by the possibilities of wealth that it contained, and\nhad, perhaps, a desire to keep it to myself as long as might be; so that\nI thought nothing of the two who were waiting for me at the well-mouth,\ntill I was suddenly called back by the harsh voice of the turnkey, crying\nas before--\n\n'What are you doing? have you found nothing?'\n\n'Yes,' I shouted back, 'I have found the treasure; you can pull me up.'\nThe words were scarcely out of my mouth before the bucket began to move,\nand I went up a great deal faster than I had gone down. Yet in that short\njourney other thoughts came to my mind, and I heard Grace's voice again,\nsweet and grave, 'Have a care, have a care how you touch the treasure; it\nwas evilly come by, and will bring a curse with it.' At the same time I\nremembered how I had been led to the discovery of this jewel--first, by\nMr. Glennie's stories, second, by my finding the locket, and third, by\nRatsey giving me the hint that the writing was a cipher, and so had come\nto the hiding-place without a swerve or stumble; and it seemed to me that\nI could not have reached it so straight without a leading hand, but\nwhether good or evil, who should say?\n\nAs I neared the top I heard the turnkey urging the donkey to trot faster\nin the wheel, so that the bucket might rise the quicker, but just before\nmy head was level with the ground he set the break on and fixed me where\nI was. I was glad to see the light again, and Elzevir's face looking\nkindly on me, but vexed to be brought up thus suddenly just when I was\nexpecting to set foot on _terra firma_.\n\nThe turnkey had stopped me through his covetous eagerness, so that he\nmight get sooner at the jewel, and now he craned over the low parapet and\nreached out his hand to me, crying--'Where is the treasure? where is the\ntreasure? give me the treasure!'\n\nI held the diamond between finger and thumb of my right hand, and waved\nit for Elzevir to see. By stretching out my arm I could have placed it in\nthe turnkey's hand, and was just going to do so, when I caught his eyes\nfor the second time that day, and something in them made me stop. There\nwas a look in his face that brought back to me the memory of an autumn\nevening, when I sat in my aunt's parlour reading the book called the\n_Arabian Nights_; and how, in the story of the _Wonderful Lamp_,\nAladdin's wicked uncle stands at the top of the stairs when the boy is\ncoming up out of the underground cavern, and will not let him out, unless\nhe first gives up the treasure. But Aladdin refused to give up his lamp\nuntil he should stand safe on the ground again, because he guessed that\nif he did, his uncle would shut him up in the cavern and leave him to die\nthere; and the look in the turnkey's eyes made me refuse to hand him the\njewel till I was safe out of the well, for a horrible fear seized me\nthat, as soon as he had taken it from me, he meant to let me fall down\nand drown below.\n\nSo when he reached down his hand and said, 'Give me the treasure,' I\nanswered, 'Pull me up then; I cannot show it you in the bucket.'\n\n'Nay, lad,' he said, cozening me, 'tis safer to give it me now, and have\nboth hands free to help you getting out; these stones are wet and greasy,\nand you may chance to slip, and having no hand to save you, fall back in\nthe well.'\n\nBut I was not to be cheated, and said again sturdily, 'No, you must pull\nme up first.'\n\nThen he took to scowling, and cried in an angry tone, 'Give me the\ntreasure, I say, or it will be the worse for you'; but Elzevir would\nnot let him speak to me that way, and broke in roughly, 'Let the boy up,\nhe is sure-footed and will not slip. 'Tis his treasure, and he shall do\nwith it as he likes: only that thou shalt have a third of it when we\nhave sold it.'\n\nThen he: ''Tis not his treasure--no, nor yours either, but mine, for it\nis in my well, and I have let you get it. Yet I will give you a\nhalf-share in it; but as for this boy, what has he to do with it? We will\ngive him a golden guinea, and he will be richly paid for his pains.'\n\n'Tush,' cries Elzevir, 'let us have no more fooling; this boy shall have\nhis share, or I will know the reason why.'\n\n'Ay, you shall know the reason, fair enough,' answers the turnkey, 'and\n'tis because your name is Block, and there is a price of 50 upon your\nhead, and 20 upon this boy's. You thought to outwit me, and are yourself\noutwitted; and here I have you in a trap, and neither leaves this room,\nexcept with hands tied, and bound for the gallows, unless I first have\nthe jewel safe in my purse.'\n\nOn that I whipped the diamond back quick into the little parchment bag,\nand thrust both down snug into my breeches-pocket, meaning to have a\nfight for it, anyway, before I let it go. And looking up again, I saw the\nturnkey's hand on the butt of his pistol, and cried, 'Beware, beware! he\ndraws on you.' But before the words were out of my mouth, the turn-key\nhad his weapon up and levelled full at Elzevir. 'Surrender,' he cries,\n'or I shoot you dead, and the 50 is mine,' and never giving time for\nanswer, fires. Elzevir stood on the other side of the well-mouth, and it\nseemed the other could not miss him at such a distance; but as I blinked\nmy eyes at the flash, I felt the bullet strike the iron chain to which I\nwas holding, and saw that Elzevir was safe.\n\nThe turnkey saw it too, and flinging away his pistol, sprang round the\nwell and was at Elzevir's throat before he knew whether he was hit or\nnot. I have said that the turnkey was a tall, strong man, and twenty\nyears the younger of the two; so doubtless when he made for Elzevir, he\nthought he would easily have him broken down and handcuffed, and then\nturn to me. But he reckoned without his host, for though Elzevir was the\nshorter and older man, he was wonderfully strong, and seasoned as a\nsalted thong. Then they hugged one another and began a terrible struggle:\nfor Elzevir knew that he was wrestling for life, and I daresay the\nturnkey guessed that the stakes were much the same for him too.\n\nAs soon as I saw what they were at, and that the bucket was safe fixed,\nI laid hold of the well-chain, and climbing up by it swung myself on to\nthe top of the parapet, being eager to help Elzevir, and get the turnkey\ngagged and bound while we made our escape. But before I was well on the\nfirm ground again, I saw that little help of mine was needed, for the\nturnkey was flagging, and there was a look of anguish and desperate\nsurprise upon his face, to find that the man he had thought to master so\nlightly was strong as a giant. They were swaying to and fro, and the\njailer's grip was slackening, for his muscles were overwrought and\ntired; but Elzevir held him firm as a vice, and I saw from his eyes and\nthe bearing of his body that he was gathering himself up to give his\nenemy a fall.\n\nNow I guessed that the fall he would use would be the Compton Toss, for\nthough I had never seen him give it, yet he was well known for a wrestler\nin his younger days, and the Compton Toss for his most certain fall. I\nshall not explain the method of it, but those who have seen it used will\nknow that 'tis a deadly fall, and he who lets himself get thrown that way\neven upon grass, is seldom fit to wrestle another bout the same day.\nStill 'tis a difficult fall to use, and perhaps Elzevir would never have\nbeen able to give it, had not the other at that moment taken one hand off\nthe waist, and tried to make a clutch with it at the throat. But the\nonly way of avoiding that fall, and indeed most others, is to keep both\nhands firm between hip and shoulder-blade, and the moment Elzevir felt\none hand off his back, he had the jailer off his feet and gave him\nCompton's Toss. I do not know whether Elzevir had been so taxed by the\nfierce struggle that he could not put his fullest force into the throw,\nor whether the other, being a very strong and heavy man, needed more to\nfling him; but so it was, that instead of the turnkey going down straight\nas he should, with the back of his head on the floor (for that is the\nreal damage of the toss), he must needs stagger backwards a pace or two,\ntrying to regain his footing before he went over.\n\nIt was those few staggering paces that ruined him, for with the last he\ncame upon the stones close to the well-mouth, that had been made wet and\nslippery by continual spilling there of water. Then up flew his heels,\nand he fell backwards with all his weight.\n\nAs soon as I saw how near the well-mouth he was got, I shouted out and\nran to save him; but Elzevir saw it quicker than I, and springing forward\nseized him by the belt just when he turned over. The parapet wall was\nvery low, and caught the turnkey behind the knee as he staggered,\ntripping him over into the well-mouth. He gave a bitter cry, and there\nwas a wrench on his face when he knew where he was come, and 'twas then\nElzevir caught him by the belt. For a moment I thought he was saved,\nseeing Elzevir setting his body low back with heels pressed firm against\nthe parapet wall to stand the strain. Then the belt gave way at the\nfastening, and Elzevir fell sprawling on the floor. But the other went\nbackwards down the well.\n\nI got to the parapet just as he fell head first into that black abyss.\nThere was a second of silence, then a dreadful noise like a coconut\nbeing broken on a pavement--for we once had coconuts in plenty at\nMoonfleet, when the _Bataviaman_ came on the beach, then a deep echoing\nblow, where he rebounded and struck the wall again, and last of all, the\nthud and thundering splash, when he reached the water at the bottom. I\nheld my breath for sheer horror, and listened to see if he would cry,\nthough I knew at heart he would never cry again, after that first\nsickening smash; but there was no sound or voice, except the moaning\nvoices of the water eddies that I had heard before.\n\nElzevir slung himself into the bucket. 'You can handle the break,' he\nsaid to me; 'let me down quick into the well.' I took the break-lever,\nlowering him as quickly as I durst, till I heard the bucket touch water\nat the bottom, and then stood by and listened. All was still, and yet I\nstarted once, and could not help looking round over my shoulder, for it\nseemed as if I was not alone in the well-house; and though I could see no\none, yet I had a fancy of a tall black-bearded man, with coppery face,\nchasing another round and round the well-mouth. Both vanished from my\nfancy just as the pursuer had his hand on the pursued; but Mr. Glennie's\nstory came back again to my mind, how that Colonel Mohune's conscience\nwas always unquiet because of a servant he had put away, and I guessed\nnow that the turnkey was not the first man these walls had seen go\nheadlong down the well.\n\nElzevir had been in the well so long that I began to fear something had\nhappened to him, when he shouted to me to bring him up. So I fixed the\nclutch, and set the donkey going in the tread-wheel; and the patient\ndrudge started on his round, recking nothing whether it was a bucket of\nwater he brought up, or a live man, or a dead man, while I looked over\nthe parapet, and waited with a cramping suspense to see whether Elzevir\nwould be alone, or have something with him. But when the bucket came in\nsight there was only Elzevir in it, so I knew the turnkey had never come\nto the top of the water again, and, indeed, there was but little chance\nhe should after that first knock. Elzevir said nothing to me, till I\nspoke: 'Let us fling the jewel down the well after him, Master Block; it\nwas evilly come by, and will bring a curse with it.'\n\nHe hesitated for a moment while I half-hoped yet half-feared he was going\nto do as I asked, but then said:\n\n'No, no; thou art not fit to keep so precious a thing. Give it me. It is\nthy treasure, and I will never touch penny of it; but fling it down the\nwell thou shalt not; for this man has lost his life for it, and we have\nrisked ours for it--ay, and may lose them for it too, perhaps.'\n\nSo I gave him the jewel.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\nTHE JEWEL\n\nAll that glisters is not gold--_Shakespeare_\n\n\nThere was the turnkey's belt lying on the floor, with the keys and\nmanacles fixed to it, just as it had failed and come off him at the fatal\nmoment. Elzevir picked it up, tried the keys till he found the right\none, and unlocked the door of the well-house.\n\n'There are other locks to open before we get out,' I said.\n\n'Ay,' he answered, 'but it is more than our life is worth to be seen with\nthese keys, so send them down the well, after their master.'\n\nI took them back and flung them, belt and keys and handcuffs, clanking\ndown against the sides into the blackness and the hidden water at the\nbottom. Then we took pail and hammer, brush and ropes, and turned our\nbacks upon that hateful place. There was the little court to cross before\nwe came to the doors of the banquet-hall. They were locked, but we\nknocked until a guard opened them. He knew us for the plasterer-men, who\nhad passed an hour before, and only asked, 'Where is Ephraim?' meaning\nthe turnkey. 'He is stopping behind in the well-house,' Elzevir said, and\nso we passed on through the hall, where the prisoners were making what\nbreakfast they might of odds and ends, with a savoury smell of cooking\nand a great patter of French.\n\nAt the outer gate was another guard to be passed, but they opened for us\nwithout question, cursing Ephraim under their breath, that he did not\ntake the pains to let his own men out. Then the wicket of the great gates\nswung-to behind us, and we went into the open again. As soon as we were\nout of sight we quickened our pace, and the weather having much bettered,\nand a fresh breeze springing up, we came back to the Bugle about ten in\nthe forenoon.\n\nI believe that neither of us spoke a word during that walk, and though\nElzevir had not yet seen the diamond, he never even took the pains to\ndraw it out of the little parchment bag, in which it still lay hid in his\npocket. Yet if I did not speak I thought, and my thoughts were sad\nenough. For here were we a second time, flying for our lives, and if we\nhad not the full guilt of blood upon our hands, yet blood was surely\nthere. So this flight was very bitter to me, because the scene of death\nof which I had been witness this morning seemed to take me farther still\naway from all my old happy life, and to stand like another dreadful\nobstacle between Grace and me. In the Family Bible lying on the table in\nmy aunt's best parlour was a picture of Cain, which I had often looked at\nwith fear on wet Sunday afternoons. It showed Cain striding along in the\nmidst of a boundless desert, with his sons and their wives striding\nbehind him, and their little children carried slung on poles. There was a\nquick, swinging motion in the bodies of all, as though they must needs\nalways stride as fast as they might, and never rest, and their faces were\nset hard, and thin with eternal wandering and disquiet. But the thinnest\nand most restless-looking and hardest face was Cain's, and on the middle\nof his forehead there was a dark spot, which God had set to show that\nnone might touch him, because he was the first murderer, and cursed for\never. This had always been to me a dreadful picture, though I could not\nchoose but look at it, and was sorry indeed for Cain, for all he was so\nwicked, because it seemed so hard to have to wander up and down the world\nall his life long, and never be able to come to moorings. And yet this\nvery thing had come upon me now, for here we were, with the blood of two\nmen on our hands, wanderers on the face of the earth, who durst never go\nhome; and if the mark of Cain was not on my forehead already, I felt it\nmight come out there at any minute.