CHAPTER X THE BLACK FLAG GOES UNDER
The cold morning light shone through the windows and lit up the room about me. It fell upon the walls, all spotted and stained with wine; upon the overturned tables and the golden goblets, which lay here and there upon the floor; upon the figures of the pirates, as they snored where they had fallen among the chairs in last night's bout.
I was lying flat upon the floor where I had been struck down by the goblet thrown by the priest. Putting my hand to my head, I felt a great bruise upon my forehead, which was clotted with blood. Sitting up upon the floor, I gazed around me; the Count was nowhere to be seen, nor was Oliver.
A sound at the door caught my ear, and I looked toward it—ye gods, did my mind wander? There standing sword in hand, looking into the room, his men behind him, stood my old acquaintance and sometime friend, Sir Francis Drake.
"Francis!" I joyfully cried, "Francis!—thou here?"
He started, a look of surprise upon his face.
"I could swear that I had heard that voice before," he muttered to himself, his eyes glancing down upon the fantastic scene upon the floor until it fell upon me, as I sat up among the slumbering pirates, still weak and faint from the blow that the sneaking priest had dealt me.
He looked at my face a moment—that gayly dressed gallant, with the bloodstained ruff and sober face, where had he seen him before?
A look of recognition came into his eyes.
"'Fore God!" he shouted in sudden joy, "it is Sir Thomas Winchester!" Then throwing up his hands sorrowfully, he cried: "Then it is true! Would to God I had not seen it!" and he turned his face away, as though to shut me from his sight.
"What's true?" I exclaimed, disappointed and alarmed at the change in his countenance, and painfully I staggered to my feet and faced him.
"That thou hast joined these pirates," he answered. "The report was circulated in London after thy disappearance, but thy friends would not credit such a tale. Never would I have believed it, had I not seen thee with mine own eyes," and he finished with a groan.
"Art thou so easily persuaded to think ill of one whom thou didst once believe in and trust?" I answered coldly, for in truth I was grieved and wounded that he should so readily think this of me. "Shame on thee, Sir Francis! Is it the part of a man to convict on such slight testimony and without a hearing? A few idle words of an empty brain, and thou wouldst turn thy back forever upon me, and tarnish the good name of a man of noble family, and one whom thou didst once love," and I looked at him indignantly.
"Slight testimony," he replied bitterly. "What wouldst thou call overwhelming then, if this is but slight? Lo! I look into the hall where the ruffians held their drunken feast last night, and I find thee here on the floor with them. Yes, by the saints, thou hast on the very sword of Sir Samuel Morton, who sailed away two years ago to search for gold on the coast of Peru, and who never returned. It was rumored that he was slain by the hand of Count DeNortier. I cannot be mistaken, for oft have I seen the sword in London. It is of a curious design, and thou couldst search the world over and find no other like unto it," and he pointed to the gold-hilted sword that lay at my side.
A young gallant had entered the room behind Drake, and now stood regarding me with a supercilious air.
"He even wears the gray silk doublet of Sir Samuel!" he lisped breathlessly. "Thou didst see it at the Queen's palace, Sir Francis, when Sir Samuel appeared in it that night for the first time, and how the doublet was praised for the beauty of the cloth and the shape of the garment. As for the sword, there are a dozen gentlemen here who can swear to it."
He was a dainty creature, this gentleman who had spoken, slender, wiry, with a colorless face, and little black beard; his doublet and hose all of the latest cut, and made of the finest material. He might have just stepped out of some London coffee-house instead of a ship commanded by the rough soldier Drake.
I turned my face towards Drake with a bitter look of scorn.
"If thou believest not the word of a gentleman, ask some of these men," I said. "Even they, besotted as they are, have left in them some sparks of justice; they will tell thee that I was held a prisoner here against my will and had naught to do with their adventures," and I seated myself in one of the carved chairs.
"A likely story indeed for one to believe!" the gallant behind Drake cried out shrilly.
"Peace, Sir James Mortimer!" said Sir Francis. "Prick one of yonder snoring rogues with thy sword, and see what he will say about the man. In truth I am loath to believe ill of one, who, when I knew him, ever bore himself gallantly and nobly. But we will see," and he seated himself, with a sigh.
His men were moving about the room, picking up the weapons from the floor and binding the prostrate pirates hand and foot.
Suddenly I remembered I had not seen DeNortier nor Oliver. Where were they; had harm befallen the lad?
"Sir Francis," I said, "there is a lad here, who has been a fellow captive with me. I should grieve if aught had befallen him, and I do not see him here. Hast thou seen a tall, fair, smooth-faced lad, with golden hair?"
"Aye," he answered, "we caught him outside with drawn sword, after the fat priest who guided us here. Faith! It is well that we came when we did. A moment—and then the bulky rogue had been in paradise, for the lad had caught and was about to slay him."
So it was Francis who had betrayed the pirates; this would account for his long absence. He was probably dickering then with Drake to deliver his comrades into the Englishmen's hands, and what better time could he choose than when they drank and caroused? 'Twas an idea worthy of such a rogue, and even as I thought of it the door opened and Father Francis glided in.