\n\nWhen we reached the Bugle I went upstairs and flung myself upon the bed\nto try to rest a little and think, but Elzevir shut himself in with the\nlandlord, and I could hear them talking earnestly in the room under me.\nAfter a while he came up and said that he had considered with the\nlandlord how we could best get away, telling him that we must be off at\nonce, but letting him suppose that we were eager to leave the place\nbecause some of the Excise had got wind of our whereabouts. He had said\nnothing to our host about the turnkey, wishing as few persons as possible\nto know of that matter, but doubted not that we should by all means\nhasten our departure from the island, for that as soon as the turnkey was\nmissed inquiry would certainly be made for the plasterers with whom he\nwas last seen.\n\nYet in this thing at least Fortune favoured us, for there was now lying\nat Cowes, and ready to sail that night, a Dutch couper that had run a\ncargo of Hollands on the other side of the island, and was going back to\nScheveningen freighted with wool. Our landlord knew the Dutch captain\nwell, having often done business for him, and so could give us letters of\nrecommendation which would ensure us a passage to the Low Countries. Thus\nin the afternoon we were on the road, making our way from Newport to\nCowes in a new disguise, for we had changed our clothes again, and now\nwore the common sailor dress of blue.\n\nThe clouds had returned after the rain, and the afternoon was wet, and\nworse than the morning, so I shall not say anything of another weary and\nsilent walk. We arrived on Cowes quay by eight in the evening, and found\nthe couper ready to make sail, and waiting only for the tide to set out.\nHer name was the _Gouden Droom_, and she was a little larger than the\n_Bonaventure_, but had a smaller crew, and was not near so well found.\nElzevir exchanged a few words with the captain, and gave him the\nlandlord's letter, and after that they let us come on board, but said\nnothing to us. We judged that we were best out of the way, so went below;\nand finding her laden deep, and even the cabin full of bales of wool,\nflung ourselves on them to rest. I was so tired and heavy with sleep that\nmy eyes closed almost before I was lain down, and never opened till the\nnext morning was well advanced.\n\nI shall not say anything about our voyage, nor how we came safe to\nScheveningen, because it has little to do with this story. Elzevir had\nsettled that we should go to Holland, not only because the couper was\nwaiting to sail thither for we might doubtless have found other boats\nbefore long to take us elsewhere--but also because he had learned at\nNewport that the Hague was the first market in the world for diamonds.\nThis he told me after we were safe housed in a little tavern in the town,\nwhich was frequented by seamen, but those of the better class, such as\nmates and skippers of small vessels. Here we lay for several days while\nElzevir made such inquiry as he could without waking suspicion as to who\nwere the best dealers in precious stones, and the most able to pay a good\nprice for a valuable jewel. It was lucky, too, for us that Elzevir could\nspeak the Dutch language--not well indeed, but enough to make himself\nunderstood, and to understand others. When I asked where he had learned\nit, he told me that he came of Dutch blood on his mother's side, and so\ngot his name of Elzevir; and that he could once speak in Dutch as readily\nas in English, only that his mother dying when he was yet a boy he lost\nsomething of the facility.\n\nAs the days passed, the memory of that dreadful morning at Carisbrooke\nbecame dimmer to me, and my mind more cheerful or composed. I got the\ndiamond back from Elzevir, and had it out many times, both by day and by\nnight, and every time it seemed more brilliant and wonderful than the\nlast. Often of nights, after all the house was gone to rest, I would\nlock the door of the room, and sit with a candle burning on the table,\nand turn the diamond over in my hands. It was, as I have said, as big as\na pigeon's egg or walnut, delicately cut and faceted all over, perfect\nand flawless, without speck or stain, and yet, for all it was so clear\nand colourless, there flew out from the depth of it such flashes and\nsparkles of red, blue, and green, as made one wonder whence these tints\ncould come. Thus while I sat and watched it I would tell Elzevir stories\nfrom the _Arabian Nights_, of wondrous jewels, though I believe there\nnever was a stone that the eagles brought up from the Valley of\nDiamonds, no, nor any in the Caliph's crown itself, that could excel\nthis gem of ours.\n\nYou may be sure that at such times we talked much of the value that was\nto be put upon the stone, and what was likely to be got for it, but never\ncould settle, not having any experience of such things. Only, I was sure\nthat it must be worth thousands of pounds, and so sat and rubbed my\nhands, saying that though life was like a game of hazard, and our throws\nhad hitherto been bad enough, yet we had made something of this last. But\nall the while a strange change was coming over us both, and our parts\nseemed turned about. For whereas a few days before it was I who wished to\nfling the diamond away, feeling overwrought and heavy-hearted in that\nawful well-house, and Elzevir who held me from it; now it was he that\nseemed to set little store by it, and I to whom it was all in all. He\nseldom cared to look much at the jewel, and one night when I was praising\nit to him, spoke out:\n\n'Set not thy heart too much upon this stone. It is thine, and thine to\ndeal with. Never a penny will I touch that we may get for it. Yet,\nwere I thou, and reached great wealth with it, and so came back one\nday to Moonfleet, I would not spend it all on my own ends, but put\naside a part to build the poor-houses again, as men say Blackbeard\nmeant to do with it'\n\nI did not know what made him speak like this, and was not willing, even\nin fancy, to agree to what he counselled; for with that gem before me,\nlustrous, and all the brighter for lying on a rough deal table, I could\nonly think of the wealth it was to bring to us, and how I would most\ncertainly go back one day to Moonfleet and marry Grace. So I never\nanswered Elzevir, but took the diamond and slipped it back in the silver\nlocket, which still hung round my neck, for that was the safest place for\nit that we could think of.\n\nWe spent some days in wandering round the town making inquiries, and\nlearnt that most of the diamond-buyers lived near one another in a\ncertain little street, whose name I have forgotten, but that the richest\nand best known of them was one Krispijn Aldobrand. He was a Jew by birth,\nbut had lived all his life in the Hague, and besides having bought and\nsold some of the finest stones, was said to ask few questions, and to\ntrouble little whence stones came, so they were but good. Thus, after\nmuch thought and many changes of purpose, we chose this Aldobrand, and\nsettled we would put the matter to the touch with him.\n\nWe took an evening in late summer for our venture, and came to\nAldobrand's house about an hour before sundown. I remember the place\nwell, though I have not seen it for so long, and am certainly never like\nto see it again. It was a low house of two stories standing back a little\nfrom the street, with some wooden palings and a grass plot before it, and\na stone-flagged path leading up to the door. The front of it was\nwhitewashed, with green shutters, and had a shiny-leaved magnolia trained\nround about the windows. These jewellers had no shops, though sometimes\nthey set a single necklace or bracelet in a bottom window, but put up\nnotices proclaiming their trade. Thus there was over Aldobrand's door a\nboard stuck out to say that he bought and sold jewels, and would lend\nmoney on diamonds or other valuables.\n\nA sturdy serving-man opened the door, and when he heard our business was\nto sell a jewel, left us in a stone-floored hall or lobby, while he went\nupstairs to ask whether his master would see us. A few minutes later the\nstairs creaked, and Aldobrand himself came down. He was a little wizened\nman with yellow skin and deep wrinkles, not less than seventy years old;\nand I saw he wore shoes of polished leather, silver-buckled, and\ntilted-heeled to add to his stature. He began speaking to us from the\nlanding, not coming down into the hall, but leaning over the handrail:\n\n'Well, my sons, what would you with me? I hear you have a jewel to sell,\nbut you must know I do not purchase sailors' flotsam. So if 'tis a\nmoonstone or catseye, or some pin-head diamonds, keep them to make\nbrooches for your sweethearts, for Aldobrand buys no toys like that.'\n\nHe had a thin and squeaky voice, and spoke to us in our own tongue,\nguessing no doubt that we were English from our faces. 'Twas true he\nhandled the language badly enough, yet I was glad he used it, for so I\ncould follow all that was said.\n\n'No toys like that,' he said again, repeating his last words, and Elzevir\nanswered: 'May it please your worship, we are sailors from over sea, and\nthis boy has a diamond that he would sell.'\n\nI had the gem in my hand all ready, and when the old man squeaked\npeevishly, 'Out with it then, let's see, let's see,' I reached it out to\nhim. He stretched down over the banisters, and took it; holding out his\npalm hollowed, as if 'twas some little paltry stone that might otherwise\nfall and be lost. It nettled me to have him thus underrate our treasure,\neven though he had never seen it, and so I plumped it down into his hand\nas if it were as big as a pumpkin. Now the hall was a dim place, being\nlit only by a half-circle of glass over the door, and so I could not see\nvery well; yet in reaching down he brought his head near mine, and I\ncould swear his face changed when he felt the size of the stone in his\nhand, and turned from impatience and contempt to wonder and delight. He\ntook the jewel quickly from his palm, and held it up between finger and\nthumb, and when he spoke again, his voice was changed as well as his\nface, and had lost most of the sharp impatience.\n\n'There is not light enough to see in this dark place--follow me,' and he\nturned back and went upstairs rapidly, holding the stone in his hand; and\nwe close at his heels, being anxious not to lose sight of him now that he\nhad our diamond, for all he was so rich and well known a man.\n\nThus we came to another landing, and there he flung open the door of a\nroom which looked out west, and had the light of the setting sun\nstreaming in full flood through the window. The change from the dimness\nof the stairs to this level red blaze was so quick that for a minute I\ncould make out nothing, but turning my back to the window saw presently\nthat the room was panelled all through with painted wood, with a bed let\ninto the wall on one side, and shelves round the others, on which were\nmany small coffers and strong-boxes of iron. The jeweller was sitting at\na table with his face to the sun, holding the diamond up against the\nlight, and gazing into it closely, so that I could see every working of\nhis face. The hard and cunning look had come back to it, and he turned\nsuddenly upon me and asked quite sharply, 'What is your name, boy? Whence\ndo you come?'\n\nNow I was not used to walk under false names, and he took me unawares,\nso I must needs blurt out, 'My name is John Trenchard, sir, and I come\nfrom Moonfleet, in Dorset.'\n\nA second later I could have bitten off my tongue for having said as much,\nand saw Elzevir frowning at me to make me hold my peace. But 'twas too\nlate then, for the merchant was writing down my answer in a parchment\nledger. And though it would seem to most but a little thing that he\nshould thus take down my name and birthplace, and only vexed us at the\ntime, because we would not have it known at all whence we came; yet in\nthe overrulings of Providence it was ordered that this note in Mr.\nAldobrand's book should hereafter change the issue of my life.\n\n'From Moonfleet, in Dorset,' he repeated to himself, as he finished\nwriting my answer. 'And how did John Trenchard come by this?' and he\ntapped the diamond as it lay on the table before him.\n\nThen Elzevir broke in quickly, fearing no doubt lest I should be betrayed\ninto saying more: 'Nay, sir, we are not come to play at questions and\nanswers, but to know whether your worship will buy this diamond, and at\nwhat price. We have no time to tell long histories, and so must only say\nthat we are English sailors, and that the stone is fairly come by.' And\nhe let his fingers play with the diamond on the table, as if he feared it\nmight slip away from him.\n\n'Softly, softly,' said the old man; 'all stones are fairly come by; but\nhad you told me whence you got this, I might have spared myself some\ntedious tests, which now I must crave pardon for making.'\n\nHe opened a cupboard in the panelling, and took out from it a little\npair of scales, some crystals, a black-stone, and a bottle full of a\ngreen liquid. Then he sat down again, drew the diamond gently from\nElzevir's fingers, which were loth to part with it, and began using his\nscales; balancing the diamond carefully, now against a crystal, now\nagainst some small brass weights. I stood with my back to the sunset,\nwatching the red light fall upon this old man as he weighed the diamond,\nrubbed it on the black-stone, or let fall on it a drop of the liquor,\nand so could see the wonder and emotion fade away from his face, and\nonly hard craftiness left in it.\n\nI watched him meddling till I could bear to watch no longer, feeling a\nfierce feverish suspense as to what he might say, and my pulse beating\nso quick that I could scarce stand still. For was not the decisive\nmoment very nigh when we should know, from these parched-up lips, the\nvalue of the jewel, and whether it was worth risking life for, whether\nthe fabric of our hopes was built on sure foundation or on slippery\nsand? So I turned my back on the diamond merchant, and looked out of the\nwindow, waiting all the while to catch the slightest word that might\ncome from his lips.\n\nI have found then and at other times that in such moments, though the\nmind be occupied entirely by one overwhelming thought, yet the eyes take\nin, as it were unwittingly, all that lies before them, so that we can\nafterwards recall a face or landscape of which at the time we took no\nnote. Thus it was with me that night, for though I was thinking of\nnothing but the jewel, yet I noted everything that could be seen through\nthe window, and the recollection was of use to me later on. The window\nwas made in the French style, reaching down to the floor, and opening\nlike a door with two leaves. It led on to a little balcony, and now stood\nopen (for the day was still very hot), and on the wall below was trained\na pear-tree, which half-embowered the balcony with its green leaves. The\nwindow could be well protected in case of need, having latticed wooden\nblinds inside, and heavy shutters shod with iron on the outer wall, and\nthere were besides strong bolts and sockets from which ran certain wires\nwhose use I did not know. Below the balcony was a square garden-plot,\nshut in with a brick wall, and kept very neat and trim. There were\nhollyhocks round the walls, and many-coloured poppies, with many other\nshrubs and flowers. My eyes fell on one especially, a tall red-blossomed\nrushy kind of flower, that I had never seen before; and that seemed\nindeed to be something out of the common, for it stood in the middle of a\nlittle earth-plot, and had the whole bed nearly to itself.\n\nI was looking at this flower, not thinking of it, but wondering all the\nwhile whether Mr. Aldobrand would say the diamond was worth ten thousand\npounds, or fifty, or a hundred thousand, when I heard him speaking, and\nturned round quick. 'My sons, and you especially, son John,' he said, and\nturned to me: 'this stone that you have brought me is no stone at all,\nbut glass--or rather paste, for so we call it. Not but what it is good\npaste, and perhaps the best that I have seen, and so I had to try it to\nmake sure. But against high chymic tests no sham can stand; and first it\nis too light in weight, and second, when rubbed on this Basanus or\nBlack-stone, traces no line of white, as any diamond must. But, third and\nlast, I have tried it with the hermeneutic proof, and dipped it in this\nmost costly lembic; and the liquor remains pure green and clear, not\nturbid orange, a diamond leaves it.'\n\nAs he spoke the room spun round, and I felt the sickness and\nheart-sinking that comes with the sudden destruction of long-cherished\nhope. So it was all a sham, a bit of glass, for which we had risked our\nlives. Blackbeard had only mocked us even in his death, and from rich men\nwe were become the poorest outcasts. And all the other bright fancies\nthat had been built on this worthless thing fell down at once, like a\nhouse of cards. There was no money now with which to go back rich to\nMoonfleet, no money to cloak past offences, no money to marry Grace; and\nwith that I gave a sigh, and my knees failing should have fallen had not\nElzevir held me.\n\n'Nay, son John,' squeaked the old man, seeing I was so put about, 'take\nit not hardly, for though this is but paste, I say not it is worthless.\nIt is as fine work as ever I have seen, and I will offer you ten silver\ncrowns for it; which is a goodly sum for a sailor-lad to have in hand,\nand more than all the other buyers in this town would bid you for it.'\n\n'Tush, tush,' cried Elzevir, and I could hear the bitterness and\ndisappointment in his voice, however much he tried to hide it; 'we are\nnot come to beg for silver crowns, so keep them in your purse. And the\ndevil take this shining sham; we are well quit of it; there is a curse\nupon the thing!' And with that he caught up the stone and flung it away\nout of the window in his anger.\n\nThis brought the diamond-buyer to his feet in a moment. 'You fool, you\ncursed fool!' he shrieked, 'are you come here to beard me? and when I say\nthe thing is worth ten silver crowns do you fling it to the winds?'\n\nI had sprung forward with a half thought of catching Elzevir's arm; but\nit was too late--the stone flew up in the air, caught the low rays of the\nsetting sun for a moment, and then fell among the flowers. I could not\nsee it as it fell, yet followed with my eyes the line in which it should\nhave fallen, and thought I saw a glimmer where it touched the earth. It\nwas only a flash or sparkle for an instant, just at the stem of that same\nrushy red-flowered plant, and then nothing more to be seen; but as I\nfaced round I saw the little man's eyes turned that way too, and perhaps\nhe saw the flash as well as I.\n\n'There's for your ten crowns!' said Elzevir. 'Let us be going, lad.' And\nhe took me by the arm and marched me out of the room and down the stairs.\n\n'Go, and a blight on you!' says Mr. Aldobrand, his voice being not so\nhigh as when he cried out last, but in his usual squeak; and then he\nrepeated, 'a blight on you,' just for a parting shot as we went through\nthe door.\n\nWe passed two more waiting-men on the stairs, but they said nothing to\nus, and so we came to the street.\n\nWe walked along together for some time without a word, and then\nElzevir said, 'Cheer up, lad, cheer up. Thou saidst thyself thou\nfearedst there was a curse on the thing, so now it is gone, maybe we\nare well quit of it.'\n\nYet I could not say anything, being too much disappointed to find the\ndiamond was a sham, and bitterly cast down at the loss of all our hopes.\nIt was all very well to think there was a curse upon the stone so long as\nwe had it, and to feign that we were ready to part with it; but now it\nwas gone I knew that at heart I never wished to part with it at all, and\nwould have risked any curse to have it back again. There was supper\nwaiting for us when we got back, but I had no stomach for victuals and\nsat moodily while Elzevir ate, and he not much. But when I sat and\nbrooded over what had happened, a new thought came to my mind and I\njumped up and cried, 'Elzevir, we are fools! The stone is no sham; 'tis a\nreal diamond!'\n\nHe put down his knife and fork, and looked at me, not saying anything,\nbut waiting for me to say more, and yet did not show so much surprise as\nI expected. Then I reminded him how the old merchant's face was full of\nwonder and delight when first he saw the stone, which showed he thought\nit was real then, and how afterwards, though he schooled his voice to\nbring out long words to deceive us, he was ready enough to spring to his\nfeet and shriek out loud when Elzevir threw the stone into the garden. I\nspoke fast, and in talking to him convinced myself, so when I stopped for\nwant of breath I was quite sure that the stone was indeed a diamond, and\nthat Aldobrand had duped us.\n\nStill Elzevir showed little eagerness, and only said--\n\n''Tis like enough that what you say is true, but what would you have us\ndo? The stone is flung away.'\n\n'Yes,' I answered; 'but I saw where it fell, and know the very place; let\nus go back now at once and get it.'\n\n'Do you not think that Aldobrand saw the place too?' asked Elzevir; and\nthen I remembered how, when I turned back to the room after seeing the\nstone fall, I caught the eyes of the old merchant looking the same way;\nand how he spoke more quietly after that, and not with the bitter cry he\nused when Elzevir tossed the jewel out of the window.\n\n'I do not know,' I said doubtfully; 'let us go back and see. It fell\njust by the stem of a red flower that I marked well. What!' I added,\nseeing him still hesitate and draw back, 'do you doubt? Shall we not go\nand get it?'\n\nStill he did not answer for a minute, and then spoke slowly, as if\nweighing his words. 'I cannot tell. I think that all you say is true, and\nthat this stone is real. Nay, I was half of that mind when I threw it\naway, and yet I would not say we are not best without it. 'Twas you who\nfirst spoke of a curse upon the jewel, and I laughed at that as being a\nchildish tale. But now I cannot tell; for ever since we first scented\nthis treasure luck has run against us, John; yes, run against us very\nstrong; and here we are, flying from home, called outlaws, and with blood\nupon our hands. Not that blood frightens me, for I have stood face to\nface with men in fair fight, and never felt a death-blow given so weigh\non my soul; but these two men came to a tricksy kind of end, and yet I\ncould not help it. 'Tis true that all my life I've served the\nContraband, but no man ever knew me do a foul action; and now I do not\nlike that men should call me felon, and like it less that they should\ncall thee felon too. Perhaps there may be after all some curse that hangs\nabout this stone, and leads to ruin those that handle it. I cannot say,\nfor I am not a Parson Glennie in these things; but Blackbeard in an evil\nmood may have tied the treasure up to be a curse to any that use it for\nthemselves. What do we want with this thing at all? I have got money to\nbe touched at need; we may lie quiet this side the Channel, where thou\nshalt learn an honest trade, and when the mischief has blown over we will\ngo back to Moonfleet. So let the jewel be, John; shall we not let the\njewel be?'\n\nHe spoke earnestly, and most earnestly at the end, taking me by the hand\nand looking me full in the face. But I could not look him back again, and\nturned my eyes away, for I was wilful, and would not bring myself to let\nthe diamond go. Yet all the while I thought that what he said was true,\nand I remembered that sermon that Mr. Glennie preached, saying that life\nwas like a 'Y', and that to each comes a time when two ways part, and\nwhere he must choose whether he will take the broad and sloping road or\nthe steep and narrow path. So now I guessed that long ago I had chosen\nthe broad road, and now was but walking farther down it in seeking after\nthis evil treasure, and still I could not bear to give all up, and\npersuaded myself that it was a child's folly to madly fling away so fine\na stone. So instead of listening to good advice from one so much older\nthan me, I set to work to talk him over, and persuaded him that if we got\nthe diamond again, and ever could sell it, we would give the money to\nbuild up the Mohune almshouses, knowing well in my heart that I never\nmeant to do any such thing. Thus at the last Elzevir, who was the\nstubbornest of men, and never yielded, was overborne by his great love to\nme, and yielded here.\n\nIt was ten o'clock before we set out together, to go again to\nAldobrand's, meaning to climb the garden wall and get the stone. I walked\nquickly enough, and talked all the time to silence my own misgivings, but\nElzevir hung back a little and said nothing, for it was sorely against\nhis judgement that he came at all. But as we neared the place I ceased my\nchatter, and so we went on in silence, each busy with his own thoughts,\nWe did not come in front of Aldobrand's house, but turned out of the main\nstreet down a side lane which we guessed would skirt the garden wall.\nThere were few people moving even in the streets, and in this little lane\nthere was not a soul to meet as we crept along in the shadow of the high\nwalls. We were not mistaken, for soon we came to what we judged was the\noutside of Aldobrand's garden.\n\nHere we paused for a minute, and I believe Elzevir was for making a last\nremonstrance, but I gave him no chance, for I had found a place where\nsome bricks were loosened in the wall-face, and set myself to climb. It\nwas easy enough to scale for us, and in a minute we both dropped down in\na bed of soft mould on the other side. We pushed through some\ngooseberry-bushes that caught the clothes, and distinguishing the outline\nof the house, made that way, till in a few steps we stood on the\n_Pelouse_ or turf, which I had seen from the balcony three hours before.\nI knew the twirl of the walks, and the pattern of the beds; the rank of\nhollyhocks that stood up all along the wall, and the poppies breathing\nout a faint sickly odour in the night. An utter silence held all the\ngarden, and, the night being very clear, there was still enough light to\nshow the colours of the flowers when one looked close at them, though the\ngreen of the leaves was turned to grey. We kept in the shadow of the\nwall, and looked expectantly at the house. But no murmur came from it, it\nmight have been a house of the dead for any noise the living made there;\nnor was there light in any window, except in one behind the balcony, to\nwhich our eyes were turned first. In that room there was someone not yet\ngone to rest, for we could see a lattice of light where a lamp shone\nthrough the open work of the wooden blinds.\n\n'He is up still,' I whispered, 'and the outside shutters are not closed.'\nElzevir nodded, and then I made straight for the bed where the red flower\ngrew. I had no need of any light to see the bells of that great rushy\nthing, for it was different from any of the rest, and besides that was\nplanted by itself.\n\nI pointed it out to Elzevir. 'The stone lies by the stalk of that\nflower,' I said, 'on the side nearest to the house'; and then I stayed\nhim with my hand upon his arm, that he should stand where he was at the\nbed's edge, while I stepped on and got the stone.\n\nMy feet sank in the soft earth as I passed through the fringe of poppies\ncircling the outside of the bed, and so I stood beside the tall rushy\nflower. The scarlet of its bells was almost black, but there was no\nmistaking it, and I stooped to pick the diamond up. Was it possible? was\nthere nothing for my outstretched hand to finger, except the soft rich\nloam, and on the darkness of the ground no guiding sparkle? I knelt down\nto make more sure, and looked all round the plant, and still found\nnothing, though it was light enough to see a pebble, much more to catch\nthe gleam and flash of the great diamond I knew so well.\n\nIt was not there, and yet I knew that I had seen it fall beyond all room\nfor doubt. 'It is gone, Elzevir; it is gone!' I cried out in my\nanguish, but only heard a 'Hush!' from him to bid me not to speak so\nloud. Then I fell on my knees again, and sifted the mould through my\nfingers, to make sure the stone had not sunk in and been overlooked.\n\nBut it was all to no purpose, and at last I stepped back to where Elzevir\nwas, and begged him to light a piece of match in the shelter of the\nhollyhocks; and I would screen it with my hands, so that the light should\nfall upon the ground, and not be seen from the house, and so search round\nthe flower. He did as I asked, not because he thought that I should find\nanything, but rather to humour me; and, as he put the lighted match into\nmy hands, said, speaking low, 'Let the stone be, lad, let it be; for\neither thou didst fail to mark the place right, or others have been here\nbefore thee. 'Tis ruled we should not touch the stone again, and so 'tis\nbest; let be, let be; let us get home.'\n\nHe put his hand upon my shoulder gently, and spoke with such an\nearnestness and pleading in his voice that one would have thought it was\na woman rather than a great rough giant; and yet I would not hear, and\nbroke away, sheltering the match in my hollowed hands, and making back to\nthe red flower. But this time, just as I stepped upon the mould, coming\nto the bed from the house side, the light fell on the ground, and there I\nsaw something that brought me up short.\n\nIt was but a dint or impress on the soft brown loam, and yet, before my\neyes were well upon it, I knew it for the print of a sharp heel--a sharp\ndeep heel, having just in front of it the outline of a little foot. There\nis a story every boy was given to read when I was young, of Crusoe\nwrecked upon a desert isle, who, walking one day on the shore, was\nstaggered by a single footprint in the sand, because he learnt thus that\nthere were savages in that sad place, where he thought he stood alone.\nYet I believe even that footprint in the sand was never greater blow to\nhim than was this impress in the garden mould to me, for I remembered\nwell the little shoes of polished leather, with their silver buckles and\nhigh-tilted heels.\n\nHe _had_ been here before us. I found another footprint, and another\nleading towards the middle of the bed; and then I flung the match away,\ntrampling the fire out in the soil. It was no use searching farther now,\nfor I knew well there was no diamond here for us.\n\nI stepped back to the lawn, and caught Elzevir by the arm. 'Aldobrand has\nbeen here before us, and stole away the jewel,' I whispered sharp; and\nlooking wildly round in the still night, saw the lattice of lamplight\nshining through the wooden blinds of the balcony window.\n\n'Well, there's an end of it!' said he, 'and we are saved further\nquestion. 'Tis gone, so let us cry good riddance to it and be off.' So he\nturned to go back, and there was one more chance for me to choose the\nbetter way and go with him; but still I could not give the jewel up, and\nmust go farther on the other path which led to ruin for us both. For I\nhad my eyes fixed on the light coming through the blinds of that window,\nand saw how thick and strong the boughs of the pear-tree were trained\nagainst the wall about the balcony.\n\n'Elzevir,' I said, swallowing the bitter disappointment which rose in my\nthroat, 'I cannot go till I have seen what is doing in that room above. I\nwill climb to the balcony and look in through the chinks. Perhaps he is\nnot there, perhaps he has left our diamond there and we may get it back\nagain.' So I went straight to the house, not giving him time to raise a\nword to stop me, for there was something in me driving me on, and I was\nnot to be stopped by anyone from that purpose.