He leered at me in the old way.
"How is the noble sir this fine morning?" he cried. "Ah, he will sail no more the blue seas to scuttle the rich galleons! 'Tis a pity, but all good things must cease," and he heaved a mock sigh, with a rueful countenance.
"Priest," said Drake, "listen, and answer me truly. What part did Sir Thomas Winchester take in these enterprises of which thou dost speak?"
I interrupted him.
"It is useless to question this rogue, for I have no more bitter enemy than he is. Why, he even tried to murder me as I slept."
The priest still looked at me, a smile upon his face, the look of a cat as he plays with a mouse in his paws. Here was a triumph, golden and pleasant, surpassing all his dreams—and revenge was sweet. He had long waited for such a moment as this; had lain awake at night to plot how he would achieve it, and now the time had come.
He spoke deliberately, the words coming slowly from his lips:
"Ah, Sir Francis! the gentleman does not like me. Oft have I remonstrated with him at his deeds of blood, but he turned ever a deaf ear to me. I implored him, when in cold blood he slew Sir Samuel Morton, to spare his life, but he would not. I saved from his foul clutches a beautiful Spanish maid that he had marked out for his prey, and since then he has hated me with the fury of a demon. Have I not many a time prayed for him until morning? Prayed that the light might break into his darkened soul, and that he, even then, would return again into the bosom of Mother Church; but he would have none of it. I forgive thee freely for all the threats and curses that thou hast heaped upon this weak head of mine, and would fain refrain from testifying against thee, but duty, Sir Thomas—my duty will not allow me to shrink from this painful task," and he groaned piously. "Ah! how I have longed to stop thee in thy career of blood and crime, and now, through my prayers, I have been made the humble instrument of thy overthrowal. Sir Thomas, I have implored, but thou didst drive me from thee. Truly the wicked have fallen into the pit that they digged," and he cast up his eyes with a look of patient suffering, beautiful to behold, upon his features.
"Peace, thou ruffian!" I cried, "or as I live, I will beat out thy brains with the hilt of my sword," and I made as though to rise.
With a loud yell he rushed through the door.
A group of gentlemen had entered, and now stood around Sir Francis as he sat at the small table, his fingers idly drumming upon it, and his eyes upon my face. As they gathered around him, I saw several that I knew. There was Sir William Stone, old and bald; Henry DeGarner, with his disdainful air; Captain Martin Lane in his armor; the little coxcomb, Sir James Mortimer; Peter Graham, and some six or eight other gentlemen—men whom I did not know—who looked at me coldly, and whispered among themselves.
The pirates had been dragged to their feet; their hands were tied behind them, and they now stood in a long line against the wall.
Sir Francis turned to them.
"What of the Englishman, Sir Thomas Winchester?" he inquired. "Did he engage in the expeditions with thee, or did he remain here as a captive?"
They raised a loud shout.
"He is the ringleader," they cried as though with one voice. "Did he not slay Sir Samuel Morton?" one cried, midst the approval of his fellows. "He wears his doublet now!" another shouted. "And his sword!" roared another. "He knew no mercy!" screamed a burly villain in a green doublet. "He would have taken the Spanish maid had not the priest dissuaded him," said another.
Drake turned to me; his face had hardened.
"What more couldst thou ask, Sir Thomas? They corroborate the priest in every detail with one accord. Here is evidence enough to hang an angel of light."
Then turning to old Sir William Stone.
"Take them out, Sir William," he cried; "stand them up against the wall, and shoot them down. As for thee, Sir Thomas, thou shalt go back with me to England, and let the Queen pass upon thy fate."
"One word," I said, "there is among them the lad Oliver Gates; he is but a boy, fresh and innocent, and has had naught to do with these deeds of which the ruffians speak. I would not that he should suffer harm."
"He is safe," he answered, "and shall go back to England with thee. Hast thou the lad secured outside, Sir William?"
"Aye," rejoined the grim old soldier. "And now right about, you rogues." And he marched them outside, surrounded by his men.
We sat in silence a few minutes—a volley of shots, and they had passed into eternity, the lie fresh upon their lips.
This was the priest's work that the men should testify against me. Dunraven had doubtless planned the scheme, and had through Francis paid these men to swear against me, telling them, not indeed that they would fall into the hands of Drake, but had arranged so that whatever happened they would swear away my life.
They had seen the priest in favor, their promise had come back to their minds, and they thought—or perhaps he had promised beforehand—that at all events he would save their lives; and so they had spoken as he had commanded them. The end had come, before they could retreat.
Drake glanced up as the sound of the musketoons died away.
"Hast thou aught to say for thyself?" he asked.
"Simply that I am innocent," I answered. "I have been a captive here for months, and have had naught to do with the forays of these men. The priest is my enemy; these men swore as they did by his command. If thou dost not believe me, ask the boy Oliver Gates."
I said naught of Dunraven, for I knew that if I did it would simply make my tale seem the more incredible; and, too, I said naught of my adventures, for I saw that he would not believe me. I would save that for the ear of the Queen herself.