\n\nThere was no need to fear any seeing us, for all the windows except that\none, were tight shuttered, and though our footsteps on the soft lawn woke\nno sound, I knew that Elzevir was following me. It was no easy task to\nclimb the pear-tree, for all that the boughs looked so strong, for they\nlay close against the wall, and gave little hold for hand or foot. Twice,\nor more, an unripe pear was broken off, and fell rustling down through\nthe leaves to earth, and I paused and waited to hear if anyone was\ndisturbed in the room above; but all was deathly still, and at last I got\nmy hand upon the parapet, and so came safe to the balcony.\n\nI was panting from the hard climb, yet did not wait to get my breath, but\nmade straight for the window to see what was going on inside. The outer\nshutters were still flung back, as they had been in the afternoon, and\nthere was no difficulty in looking in, for I found an opening in the\nlattice-blind just level with my eyes, and could see all the room inside.\nIt was well lit, as for a marriage feast, and I think there were a score\nof candles or more burning in holders on the table, or in sconces on the\nwall. At the table, on the farther side of it from me, and facing the\nwindow, sat Aldobrand, just as he sat when he told us the stone was a\nsham. His face was turned towards the window, and as I looked full at him\nit seemed impossible but that he should know that I was there.\n\nIn front of him, on the table, lay the diamond--our diamond, my diamond;\nfor I knew it was a diamond now, and not false. It was not alone, but had\na dozen more cut gems laid beside it on the table, each a little apart\nfrom the other; yet there was no mistaking mine, which was thrice as big\nas any of the rest. And if it surpassed them in size, how much more did\nit excel in fierceness and sparkle! All the candles in the room were\nmirrored in it, and as the splendour flashed from every line and facet\nthat I knew so well, it seemed to call to me, 'Am I not queen of all\ndiamonds of the world? am I not your diamond? will you not take me to\nyourself again? will you save me from this sorry trickster?'\n\nI had my eyes fixed, but still knew that Elzevir was beside me. He would\nnot let me risk myself in any hazard alone without he stood by me himself\nto help in case of need; and yet his faithfulness but galled me now, and\nI asked myself with a sneer, Am I never to stir hand or foot without this\nman to dog me? The merchant sat still for a minute as though thinking,\nand then he took one of the diamonds that lay on the table, and then\nanother, and set them close beside the great stone, pitting them, as it\nwere, with it. Yet how could any match with that?--for it outshone them\nall as the sun outshines the stars in heaven.\n\nThen the old man took the stone and weighed it in the scales which stood\non the table before him, balancing it carefully, and a dozen times,\nagainst some little weights of brass; and then he wrote with pen and ink\nin a sheepskin book, and afterwards on a sheet of paper as though casting\nup numbers. What would I not have given to see the figures that he wrote?\nfor was he not casting up the value of the jewel, and summing out the\nprofits he would make? After that he took the stone between finger and\nthumb, holding it up before his eyes, and placing it now this way, now\nthat, so that the light might best fall on it. I could have cursed him\nfor the wondering love of that fair jewel that overspread his face; and\ncursed him ten times more for the smile upon his lips, because I guessed\nhe laughed to think how he had duped two simple sailors that very\nafternoon.\n\nThere was the diamond in his hands--our diamond, my diamond--in his\nhands, and I but two yards from my own; only a flimsy veil of wood and\nglass to keep me from the treasure he had basely stolen from us. Then I\nfelt Elzevir's hand upon my shoulder. 'Let us be going,' he said; 'a\nminute more and he may come to put these shutters to, and find us here.\nLet us be going. Diamonds are not for simple folk like us; this is an\nevil stone, and brings a curse with it. Let us be going, John.'\n\nBut I shook off the kind hand roughly, forgetting how he had saved my\nlife, and nursed me for many weary weeks and stood by me through bad\nand worse; for just now the man at the table rose and took out a little\niron box from a cupboard at the back of the room. I knew that he was\ngoing to lock my treasure into it, and that I should see it no more.\nBut the great jewel lying lonely on the table flashed and sparkled in\nthe light of twenty candles, and called to me, 'Am I not queen of all\ndiamonds of the world? am I not your diamond? save me from the hands of\nthis scurvy robber.'\n\nThen I hurled myself forward with all my weight full on the joining of\nthe window frames, and in a second crashed through the glass, and through\nthe wooden blind into the room behind.\n\nThe noise of splintered wood and glass had not died away before there was\na sound as of bells ringing all over the house, and the wires I had seen\nin the afternoon dangled loose in front of my face. But I cared neither\nfor bells nor wires, for there lay the great jewel flashing before me.\nThe merchant had turned sharp round at the crash, and darted for the\ndiamond, crying 'Thieves! thieves! thieves!' He was nearer to it than I,\nand as I dashed forward our hands met across the table, with his\nunderneath upon the stone. But I gripped him by the wrist, and though he\nstruggled, he was but a weak old man, and in a few seconds I had it\ntwisted from his grasp. In a few seconds--but before they were past the\ndiamond was well in my hand--the door burst open, and in rushed six\nsturdy serving-men with staves and bludgeons.\n\nElzevir had given a little groan when he saw me force the window, but\nfollowed me into the room and was now at my side. 'Thieves! thieves!\nthieves!' screamed the merchant, falling back exhausted in his chair and\npointing to us, and then the knaves fell on too quick for us to make for\nthe window. Two set on me and four on Elzevir; and one man, even a giant,\ncannot fight with four--above all when they carry staves.\n\nNever had I seen Master Block overborne or worsted by any odds; and\nFortune was kind to me, at least in this, that she let me not see the\nissue then, for a staff caught me so round a knock on the head as made\nthe diamond drop out of my hand, and laid me swooning on the floor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\nAT YMEGUEN\n\nAs if a thief should steal a tainted vest,\nSome dead man's spoil, and sicken of his pest--_Hood_\n\n\n'Tis bitterer to me than wormwood the memory of what followed, and I\nshall tell the story in the fewest words I may. We were cast into prison,\nand lay there for months in a stone cell with little light, and only foul\nstraw to lie on. At first we were cut and bruised from that tussle and\ncudgelling in Aldobrand's house, and it was long before we were recovered\nof our wounds, for we had nothing but bread and water to live on, and\nthat so bad as barely to hold body and soul together. Afterwards the\nheavy fetters that were put about our ankles set up sores and galled us\nso that we scarce could move for pain. And if the iron galled my flesh,\nmy spirit chafed ten times more within those damp and dismal walls; yet\nall that time Elzevir never breathed a word of reproach, though it was my\nwilfulness had led us into so terrible a strait.\n\nAt last came our jailer, one morning, and said that we must be brought up\nthat day before the _Geregt_, which is their Court of Assize, to be tried\nfor our crime. So we were marched off to the court-house, in spite of\nsores and heavy irons, and were glad enough to see the daylight once\nmore, and drink the open air, even though it should be to our death that\nwe were walking; for the jailer said they were like to hang us for what\nwe had done. In the court-house our business was soon over, because there\nwere many to speak against us, but none to plead our cause; and all being\ndone in the Dutch language I understood nothing of it, except what\nElzevir told me afterwards.\n\nThere was Mr. Aldobrand in his black gown and buckled shoes with\ntip-tilted heels, standing at a table and giving evidence: How that one\nafternoon in August came two evil-looking English sailors to his house\nunder pretence of selling a diamond, which turned out to be but a lump of\nglass: and that having taken observation of all his dwelling, and more\nparticularly the approaches to his business-room, they went their ways.\nBut later in the same day, or rather night, as he sat matching together\ncertain diamonds for a coronet ordered by the most illustrious the Holy\nRoman Emperor, these same ill-favoured English sailors burst suddenly\nthrough shutters and window, and made forcible entry into his\nbusiness-room. There they furiously attacked him, wrenched the diamond\nfrom his hand, and beat him within an ace of his life. But by the good\nProvidence of God, and his own foresight, the window was fitted with a\ncertain alarm, which rang bells in other parts of the house. Thus his\ntrusty servants were summoned, and after being themselves attacked and\nnearly overborne, succeeded at last in mastering these scurvy ruffians\nand handing them over to the law, from which Mr. Aldobrand claimed\nsovereign justice.\n\nThus much Elzevir explained to me afterwards, but at that time when\nthat pretender spoke of the diamond as being his own, Elzevir cut in\nand said in open court that 'twas a lie, and that this precious stone\nwas none other than the one that we had offered in the afternoon, when\nAldobrand had said 'twas glass. Then the diamond merchant laughed, and\ntook from his purse our great diamond, which seemed to fill the place\nwith light and dazzled half the court. He turned it over in his hand,\npoising it in his palm like a great flourishing lamp of light, and\nasked if 'twas likely that two common sailor-men should hawk a stone\nlike that. Nay more, that the court might know what daring rogues they\nhad to deal with, he pulled out from his pocket the quittance given him\nby Shalamof the Jew of Petersburg, for this same jewel, and showed it\nto the judge. Whether 'twas a forged quittance or one for some other\nstone we knew not, but Elzevir spoke again, saying that the stone was\nours and we had found it in England. When Mr. Aldobrand laughed again,\nand held the jewel up once more: were such pebbles, he asked, found on\nthe shore by every squalid fisherman? And the great diamond flashed as\nhe put it back into his purse, and cried to me, 'Am I not queen of all\nthe diamonds of the world? Must I house with this base rascal?' but I\nwas powerless now to help.\n\nAfter Aldobrand, the serving-men gave witness, telling how they had\ntrapped us in the act, red-handed: and as for this jewel, they had seen\ntheir master handle it any time in these six months past.\n\nBut Elzevir was galled to the quick with all their falsehoods, and burst\nout again, that they were liars and the jewel ours; till a jailer who\nstood by struck him on the mouth and cut his lip, to silence him.\n\nThe process was soon finished, and the judge in his red robes stood up\nand sentenced us to the galleys for life; bidding us admire the mercy\nof the law to Outlanders, for had we been but Dutchmen, we should sure\nhave hanged.\n\nThen they took and marched us out of court, as well as we could walk for\nfetters, and Elzevir with a bleeding mouth. But as we passed the place\nwhere Aldobrand sat, he bows to me and says in English, 'Your servant,\nMr. Trenchard. I wish you a good day, Sir John Trenchard--of Moonfleet,\nin Dorset.' The jailer paused a moment, hearing Aldobrand speak to us\nthough not understanding what he said, so I had time to answer him:\n\n'Good day, Sir Aldobrand, Liar, and Thief; and may the diamond bring you\nevil in this present life, and damnation in that which is to come.'\n\nSo we parted from him, and at that same time departed from our liberty\nand from all joys of life.\n\nWe were fettered together with other prisoners in droves of six, our\nwrists manacled to a long bar, but I was put into a different gang from\nElzevir. Thus we marched a ten days' journey into the country to a place\ncalled Ymeguen, where a royal fortress was building. That was a weary\nmarch for me, for 'twas January, with wet and miry roads, and I had\nlittle enough clothes upon my back to keep off rain and cold. On either\nside rode guards on horseback, with loaded flint-locks across the\nsaddlebow, and long whips in their hands with which they let fly at any\nlaggard; though 'twas hard enough for men to walk where the mud was over\nthe horses' fetlocks. I had no chance to speak to Elzevir all the\njourney, and indeed spoke nothing at all, for those to whom I was chained\nwere brute beasts rather than men, and spoke only in Dutch to boot.\n\nThere was but little of the building of the fortress begun when we\nreached Ymeguen, and the task that we were set to was the digging of the\ntrenches and other earthworks. I believe that there were five hundred men\nemployed in this way, and all of them condemned like us to galley-work\nfor life. We were divided into squads of twenty-five, but Elzevir was\ndrafted to another squad and a different part of the workings, so I saw\nhim no more except at odd times, now and again, when our gangs met, and\nwe could exchange a word or two in passing.\n\nThus I had no solace of any company but my own, and was driven to\nthinking, and to occupy my mind with the recollection of the past. And at\nfirst the life of my boyhood, now lost for ever, was constantly present\neven in my dreams, and I would wake up thinking that I was at school\nagain under Mr. Glennie, or talking in the summer-house with Grace, or\nclimbing Weatherbeech Hill with the salt Channel breeze singing through\nthe trees. But alas! these things faded when I opened my eyes, and knew\nthe foul-smelling wood-hut and floor of fetid straw where fifty of us lay\nin fetters every night; I say I dreamt these things at first, but by\ndegrees remembrance grew blunted and the images less clear, and even\nthese sweet, sad visions of the night came to me less often. Thus life\nbecame a weary round, in which month followed month, season followed\nseason, year followed year, and brought always the same eternal\nprofitless-work. And yet the work was merciful, for it dulled the biting\nedge of thought, and the unchanging evenness of life gave wings to time.\n\nIn all the years the locusts ate for me at Ymeguen, there is but one\nthing I need speak of here. I had been there a week when I was loosed one\nmorning from my irons, and taken from work into a little hut apart, where\nthere stood a half-dozen of the guard, and in the midst a stout wooden\nchair with clamps and bands. A fire burned on the floor, and there was a\nfume and smoke that filled the air with a smell of burned meat. My heart\nmisgave me when I saw that chair and fire, and smelt that sickly smell,\nfor I guessed this was a torture room, and these the torturers waiting.\nThey forced me into the chair and bound me there with lashings and a\ncramp about the head; and then one took a red-iron from the fire upon the\nfloor, and tried it a little way from his hand to prove the heat. I had\nscrewed up my heart to bear the pain as best I might, but when I saw that\niron sighed for sheer relief, because I knew it for only a branding tool,\nand not the torture. And so they branded me on the left cheek, setting\nthe iron between the nose and cheek-bone, where 'twas plainest to be\nseen. I took the pain and scorching light enough, seeing that I had\nlooked for much worse, and should not have made mention of the thing here\nat all, were it not for the branding mark they used. Now this mark was a\n'Y', being the first letter of Ymeguen, and set on all the prisoners that\nworked there, as I found afterwards; but to me 'twas much more than a\nmere letter, and nothing less than the black 'Y' itself, or _cross-pall_\nof the Mohunes. Thus as a sheep is marked, with his owner's keel and can\nbe claimed wherever he may be, so here was I branded with the keel of\nthe Mohunes and marked for theirs in life or death, whithersoever I\nshould wander. 'Twas three months after that, and the mark healed and\nwell set, that I saw Elzevir again; and as we passed each other in the\ntrench and called a greeting, I saw that he too bore the _cross-pall_\nfull on his left cheek.\n\nThus years went on and I was grown from boy to man, and that no weak one\neither: for though they gave us but scant food and bad, the air was fresh\nand strong, because Ymeguen was meant for palace as well as fortress, and\nthey chose a healthful site. And by degrees the moats were dug, and\nramparts built, and stone by stone the castle rose till 'twas near the\nfinish, and so our labour was not wanted. Every day squads of our\nfellow-prisoners marched away, and my gang was left till nearly last,\nbeing engaged in making good a culvert that heavy rains had broken down.\n\nIt was in the tenth year of our captivity, and in the twenty-sixth of my\nage, that one morning instead of the guard marching us to work, they\nhanded us over to a party of mounted soldiers, from whose matchlocks and\nlong whips I knew that we were going to leave Ymeguen. Before we left,\nanother gang joined us, and how my heart went out when I saw Elzevir\namong them! It was two years or more since we had met even to pass a\ngreeting, for I worked outside the fortress and he on the great tower\ninside, and I took note his hair was whiter and a sadder look upon his\nface. And as for the _cross-pall_ on his cheek, I never thought of it at\nall, for we were all so well used to the mark, that if one bore it not\nstamped upon his face we should have stared at him as on a man born with\nbut one eye. But though his look was sad, yet Elzevir had a kind smile\nand hearty greeting for me as he passed, and on the march, when they\nserved out our food, we got a chance to speak a word or two together.\nYet how could we find room for much gladness, for even the pleasure of\nmeeting was marred because we were forced thus to take note, as it were,\nof each other's misery, and to know that the one had nothing for his old\nage but to break in prison, and the other nothing but the prison to eat\naway the strength of his prime.\n\nBefore long, all knew whither we were bound, for it leaked out we were\nto march to the Hague and thence to Scheveningen, to take ship to the\nsettlements of Java, where they use transported felons on the sugar\nfarms. Was this the end of young hopes and lofty aims--to live and die a\nslave in the Dutch plantations? Hopes of Grace, hopes of seeing\nMoonfleet again, were dead long long ago; and now was there to be no\nhope of liberty, or even wholesome air, this side the grave, but only\nburning sun and steaming swamps, and the crack of the slave-driver's\nwhip till the end came? Could it be so? Could it be so? And yet what\nhelp was there, or what release? Had I not watched ten years for any\ngleam or loophole of relief, and never found it? If we were shut in\ncells or dungeons in the deepest rock we might have schemed escape, but\nhere in the open, fettered up in-droves, what could we do? They were\nbitter thoughts enough that filled my heart as I trudged along the rough\nroads, fettered by my wrist to the long bar; and seeing Elzevir's white\nhair and bowed shoulders trudging in front of me, remembered when that\nhead had scarce a grizzle on it, and the back was straight as the\nmassive stubborn pillars in old Moonfleet church. What was it had\nbrought us to this pitch? And then I called to mind a July evening,\nyears ago, the twilight summer-house and a sweet grave voice that said,\n'Have a care how you touch the treasure: it was evilly come by and will\nbring a curse with it.' Ay, 'twas the diamond had done it all, and\nbrought a blight upon my life, since that first night I spent in\nMoonfleet vault; and I cursed the stone, and Blackbeard and his lost\nMohunes, and trudged on bearing their cognizance branded on my face.\n\nWe marched back to the Hague, and through that very street where\nAldobrand dwelt, only the house was shut, and the board that bore his\nname taken away; so it seemed that he had left the place or else was\ndead. Thus we reached the quays at last, and though I knew that I was\nleaving Europe and leaving all hope behind, yet 'twas a delight to smell\nthe sea again, and fill my nostrils with the keen salt air.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\nIN THE BAY\n\nLet broad leagues dissever\n  Him from yonder foam,\nO God! to think man ever\n  Comes too near his home--_Hood_\n\n\nThe ship that was to carry us swung at the buoy a quarter of a mile\noffshore, and there were row-boats waiting to take us to her. She was a\nbrig of some 120 tons burthen, and as we came under the stern I saw her\nname was the _Aurungzebe_.\n\n'Twas with regret unspeakable I took my last look at Europe; and casting\nmy eyes round saw the smoke of the town dark against the darkening sky;\nyet knew that neither smoke nor sky was half as black as was the prospect\nof my life.\n\nThey sent us down to the orlop or lowest deck, a foul place where was no\nair nor light, and shut the hatches down on top of us. There were thirty\nof us all told, hustled and driven like pigs into this deck, which was to\nbe our pigsty for six months or more. Here was just light enough, when\nthey had the hatches off, to show us what sort of place it was, namely,\nas foul as it smelt, with never table, seat, nor anything, but roughest\nplanks and balks; and there they changed our bonds, taking away the bar,\nand putting a tight bracelet round one wrist, with a padlocked chain\nrunning through a loop on it. Thus we were still ironed, six together,\nbut had a greater freedom and more scope to move. And more than this, the\nman who shifted the chains, whether through caprice, or perhaps because\nhe really wished to show us what pity he might, padlocked me on to the\nsame chain with Elzevir, saying, we were English swine and might sink or\nswim together. Then the hatches were put on, and there they left us in\nthe dark to think or sleep or curse the time away. The weariness of\nYmeguen was bad indeed, and yet it was a heaven to this night of hell,\nwhere all we had to look for was twice a day the moving of the hatches,\nand half an hour's glimmer of a ship's lantern, while they served us out\nthe broken victuals that the Dutch crew would not eat.\n\nI shall say nothing of the foulness of this place, because 'twas too\nfoul to be written on paper; and if 'twas foul at starting, 'twas ten\ntimes worse when we reached open sea, for of all the prisoners only\nElzevir and I were sailors, and the rest took the motion unkindly.\n\nFrom the first we made bad weather of it, for though we were below and\ncould see nothing, yet 'twas easy enough to tell there was a heavy\nhead-sea running, almost as soon as we were well out of harbour.\nAlthough Elzevir and I had not had any chance of talking freely for so\nlong, and were now able to speak as we liked, being linked so close\ntogether, we said but little. And this, not because we did not value\nvery greatly one another's company, but because we had nothing to talk\nof except memories of the past, and those were too bitter, and came too\nreadily to our minds, to need any to summon them. There was, too, the\nbanishment from Europe, from all and everything we loved, and the awful\ncertainty of slavery that lay continuously on us like a weight of lead.\nThus we said little.\n\nWe had been out a week, I think--for time is difficult enough to measure\nwhere there is neither clock nor sun nor stars--when the weather, which\nhad moderated a little, began to grow much worse. The ship plunged and\nlaboured heavily, and this added much to our discomfort; because there\nwas nothing to hold on by, and unless we lay flat on the filthy deck, we\nran a risk of being flung to the side whenever there came a more violent\nlurch or roll. Though we were so deep down, yet the roaring of wind and\nwave was loud enough to reach us, and there was such a noise when the\nship went about, such grinding of ropes, with creaking and groaning of\ntimbers, as would make a landsman fear the brig was going to pieces. And\nthis some of our fellow-prisoners feared indeed, and fell to crying, or\nkneeling chained together as they were upon the sloping deck, while they\ntried to remember long-forgotten prayers. For my own part, I wondered why\nthese poor wretches should pray to be delivered from the sea, when all\nthat was before them was lifelong slavery; but I was perhaps able to look\nmore calmly on the matter myself as having been at sea, and not thinking\nthat the vessel was going to founder because of the noise. Yet the storm\nrose till 'twas very plain that we were in a raging sea, and the streams\nwhich began to trickle through the joinings of the hatch showed that\nwater had got below.\n\n'I have known better ships go under for less than this,' Elzevir said to\nme; 'and if our skipper hath not a tight craft, and stout hands to work\nher, there will soon be two score slaves the less to cut the canes in\nJava. I cannot guess where we are now--may be off Ushant, may be not so\nfar, for this sea is too short for the Bay; but the saints send us\nsea-room, for we have been wearing these three hours.'\n\n'Twas true enough that we had gone to wearing, as one might tell from the\nheavier roll or wallowing when we went round, instead of the plunging of\na tack; but there was no chance of getting at our whereabouts. The only\nthing we had to reckon time withal, was the taking off of the hatch twice\na day for food; and even this poor clock kept not the hour too well, for\noften there were such gaps and intervals as made our bellies pine, and at\nthis present we had waited so long that I craved even that filthy broken\nmeat they fed us with.\n\nSo we were glad enough to hear a noise at the hatch just as Elzevir had\ndone speaking, and the cover was flung off, letting in a splash of salt\nwater and a little dim and dusky light. But instead of the guard with\ntheir muskets and lanterns and the tubs of broken victuals, there was\nonly one man, and that the jailer who had padlocked us into gangs at the\nbeginning of the voyage.\n\nHe bent down for a moment over the hatch, holding on to the combing to\nsteady himself in the sea-way, and flung a key on a chain down into the\norlop, right among us. 'Take it,' he shouted in Dutch, 'and make the most\nof it. God helps the brave, and the devil takes the hindmost.'\n\nThat said, he stayed not one moment, but turned about quick and was gone.\nFor an instant none knew what this play portended, and there was the key\nlying on the deck, and the hatch left open. Then Elzevir saw what it all\nmeant, and seized the key. 'John,' cries he, speaking to me in English,\n'the ship is foundering, and they are giving us a chance to save our\nlives, and not drown like rats in a trap.' With that he tried the key on\nthe padlock which held our chain, and it fitted so well that in a trice\nour gang was free. Off fell the chain clanking on the floor, and nothing\nleft of our bonds but an iron bracelet clamped round the left wrist. You\nmay be sure the others were quick enough to make use of the key when they\nknew what 'twas, but we waited not to see more, but made for the ladder.\n\nNow Elzevir and I, being used to the sea, were first through the hatchway\nabove, and oh, the strength and sweet coolness of the sea air, instead of\nthe warm, fetid reek of the orlop below! There was a good deal of water\nsousing about on the main deck, but nothing to show the ship was sinking,\nyet none of the crew was to be seen. We stayed there not a second, but\nmoved to the companion as fast as we could for the heavy pitching of the\nship, and so came on deck.\n\nThe dusk of a winter's evening was setting in, yet with ample light to\nsee near at hand, and the first thing I perceived was that the deck was\nempty. There was not a living soul but us upon it. The brig was broached\nto, with her bows against the heaviest sea I ever saw, and the waves\nswept her fore and aft; so we made for the tail of the deck-house, and\nthere took stock. But before we got there I knew why 'twas the crew were\ngone, and why they let us loose, for Elzevir pointed to something whither\nwe were drifting, and shouted in my ear so that I heard it above all the\nraging of the tempest--'We are on a lee shore.'\n\nWe were lying head to sea, and never a bit of canvas left except one\nstorm-staysail. There were tattered ribands fluttering on the yards to\nshow where the sails had been blown away, and every now and then the\nstaysail would flap like a gun going off, to show it wanted to follow\nthem. But for all we lay head to sea, we were moving backwards, and each\ngreat wave as it passed carried us on stern first with a leap and\nswirling lift. 'Twas over the stern that Elzevir pointed, in the course\nthat we were going, and there was such a mist, what with the wind and\nrain and spindrift, that one could see but a little way. And yet I saw\ntoo far, for in the mist to which we were making a sternboard, I saw a\nwhite line like a fringe or valance to the sea; and then I looked to\nstarboard, and there was the same white fringe, and then to larboard, and\nthe white fringe was there too. Only those who know the sea know how\nterrible were Elzevir's words uttered in such a place. A moment before I\nwas exalted with the keen salt wind, and with a hope and freedom that\nhad been strangers for long; but now 'twas all dashed, and death, that is\nso far off to the young, had moved nearer by fifty years--was moving a\nyear nearer every minute.\n\n'We are on a lee shore,' Elzevir shouted; and I looked and knew what the\nwhite fringe was, and that we should be in the breakers in half an hour.\nWhat a whirl of wind and wave and sea, what a whirl of thought and wild\nconjecture! What was that land to which we were drifting? Was it cliff,\nwith deep water and iron face, where a good ship is shattered at a blow,\nand death comes like a thunder-clap? Or was it shelving sand, where there\nis stranding, and the pound, pound, pound of the waves for howls, before\nshe goes to pieces and all is over?\n\nWe were in a bay, for there was the long white crescent of surf reaching\nfar away on either side, till it was lost in the dusk, and the brig\nhelpless in the midst of it. Elzevir had hold of my arm, and gripped it\nhard as he looked to larboard. I followed his eyes, and where one horn of\nthe white crescent faded into the mist, caught a dark shadow in the air,\nand knew it was high land looming behind. And then the murk and driving\nrain lifted ever so little, and as it were only for that purpose; and we\nsaw a misty bluff slope down into the sea, like the long head of a\nbasking alligator poised upon the water, and stared into each other's\neyes, and cried together, 'The Snout!'\n\nIt had vanished almost before it was seen, and yet we knew there was no\nmistake; it was the Snout that was there looming behind the moving rack,\nand we were in Moonfleet Bay. Oh, what a rush of thought then came,\ndazing me with its sweet bitterness, to think that after all these weary\nyears of prison and exile we had come back to Moonfleet! We were so near\nto all we loved, so near--only a mile of broken water--and yet so far,\nfor death lay between, and we had come back to Moonfleet to die. There\nwas a change came over Elzevir's features when he saw the Snout; his face\nhad lost its sadness and wore a look of sober happiness. He put his mouth\nclose to my ear and said: 'There is some strange leading hand has brought\nus home at last, and I had rather drown on Moonfleet Beach than live in\nprison any more, and drown we must within an hour. Yet we will play the\nman, and make a fight for life.' And then, as if gathering together all\nhis force: 'We have weathered bad times together, and who knows but we\nshall weather this?'\n\nThe other prisoners were on deck now, and had found their way aft. They\nwere wild with fear, being landsmen and never having seen an angry sea,\nand indeed that sea might have frighted sailors too. So they stumbled\nalong drenched with the waves, and clustered round Elzevir, for they\nlooked on him as a leader, because he knew the ways of the sea and was\nthe only one left calm in this dreadful strait.\n\nIt was plain that when the Dutch crew found they were embayed, and that\nthe ship must drift into the breakers, they had taken to the boats, for\ngig and jolly-boat were gone and only the pinnace left amidships. 'Twas\ntoo heavy a boat perhaps for them to have got out in such a fearful sea;\nbut there it lay, and it was to that the prisoners turned their eyes.\nSome had hold of Elzevir's arms, some fell upon the deck and caught him\nby the knees, beseeching him to show them how to get the pinnace out.\n\nThen he spoke out, shouting to make them hear: 'Friends, any man that\ntakes to boat is lost. I know this bay and know this beach, and was\nindeed born hereabouts, but never knew a boat come to land in such a sea,\nsave bottom uppermost. So if you want my counsel, there you have it,\nnamely, to stick by the ship. In half an hour we shall be in the\nbreakers; and I will put the helm up and try to head the brig bows on to\nthe beach; so every man will have a chance to fight for his own life, and\nGod have mercy on those that drown.'\n\nI knew what he said was the truth, and there was nothing for it but to\nstick to the ship, though that was small chance enough; but those poor,\nfear-demented souls would have nothing of his advice now 'twas given,\nand must needs go for the boat. Then some came up from below who had been\nin the spirit-room and were full of drink and drink-courage, and\nheartened on the rest, saying they would have the pinnace out, and every\nsoul should be saved. Indeed, Fate seemed to point them that road, for a\nheavier sea than any came on board, and cleared away a great piece of\nlarboard bulwarks that had been working loose, and made, as it were, a\nclear launching-way for the boat. Again did Elzevir try to prevail with\nthem to stand by the ship, but they turned away and all made for the\npinnace. It lay amidships and was a heavy boat enough, but with so many\nhands to help they got it to the broken bulwarks. Then Elzevir, seeing\nthey would have it out at any price, showed them how to take advantage of\nthe sea, and shifted the helm a little till the _Aurungzebe_ fell off to\nlarboard, and put the gap in the bulwarks on the lee. So in a few minutes\nthere it lay at a rope's-end on the sheltered side, deep laden with\nthirty men, who were ill found with oars, and much worse found with skill\nto use them. There were one or two, before they left, shouted to Elzevir\nand me to try to make us follow them; partly, I think, because they\nreally liked Elzevir, and partly that they might have a sailor in the\nboat to direct them; but the others cast off and left us with a curse,\nsaying that we might go and drown for obstinate Englishmen.\n\nSo we two were left alone on the brig, which kept drifting backwards\nslowly; but the pinnace was soon lost to sight, though we saw that they\nwere rowing wild as soon as she passed out of the shelter of the ship,\nand that they had much ado to keep her head to the sea.\n\nThen Elzevir went to the kicking-wheel, and beckoned me to help him, and\nbetween us we put the helm hard up. I saw then that he had given up all\nhope of the wind shifting, and was trying to run her dead for the beach.\n\nShe was broached-to with her bows in the wind, but gradually paid off as\nthe staysail filled, and so she headed straight for shore. The November\nnight had fallen, and it was very dark, only the white fringe of the\nbreakers could be seen, and grew plainer as we drew closer to it. The\nwind was blowing fiercer than ever, and the waves broke more fiercely\nnearer the shore. They had lost their dirty yellow colour when the light\ndied, and were rolling after us like great black mountains, with a\ncombing white top that seemed as if they must overwhelm us every minute.\nTwice they pooped us, and we were up to our waists in icy water, but\nstill held to the wheel for our lives.\n\nThe white line was nearer to us now, and above all the rage of wind and\nsea I could hear the awful roar of the under-tow sucking back the\npebbles on the beach. The last time I could remember hearing that roar\nwas when I lay, as a boy, one summer's night 'twixt sleep and waking, in\nthe little whitewashed bedroom at my aunt's; and I wondered now if any\nsat before their inland hearths this night, and hearing that far distant\nroar, would throw another log on the fire, and thank God they were not\nfighting for their lives in Moonfleet Bay. I could picture all that was\ngoing on this night on the beach--how Ratsey and the landers would have\nsighted the _Aurungzebe,_ perhaps at noon, perhaps before, and knew she\nwas embayed, and nothing could save her but the wind drawing to east.\nBut the wind would hold pinned in the south, and they would see sail\nafter sail blown off her, and watch her wear and wear, and every time\ncome nearer in; and the talk would run through the street that there was\na ship could not weather the Snout, and must come ashore by sundown.\nThen half the village would be gathered on the beach, with the men ready\nto risk their lives for ours, and in no wise wishing for the ship to be\nwrecked; yet anxious not to lose their chance of booty, if Providence\nshould rule that wrecked she must be. And I knew Ratsey would be there,\nand Damen, Tewkesbury, and Laver, and like enough Parson Glennie, and\nperhaps--and at that perhaps, my thoughts came back to where we were,\nfor I heard Elzevir speaking to me:\n\n'Look,' he said, 'there's a light!'\n\n'Twas but the faintest twinkle, or not even that; only something that\ntold there was a light behind drift and darkness. It grew clearer as we\nlooked at it, and again was lost in the mirk, and then Elzevir said,\n'Maskew's Match!'\n\nIt was a long-forgotten name that came to me from so far off, down such\nlong alleys of the memory, that I had, as it were, to grope and grapple\nwith it to know what it should mean. Then it all came back, and I was a\nboy again on the trawler, creeping shorewards in the light breeze of an\nAugust night, and watching that friendly twinkle from the Manor woods\nabove the village. Had she not promised she would keep that lamp alight\nto guide all sailors every night till I came back again; was she not\nwaiting still for me, was I not coming back to her now? But what a coming\nback! No more a boy, not on an August night, but broken, branded convict\nin the November gale! 'Twas well, indeed, there was between us that white\nfringe of death, that she might never see what I had fallen to.\n\n'Twas likely Elzevir had something of the same thoughts, for he spoke\nagain, forgetting perhaps that I was man now, and no longer boy, and\nusing a name he had not used for years. 'Johnnie,' he said, 'I am cold\nand sore downhearted. In ten minutes we shall be in the surf. Go down to\nthe spirit locker, drink thyself, and bring me up a bottle here. We\nshall both need a young man's strength, and I have not got it any more.'\n\nI did as he bid me, and found the locker though the cabin was all awash,\nand having drunk myself, took him the bottle back. 'Twas good Hollands\nenough, being from the captain's own store, but nothing to the old Ararat\nmilk of the Why Not? Elzevir took a pull at it, and then flung the bottle\naway. 'Tis sound liquor,' he laughed, '\"and good for autumn chills\", as\nRatsey would have said.'\n\nWe were very near the white fringe now, and the waves followed us higher\nand more curling. Then there was a sickly wan glow that spread itself\nthrough the watery air in front of us, and I knew that they were burning\na blue light on the beach. They would all be there waiting for us,\nthough we could not see them, and they did not know that there were only\ntwo men that they were signalling to, and those two Moonfleet born. They\nburn that light in Moonfleet Bay just where a little streak of clay\ncrops out beneath the pebbles, and if a vessel can make that spot she\ngets a softer bottom. So we put the wheel over a bit, and set her\nstraight for the flare.\n\nThere was a deafening noise as we came near the shore, the shrieking of\nthe wind in the rigging, the crash of the combing seas, and over all the\nawful grinding roar of the under-tow sucking down the pebbles.\n\n'It is coming now,' Elzevir said; and I could see dim figures moving in\nthe misty glare from the blue light; and then, just as the _Aurungzebe_\nwas making fair for the signal, a monstrous combing sea pooped her and\nwashed us both from the wheel, forward in a swirling flood. We grasped at\nanything we could, and so brought up bruised and half-drowned in the\nfore-chains; but as the wheel ran free, another sea struck her and\nslewed her round. There was a second while the water seemed over, under,\nand on every side, and then the _Aurungzebe_ went broadside on Moonfleet\nbeach, with a noise like thunder and a blow that stunned us.\n\nI have seen ships come ashore in that same place before and since, and\nbump on and off with every wave, till the stout balks could stand the\npounding no more and parted. But 'twas not so with our poor brig, for\nafter that first fearful shock she never moved again, being flung so firm\nupon the beach by one great swamping wave that never another had power to\nuproot her. Only she careened over beachwards, turning herself away from\nthe seas, as a child bows his head to escape a cruel master's ferule, and\nthen her masts broke off, first the fore and then the main, with a\nsplitting crash that made itself heard above all.\n\nWe were on the lee side underneath the shelter of the deckhouse clinging\nto the shrouds, now up to our knees in water as the wave came on, now\nleft high and dry when it went back. The blue light was still burning,\nbut the ship was beached a little to the right of it, and the dim group\nof fishermen had moved up along the beach till they were opposite us.\nThus we were but a hundred feet distant from them, but 'twas the interval\nof death and life, for between us and the shore was a maddened race of\nseething water, white foaming waves that leapt up from all sides against\nour broken bulwarks, or sucked back the pebbles with a grinding roar till\nthey left the beach nearly dry.\n\nWe stood there for a minute hanging on, and waiting for resolution to\ncome back to us after the shock of grounding. On the weather side the\nseas struck and curled over the brig with a noise like thunder, and the\nforce of countless tons. They came over the top of the deck-house in a\ncataract of solid water, and there was a crash, crash, crash of rending\nwood, as plank after plank gave way before that stern assault. We could\nfeel the deck-house itself quiver, and shake again as we stood with our\nbacks against it, and at last it moved so much that we knew it must soon\nbe washed over on us.\n\nThe moment had come. 'We must go after the next big wave runs back,'\nElzevir shouted. 'Jump when I give the word, and get as far up the\npebbles as you can before the next comes in: they will throw us a\nrope's-end to catch; so now good-bye, John, and God save us both!'\n\nI wrung his hand, and took off my convict clothes, keeping my boots on to\nmeet the pebbles, and was so cold that I almost longed for the surf. Then\nwe stood waiting side by side till a great wave came in, turning the\nspace 'twixt ship and shore into a boiling caldron: a minute later 'twas\nall sucked back again with a roar, and we jumped.\n\nI fell on hands and feet where the water was a yard deep under the ship,\nbut got my footing and floundered through the slop, in a desperate\nstruggle to climb as high as might be on the beach before the next wave\ncame in. I saw the string of men lashed together and reaching down as\nfar as man might, to save any that came through the surf, and heard them\nshout to cheer us, and marked a coil of rope flung out. Elzevir was by\nmy side and saw it too, and we both kept our feet and plunged forward\nthrough the quivering slack water; but then there came an awful thunder\nbehind, the crash of the sea over the wreck, and we knew that another\nmountain wave was on our heels. It came in with a swishing roar, a rush\nand rise of furious water that swept us like corks up the beach, till we\nwere within touch of the rope's-end, and the men shouted again to\nhearten us as they flung it out. Elzevir seized it with his left hand\nand reached out his right to me. Our fingers touched, and in that very\nmoment the wave fell instantly, with an awful suck, and I was swept\ndown the beach again. Yet the under-tow took me not back to sea, for\namid the floating wreckage floated the shattered maintop, and in the\ntruck of that great spar I caught, and so was left with it upon the\nbeach thirty paces from the men and Elzevir. Then he left his own\nassured salvation, namely the rope, and strode down again into the very\njaws of death to catch me by the hand and set me on my feet. Sight and\nbreath were failing me; I was numb with cold and half-dead from the\nbuffeting of the sea; yet his giant strength was powerful to save me\nthen, as it had saved me before. So when we heard once more the warning\ncrash and thunder of the returning wave we were but a fathom distant\nfrom the rope. 'Take heart, lad,' he cried; ''tis now or never,' and as\nthe water reached our breasts gave me a fierce shove forward with his\nhands. There was a roar of water in my ears, with a great shouting of\nthe men upon the beach, and then I caught the rope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\nON THE BEACH\n\nToll for the brave,\n  The grave that are no more;\nAll sunk beneath the wave\n  Fast by their native shore--_Cowper_\n\n\nThe night was cold, and I had nothing on me save breeches and boots, and\nthose drenched with the sea, and had been wrestling with the surf so long\nthat there was little left in me. Yet once I clutched the rope I clung to\nit for very life, and in a minute found myself in the midst of the\nbeachmen. I heard them shout again, and felt strong hands seize me, but\ncould not see their faces for a mist that swam before my eyes, and could\nnot speak because my throat and tongue were cracked with the salt water,\nand the voice would not come. There was a crowd about me of men and some\nwomen, and I spread out my hands, blindly, to catch hold of them, but my\nknees failed and let me down upon the beach. And after that I remember\nonly having coats flung over me, and being carried off out of the wind,\nand laid in warmest blankets before a fire. I was numb with the cold, my\nhair was matted with the salt, and my flesh white and shrivelled, but\nthey forced liquor into my mouth, and so I lay in drowsy content till\nutter weariness bound me in sleep.\n\nIt was a deep and dreamless sleep for hours, and when it left me, gently\nand as it were inch by inch, I found I was still lying wrapped in\nblankets by the fire. Oh, what a vast and infinite peace was that, to lie\nthere half-asleep, yet wake enough to know that I had slipped my prison\nand the pains of death, and was a free man here in my native place! At\nlast I shifted myself a little, growing more awake; and opening my eyes\nsaw I was not alone, for two men sat at a table by me with glasses and a\nbottle before them.\n\n'He is coming-to,' said one, 'and may live yet to tell us who he is, and\nfrom what port his craft sailed.'\n\n'There has been many a craft,' the other said, 'has sailed for many a\nport, and made this beach her last; and many an honest man has landed on\nit, and never one alive in such a sea. Nor would this one be living\neither, if it had not been for that other brave heart to stand by and\nsave him. Brave heart, brave heart,' he said over to himself. 'Here, pass\nme the bottle or I shall get the vapours. 'Tis good against these early\nchills, and I have not been in this place for ten years past, since poor\nElzevir was cut adrift.'\n\nI could not see the speaker's face from where I lay upon the floor, yet\nseemed to know his voice; and so was fumbling in my weakened mind to put\na name to it, when he spoke of Elzevir, and sent my thoughts flying\nelsewhere.\n\n'Elzevir,' I said, 'where is Elzevir?' and sat up to look round,\nexpecting to see him lying near me, and remembering the wreck more\nclearly now, and how he had saved me with that last shove forward on the\nbeach. But he was not to be seen, and so I guessed that his great\nstrength had brought him round quicker than had my youth, and that he was\ngone back to the beach.\n\n'Hush,' said one of the men at the table, 'lie down and get to sleep\nagain'; and then he added, speaking to his comrade: 'His brain is\nwandering yet: do you see how he has caught up my words about Elzevir?'\n\n'No,' I struck in, 'my head is clear enough; I am speaking of Elzevir\nBlock. I pray you tell me where he is. Is he well again?' They got up\nand stared at one another and at me, when I named Elzevir Block, and then\nI knew the one that spoke for Master Ratsey only greyer than he was.\n\n'Who are you?' he cried, 'who talk of Elzevir Block.'\n\n'Do you not know me, Master Ratsey?' and I looked full in his face. 'I am\nJohn Trenchard, who left you so long ago. I pray you tell me where is\nMaster Block?'\n\nMaster Ratsey looked as if he had seen a ghost, and was struck dumb at\nfirst: but then ran up and shook me by the hand so warmly that I fell\nback again on my pillow, while he poured out questions in a flood. How\nhad I fared, where had I been, whence had I come? until I stopped him,\nsaying: 'Softly, kind friend, and I will answer; only tell me first,\nwhere is Master Elzevir?'\n\n'Nay, that I cannot say,' he answered, 'for never a soul has set eyes on\nElzevir since that summer morning we put thee and him ashore at Newport.'\n\n'Oh, fool me not!' I cried out, chafing at his excuses; 'I am not\nwandering now. 'Twas Elzevir that saved me in the surf last night. 'Twas\nhe that landed with me.'\n\nThere was a look of sad amaze that came on Ratsey's face when I said\nthat; a look that woke in me an awful surmise. 'What!' cried he, 'was\nthat Master Elzevir that dragged thee through the surf?'\n\n'Ay, 'twas he landed with me, 'twas he landed with me,' I said; trying,\nas it were, to make true by repeating that which I feared was not the\ntruth. There was a minute's silence, and then Ratsey spoke very softly:\n'There was none landed with you; there was no soul saved from that ship\nalive save you.'\n\nHis words fell, one by one, upon my ear as if they were drops of molten\nlead. 'It is not true,' I cried; 'he pulled me up the beach himself, and\nit was he that pushed me forward to the rope.'\n\n'Ay, he saved thee, and then the under-tow got hold of him and swept him\ndown under the curl. I could not see his face, but might have known there\nnever was a man, save Elzevir, could fight the surf on Moonfleet beach\nlike that. Yet had we known 'twas he, we could have done no more, for\nmany risked their lives last night to save you both. We could have done\nno more.' Then I gave a great groan for utter anguish, to think that he\nhad given up the safety he had won for himself, and laid down his life,\nthere on the beach, for me; to think that he had died on the threshold of\nhis home; that I should never get a kind look from him again, nor ever\nhear his kindly voice.\n\nIt is wearisome to others to talk of deep grief, and beside that no\nwords, even of the wisest man, can ever set it forth, nor even if we were\nable could our memory bear to tell it. So I shall not speak more of that\nterrible blow, only to say that sorrow, so far from casting my body down,\nas one might have expected, gave it strength, and I rose up from the\nmattress where I had been lying. They tried to stop me, and even to hold\nme back, but for all I was so weak, I pushed them aside and must needs\nfling a blanket round me and away back to the beach.\n\nThe morning was breaking as I left the Why Not?, for 'twas in no other\nplace but that I lay, and the wind, though still high, had abated. There\nwere light clouds crossing the heaven very swiftly, and between them\npatches of clear sky where the stars were growing paler before the dawn.\nThe stars were growing paler; but there was another star, that shone out\nfrom the Manor woods above the village, although I could not see the\nhouse, and told me Grace, like the wise virgins, kept her lamp alight all\nnight. Yet even that light shone without lustre for me then, for my heart\nwas too full to think of anything but of him who had laid down his life\nfor mine, and of the strong kind heart that was stilled for ever.\n\n'Twas well I knew the way, so sure of old, from Why Not? to beach; for I\ntook no heed to path or feet, but plunged along in the morning dusk,\nblind with sorrow and weariness of spirit. There was a fire of driftwood\nburning at the back of the beach, and round it crouched a group of men\nin reefing jackets and sou'westers waiting for morning to save what they\nmight from the wreck; but I gave them a wide berth and so passed in the\ndarkness without a word, and came to the top of the beach. There was\nlight enough to make out what was doing. The sea was running very high,\nbut with the falling wind the waves came in more leisurely and with less\nof broken water, curling over in a tawny sweep and regular thunderous\nbeat all along the bay for miles. There was no sign left of the hull of\nthe _Aurungzebe_, but the beach was strewn with so much wreckage as one\nwould have thought could never come from so small a ship. There were\nbarrels and kegs, gratings and hatch-covers, booms and pieces of masts\nand trucks; and beside all that, the heaving water in-shore was covered\nwith a floating mask of broken match-wood, and the waves, as they curled\nover, carried up and dashed down on the pebble planks and beams beyond\nnumber. There were a dozen or more of men on the seaward side of the\nbeach, with oilskins to keep the wet out, prowling up and down the\npebbles to see what they could lay their hands on; and now and then they\nwould run down almost into the white fringe, risking their lives to save\na keg as they had risked them to save their fellows last night--as they\nhad risked their lives to save ours, as Elzevir had risked his life to\nsave mine, and lost it there in the white fringe.\n\nI sat down at the top of the beach, with elbows on knees, head between\nhands, and face set out to sea, not knowing well why I was there or what\nI sought, but only thinking that Elzevir was floating somewhere in that\nfloating skin of wreck-wood, and that I must be at hand to meet him when\nhe came ashore. He would surely come in time, for I had seen others come\nashore that way. For when the _Bataviaman_ went on the beach, I stood as\nnear her as our rescuers had stood to us last night, and there were some\naboard who took the fatal leap from off her bows and tried to battle\nthrough the surf. I was so near them I could mark their features and read\nthe wild hope in their faces at the first, and then the under-tow took\nhold of them, and never one that saved his life that day. And yet all\ncame to beach at last, and I knew them by their dead faces for the men I\nhad seen hoping against hope 'twixt ship and shore; some naked and some\nclothed, some bruised and sorely beaten by the pebbles and the sea, and\nsome sound and untouched--all came to beach at last.\n\nSo I sat and waited for him to come; and none of the beach-walkers said\nanything to me, the Moonfleet men thinking I came from Ringstave, and the\nLangton men that I belonged to Moonfleet; and both that I had marked some\ncask at sea for my own and was waiting till it should come in. Only after\na while Master Ratsey joined me, and sitting down by me, begged me to eat\nbread and meat that he had brought. Now I had little heart to eat, but\ntook what he gave me to save myself from his importunities, and having\nonce tasted was led by nature to eat all, and was much benefited thereby.\nYet I could not talk with Ratsey, nor answer any of his questions, though\nanother time I should have put a thousand to him myself; and he seeing\n'twas no good sat by me in silence, using a spy-glass now and again to\nmake out the things floating at sea. As the day grew the men left the\nfire at the back of the beach, and came down to the sea-front where the\nwaves were continually casting up fresh spoil. And there all worked with\na will, not each one for his own hand, but all to make a common hoard\nwhich should be divided afterwards.\n\nAmong the flotsam moving outside the breakers I could see more than one\ndark ball, like black buoys, bobbing up and down, and lifting as the\nwave came by: and knew them for the heads of drowned men. Yet though I\ntook Ratsey's glass and scanned all carefully enough, I could make\nnothing of them, but saw the pinnace floating bottom up, and farther out\nanother boat deserted and down to her gunwale in the water. 'Twas midday\nbefore the first body was cast up, when the sky was breaking a little,\nand a thin and watery sun trying to get through, and afterwards three\nother bodies followed. They were part of the pinnace's crew, for all had\nthe iron ring on the left wrist, as Ratsey told me, who went down to see\nthem, though he said nothing of the branded 'Y', and they were taken up\nand put under some sheeting at the back of the beach, there to lie till a\ngrave should be made ready for them.\n\nThen I felt something that told me he was coming and saw a body rolled\nover in the surf, and knew it for the one I sought. 'Twas nearest me he\nwas flung up, and I ran down the beach, caring nothing for the white\nfoam, nor for the under-tow, and laid hold of him: for had he not left\nthe rescue-line last night, and run down into the surf to save my\nworthless life? Ratsey was at my side, and so between us we drew him up\nout of the running foam, and then I wrung the water from his hair, and\nwiped his face and, kneeling down there, kissed him.\n\nWhen they saw that we had got a body, others of the men came up, and\nstared to see me handle him so tenderly. But when they knew, at last, I\nwas a stranger and had the iron ring upon my wrist, and a 'Y' burned upon\nmy cheek, they stared the more; until the tale went round that I was he\nwho had come through the surf last night alive, and this poor body was my\nfriend who had laid down his life for me. Then I saw Ratsey speak with\none and another of the group, and knew that he was telling them our\nnames; and some that I had known came up and shook me by the hand, not\nsaying anything because they saw my heart was full; and some bent down\nand looked in Elzevir's face, and touched his hands as if to greet him.\nSea and stones had been merciful with him, and he showed neither bruise\nnor wound, but his face wore a look of great peace, and his eyes and\nmouth were shut. Even I, who knew where 'twas, could scarcely see the 'Y'\nmark on his cheek, for the paleness of death had taken out the colour of\nthe scar, and left his face as smooth and mellow-white as the alabaster\nfigures in Moonfleet church. His body was naked from the waist up, as he\nhad stripped for jumping from the brig, and we could see the great broad\nchest and swelling muscles that had pulled him out of many a desperate\npass, and only failed him, for the first and last time so few hours ago.\n\nThey stood for a little while looking in silence at the old lander who\nhad run his last cargo on Moonfleet beach, and then they laid his arms\ndown by his side, and slung him in a sail, and carried him away. I walked\nbeside, and as we came down across the sea-meadows, the sun broke out and\nwe met little groups of schoolchildren making their way down to the beach\nto see what was doing with the wreck. They stood aside to let us go by,\nthe boys pulling their caps and the girls dropping a curtsy, when they\nknew that it was a poor drowned body passing; and as I saw the children I\nthought I saw myself among them, and I was no more a man, but just come\nout from Mr. Glennie's teaching in the old almshouse hall.\n\nThus we came to the Why Not? and there set him down. The inn had not\nbeen let, as I learned afterwards, since Maskew died; and they had put\na fire in it last night for the first time, knowing that the brig would\nbe wrecked, and thinking that some might come off with their lives and\nrequire tending. The door stood open, and they carried him into the\nparlour, where the fire was still burning, and laid him down on the\ntrestle-table, covering his face and body with the sail. This done they\nall stood round a little while, awkwardly enough, as not knowing what\nto do; and then slipped away one by one, because grief is a thing that\nonly women know how to handle, and they wanted to be back on the beach\nto get what might be from the wreck. Last of all went Master Ratsey,\nsaying, he saw that I would as lief be alone, and that he would come\nback before dark.\n\nSo I was left alone with my dead friend, and with a host of bitterest\nthoughts. The room had not been cleaned; there were spider-webs on the\nbeams, and the dust stood so thick on the window-panes as to shut out\nhalf the light. The dust was on everything: on chairs and tables, save on\nthe trestle-table where he lay. 'Twas on this very trestle they had laid\nout David's body; 'twas in this very room that this still form, who would\nnever more know either joy or sorrow, had bowed down and wept over his\nson. The room was just as we had left it an April evening years ago, and\non the dresser lay the great backgammon board, so dusty that one could\nnot read the lettering on it; 'Life is like a game of hazard; the skilful\nplayer will make something of the worst of throws'; but what unskillful\nplayers we had been, how bad our throws, how little we had made of them!\n\n'Twas with thoughts like this that I was busy while the short afternoon\nwas spent, and the story went up and down the village, how that Elzevir\nBlock and John Trenchard, who left so long ago, were come back to\nMoonfleet, and that the old lander was drowned saving the young man's\nlife. The dusk was creeping up as I turned back the sail from off his\nface and took another look at my lost friend, my only friend; for who\nwas there now to care a jot for me? I might go and drown myself on\nMoonfleet beach, for anyone that would grieve over me. What did it profit\nme to have broken bonds and to be free again? what use was freedom to me\nnow? where was I to go, what was I to do? My friend was gone.\n\nSo I went back and sat with my head in my hands looking into the fire,\nwhen I heard someone step into the room, but did not turn, thinking it\nwas Master Ratsey come back and treading lightly so as not to disturb me.\nThen I felt a light touch on my shoulder, and looking up saw standing by\nme a tall and stately woman, girl no longer, but woman in the full\nstrength and beauty of youth. I knew her in a moment, for she had altered\nlittle, except her oval face had something more of dignity, and the tawny\nhair that used to fly about her back was now gathered up. She was looking\ndown at me, and let her hand rest on my shoulder. 'John,' she said, 'have\nyou forgotten me? May I not share your sorrow? Did you not think to tell\nme you were come? Did you not see the light, did you not know there was a\nfriend that waited for you?'\n\nI said nothing, not being able to speak, but marvelling how she had come\njust in the point of time to prove me wrong to think I had no friend; and\nshe went on:\n\n'Is it well for you to be here? Grieve not too sadly, for none could have\ndied nobler than he died; and in these years that you have been away, I\nhave thought much of him and found him good at heart, and if he did aught\nwrong 'twas because others wronged him more.'\n\nAnd while she spoke I thought how Elzevir had gone to shoot her father,\nand only failed of it by a hair's-breadth, and yet she spoke so well I\nthought he never really meant to shoot at all, but only to scare the\nmagistrate. And what a whirligig of time was here, that I should have\nsaved Elzevir from having that blot on his conscience, and then that he\nshould save my life, and now that Maskew's daughter should be the one to\npraise Elzevir when he lay dead! And still I could not speak.\n\nAnd again she said: 'John, have you no word for me? have you forgotten?\ndo you not love me still? Have I no part in your sorrow?'\n\nThen I took her hand in mine and raised it to my lips, and said, 'Dear\nMistress Grace, I have forgotten nothing, and honour you above all\nothers: but of love I may not speak more to you--nor you to me, for we\nare no more boy and girl as in times past, but you a noble lady and I a\nbroken wretch'; and with that I told how I had been ten years a\nprisoner, and why, and showed her the iron ring upon my wrist, and the\nbrand upon my cheek.\n\nAt the brand she stared, and said, 'Speak not of wealth; 'tis not wealth\nmakes men, and if you have come back no richer than you went, you are\ncome back no poorer, nor poorer, John, in honour. And I am rich and have\nmore wealth than I can rightly use, so speak not of these things; but be\nglad that you are poor, and were not let to profit by that evil treasure.\nBut for this brand, it is no prison name to me, but the Mohunes' badge,\nto show that you are theirs and must do their bidding. Said I not to you,\nHave a care how you touch the treasure, it was evilly come by and will\nbring a curse with it? But now, I pray you, with a greater earnestness,\nseeing you bear this mark upon you, touch no penny of that treasure if it\nshould some day come back to you, but put it to such uses as Colonel\nMohune thought would help his sinful soul.'\n\nWith that she took her hand from mine and bade me 'good night', leaving\nme in the darkening room with the glow from the fire lighting up the sail\nand the outline of the body that lay under it. After she was gone I\npondered long over what she had said, and what that should mean when she\nspoke of the treasure one day coming back to me: but wondered much the\nmost to find how constant is the love of woman, and how she could still\nfind a place in her heart for so poor a thing as I. But as to what she\nsaid, I was to learn her meaning this very night.\n\nMaster Ratsey had come in and gone again, not stopping with me very long,\nbecause there was much doing on the beach; but bidding me be of good\ncheer, and have no fear of the law; for that the ban against me and the\nhead-price had been dead for many a year. 'Twas Grace had made her\nlawyers move for this, refusing herself to sign the hue and cry, and\nsaying that the fatal shot was fired by misadventure. And so a dread\nwhich was just waking was laid to rest for ever; and when Ratsey went I\nmade up the fire, and lay down in the blankets in front of it, for I was\ndog-tired and longed for sleep. I was already dozing, but not asleep,\nwhen there was a knock at the door, and in walked Mr. Glennie. He was\naged, and stooped a little, as I could see by the firelight, but for all\nthat I knew him at once, and sitting up offered him what welcome I could.\n\nHe looked at me curiously at first, as taking note of the bearded man\nthat had grown out of the boy he remembered, but gave me very kindly\ngreeting, and sat down beside me on a bench. First, he lifted the sail\nfrom the dead body, and looked at the sleeping face. Then he took out a\nCommon Prayer reading the Commendamus over the dead, and giving me\nspiritual comfort, and lastly, he fell to talking about the past. From\nhim I learnt something of what had happened while I was away, though for\nthat matter nothing had happened at all, except a few deaths, for that\nis the only sort of change for which we look in Moonfleet. And among\nthose who had passed away was Miss Arnold, my aunt, so that I was\nanother friend the less, if indeed I should count her a friend: for\nthough she meant me well, she showed her care with too much strictness\nto let me love her, and so in my great sorrow for Elzevir I found no\nroom to grieve for her.\n\nWhether from the spiritual solace Mr. Glennie offered me, or whether from\nhis pointing out how much cause for thankfulness I had in being loosed\nout of prison and saved from imminent death, certain it was I felt some\nassuagement of grief, and took pleasure in his talk.\n\n'And though I may by some be reprehended,' he said, 'for presuming to\nrefer to profane authors after citing Holy Scripture, yet I cannot\nrefrain from saying that even the great poet Homer counsels moderation in\nmourning, \"for quickly,\" says he, \"cometh satiety of chilly grief\".'\n\nAfter this I thought he was going, but he cleared his throat in such a\nway that I guessed he had something important to say, and he drew a long\nfolded blue paper from his pocket. 'My son,' he said, opening it\nleisurely and smoothing it out upon his knee, 'we should never revile\nFortune, and in speaking of Fortune I only use that appellation in our\npoor human sense, and do not imply that there is any Chance at all but\nwhat is subject to an over-ruling Providence; we should never, I say,\nrevile Fortune, for just at that moment when she appears to have deserted\nus, she may be only gone away to seek some richest treasure to bring back\nwith her. And that this is so let what I am about to read to you prove;\nso light a candle and set it by me, for my eyes cannot follow the writing\nin this dancing firelight.'\n\nI took an end of candle which stood on the mantelpiece and did as he bid\nme, and he went on: 'I shall read you this letter which I received near\neight years ago, and of the weightiness of it you shall yourself judge.'\n\nI shall not here set down that letter in full, although I have it by me,\nbut will put it shortly, because it was from a lawyer, tricked with\nlong-winded phrases and spun out as such letters are to afford cover\nafterwards for a heavier charge. It was addressed to the Reverend Horace\nGlennie, Perpetual Curate of Moonfleet, in the County of Dorset, England,\nand written in English by Heer Roosten, Attorney and Signariat of the\nHague in the Kingdom of Holland. It set forth that one Krispijn\nAldobrand, jeweller and dealer in precious stones, at the Hague, had sent\nfor Heer Roosten to draw a will for him. And that the said Krispijn\nAldobrand, being near his end, had deposed to the said Heer Roosten, that\nhe, Aldobrand, was desirous to leave all his goods to one John Trenchard,\nof Moonfleet, Dorset, in the Kingdom of England. And that he was moved\nto do this, first, by the consideration that he, Aldobrand, had no\nchildren to whom to leave aught, and second, because he desired to make\nfull and fitting restitution to John Trenchard, for that he had once\nobtained from the said John a diamond without paying the proper price for\nit. Which stone he, Aldobrand, had sold and converted into money, and\nhaving so done, found afterwards both his fortune and his health decline;\nso that, although he had great riches before he became possessed of the\ndiamond, these had forthwith melted through unfortunate ventures and\nspeculations, till he had little remaining to him but the money that this\nsame diamond had brought.\n\nHe therefore left to John Trenchard everything of which he should die\npossessed, and being near death begged his forgiveness if he had wronged\nhim in aught. These were the instructions which Heer Roosten received\nfrom Mr. Aldobrand, whose health sensibly declined, until three months\nlater he died. It was well, Heer Roosten added, that the will had been\ndrawn in good time, for as Mr. Aldobrand grew weaker, he became a prey to\ndelusions, saying that John Trenchard had laid a curse upon the diamond,\nand professing even to relate the words of it, namely, that it should\n'bring evil in this life, and damnation in that which is to come.' Nor\nwas this all, for he could get no sleep, but woke up with a horrid dream,\nin which, so he informed Heer Roosten, he saw continually a tall man with\na coppery face and black beard draw the bed-curtains and mock him. Thus\nhe came at length to his end, and after his death Heer Roosten\nendeavoured to give effect to the provision of the will, by writing to\nJohn Trenchard, at Moonfleet, Dorset, to apprise him that he was left\nsole heir. That address, indeed, was all the indication that Aldobrand\nhad given, though he constantly promised his attorney to let him have\ncloser information as to Trenchard's whereabouts, in good time. This\ninformation was, however, always postponed, perhaps because Aldobrand\nhoped he might get better and so repent of his repentance. So all Heer\nRoosten had to do was to write to Trenchard at Moonfleet, and in due\ncourse the letter was returned to him, with the information that\nTrenchard had fled that place to escape the law, and was then nowhere to\nbe found. After that Heer Roosten was advised to write to the minister of\nthe parish, and so addressed these lines to Mr. Glennie.\n\nThis was the gist of the letter which Mr. Glennie read, and you may\neasily guess how such news moved me, and how we sat far into the night\ntalking and considering what steps it was best to take, for we feared\nlest so long an interval as eight years having elapsed, the lawyers might\nhave made some other disposition of the money. It was midnight when Mr.\nGlennie left. The candle had long burnt out, but the fire was bright,\nand he knelt a moment by the trestle-table before he went out.\n\n'He made a good end, John,' he said, rising from his knees, 'and I pray\nthat our end may be in as good cause when it comes. For with the best of\nus the hour of death is an awful hour, and we may well pray, as every\nSunday, to be delivered in it. But there is another time which those who\nwrote this Litany thought no less perilous, and bade us pray to be\ndelivered in all time of our wealth. So I pray that if, after all, this\nwealth comes to your hand you may be led to use it well; for though I do\nnot hold with foolish tales, or think a curse hangs on riches themselves,\nyet if riches have been set apart for a good purpose, even by evil men,\nas Colonel John Mohune set apart this treasure, it cannot be but that we\nshall do grievous wrong in putting them to other use. So fare you well,\nand remember that there are other treasures besides this, and that a good\nwoman's love is worth far more than all the gold and jewels of the\nworld--as I once knew.' And with that he left me.\n\nI guessed that he had spoken with Grace that day, and as I lay dozing in\nfront of the fire, alone in this old room I knew so well, alone with that\nsilent friend who had died to save me, I mourned him none the less, but\nyet sorrowed not as one without hope.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhat need to tell this tale at any more length, since you may know, by my\ntelling it, that all went well? for what man would sit down to write a\nhistory that ended in his own discomfiture? All that great wealth came to\nmy hands, and if I do not say how great it was, 'tis that I may not wake\nenvy, for it was far more than ever I could have thought. And of that\nmoney I never touched penny piece, having learnt a bitter lesson in the\npast, but laid it out in good works, with Mr. Glennie and Grace to help\nme. First, we rebuilt and enlarged the almshouses beyond all that Colonel\nJohn Mohune could ever think of, and so established them as to be a haven\nfor ever for all worn-out sailors of that coast. Next, we sought the\nguidance of the Brethren of the Trinity, and built a lighthouse on the\nSnout, to be a Channel beacon for sea-going ships, as Maskew's match had\nbeen a light for our fishing-boats in the past. Lastly, we beautified the\nchurch, turning out the cumbrous seats of oak, and neatly pewing it with\ndeal and baize, that made it most commodious to sit in of the Sabbath.\nThere was also much old glass which we removed, and reglazed all the\nwindows tight against the wind, so that what with a high pulpit,\nreading-desk, and seat for Master Clerk and new Commandment boards each\nside of the Holy Table, there was not a church could vie with ours in the\ncountryside. But that great vault below it, with its memories, was set in\norder, and then safely walled up, and after that nothing was more ever\nheard of Blackbeard and his lost Mohunes. And as for the landers, I\ncannot say where they went; and if a cargo is still run of a dark night\nupon the beach, I know nothing of it, being both Lord of the Manor and\nJustice of the Peace.\n\nThe village, too, renewed itself with the new almshouses and church.\nThere were old houses rebuilt and fresh ones reared, and all are ours,\nexcept the Why Not? which still remains the Duchy Inn. And that was let\nagain, and men left the Choughs at Ringstave and came back to their old\nhaunt, and any shipwrecked or travel-worn sailor found board and welcome\nwithin its doors.\n\nAnd of the Mohune Hospital--for that was what the alms-houses were now\ncalled--Master Glennie was first warden, with fair rooms and a full\nlibrary, and Master Ratsey head of the Bedesmen. There they spent happier\ndays, till they were gathered in the fullness of their years; and sleep\non the sunny side of the church, within sound of the sea, by that great\nbuttress where I once found Master Ratsey listening with his ear to\nground. And close beside them lies Elzevir Block, most faithful and most\nloved by me, with a text on his tombstone: 'Greater love hath no man than\nthis, that a man lay down his life for his friend,' and some of Mr.\nGlennie's verses.\n\nAnd of ourselves let me speak last. The Manor House is a stately home\nagain, with trim lawns and terraced balustrades, where we can sit and\nsee the thin blue smoke hang above the village on summer evenings. And\nin the Manor woods my wife and I have seen a little Grace and a little\nJohn and little Elzevir, our firstborn, play; and now our daughter is\ngrown up, fair to us as the polished corners of the Temple, and our sons\nare gone out to serve King George on sea and land. But as for us, for\nGrace and me, we never leave this our happy Moonfleet, being well\ncontent to see the dawn tipping the long cliff-line with gold, and the\nnight walking in dew across the meadows; to watch the spring clothe the\nbeech boughs with green, or the figs ripen on the southern wall: while\nbehind all, is spread as a curtain the eternal sea, ever the same and\never changing. Yet I love to see it best when it is lashed to madness in\nthe autumn gale, and to hear the grinding roar and churn of the pebbles\nlike a great organ playing all the night. 'Tis then I turn in bed and\nthank God, more from the heart, perhaps, than, any other living man,\nthat I am not fighting for my life on Moonfleet Beach. And more than\nonce I have stood rope in hand in that same awful place, and tried to\nsave a struggling wretch; but never saw one come through the surf alive,\nin such a night as he saved me."