Sir James Mortimer leaned over to Drake, and murmured:
"Thou dost remember that the priest warned us of the lad, that he was a sworn henchman of this man.
"True, Sir James," Drake answered; then turning to me, "Thou surely dost not expect me to believe this, Sir Thomas?"
I arose and bowed.
"In that event, I wait only to be shown the room in which I am to be confined," I said.
Unbuckling my sword, I laid it sheathed upon the table.
"Can I leave it in thy hands until I claim it again?" I asked. "I have endeavored to keep the blade bright and spotless since I have worn it. Some day, when I have cleared myself from this false charge, I will ask it back from thee."
He bowed his head gravely.
"When thou askest for it again, it shall be thine. I pray God that thou mayst be innocent of this charge, but——" and he shook his head gloomily.
And so between two men I passed up the great stairs and into the room which I had left last night; the star of the pirates had waned and set for aye, and the isle was now in the power of the English. Events had transpired quickly, but still I was a prisoner. The door closed, and I heard the key turn in the lock.
Someone ran forward from the corner of the room—it was Oliver, his face radiant with delight.
"It is thou!" he cried. "I had not thought to see thee again," and he almost embraced me in his joy.
I put forward my rough hand and stroked his yellow curls, as though he were a babe and I his mother.
"Ah, lad, we are still prisoners," I said mournfully.
"Yes," he replied, "but we are both alive, and that is more than I had hoped for at one time. When the priest felled thee with the cup, I whipped out my sword and ran at him. He turned and fled out of the door with me at his heels; catching his foot on a stone, he tripped and fell. I was upon him before he could arise. Another moment—and it would all have been over. When lo! these men arose from the ground around us, where they had been lying, and overpowered me. Tying my hands, they took my sword away, and bringing me up to this room, guided by the priest, they unbound and left me. I did not know what had become of thee, and was almost mad with anxiety when thou, too, wert brought in."
"What of DeNortier?" I asked. "He was not below when Drake took the hall."
The lad grinned at me.
"I left him on the floor, where thy buffet had sprawled him, for he was as though dead when I ran after the priest."
"He must have recovered himself and escaped," I said. "He is as slippery and cunning as a fox, and doubtless he lies hidden in some of his secret caves about here."
"What was the volley that I heard but a minute ago?" he asked.
I seated myself upon a chair, and crossed my legs comfortably.
"'Twas the death of the pirates. Drake sent them out and put an end to them in short order."
"And then we will both be set free!" he cried. "Why do they keep us here?"
"The fates fight against us," I answered. "The priest has sworn, and the men, bought by him, have corroborated his statement, that I was the ringleader of the pirates; that I slew Sir Samuel Morton, and I know not what else. To bear them out, it seems that the clothes I have on and the sword that I wore belonged to Morton. They all recognize them, and have persuaded Drake that I am guilty," and I arose and began to pace the floor.
"Infamous!" the boy cried indignantly. "But I will tell them the truth," and he arose.
"It is useless," I replied sadly. "The priest has told them that thou art a boon companion of mine, and they will believe naught that thou wouldst say. In truth it begins to look like the halter. I care not for myself, for I have run my race, but thou art young and thy life lies before thee. I would mourn should harm befall thee. It may be that Drake will free thee, and I will see what can be done."
The lad had risen, and stood facing me, his eyes flashing fire.
"And dost thou think that I would take my own life, when thou dost lose thine? I owe mine to thee—dost think that I would leave thee?"
The moisture stood in my eyes as I looked at him. When all others had deserted me, he had stood faithful and true; there was left some drop of balm in existence while it held such souls as this, few though they be.
"I shall not drive thee away," I said smilingly, "for I am but too glad to have thee with me."
An hour—two—and then the door opened, and Stone entered.
"Sir Francis wishes to see both of you," he said.
We followed him down into the room where Drake sat alone. He motioned us to chairs.
"Sir Thomas," he said, "dost thou, on the honor of a gentleman, know where the plunder of DeNortier is hidden? If either of you will but tell me, you shall have a liberal share, and so can perhaps buy your liberty from the Queen."
"Sir Francis," I answered, "I know naught of it; none but the Count knew where it was concealed."
"And he has escaped," he muttered. "I regret that I must leave without finding the gold, but time is precious. It may be that this fellow will bring a swarm about our ears, did I but linger here a day. The Spaniards would be but too glad of an excuse to repay me for the blows that I have struck them before now, and we have but one ship. No, we must go," and he arose.
"And now, gentlemen, give me but your word, that you will not attempt to escape, and you shall be free to come and go without a guard."
"Thou hast it," I answered; "that is if Oliver assents," and I looked at the boy.
"Aye," he said, "if Sir Thomas gives the word, so will I."
Drake walked over to the window and looked out, his back towards us.
The lad plucked my sleeve.
"Look," he whispered, "everything of value has been taken by these vandals."
I glanced around me; it was true. The gold and silver goblets, the candlesticks of precious metal, the draperies and statues, the paintings and ornaments, even the very skins and rugs upon the floor were gone. Naught but the heavy furniture remained. I doubted not that they would take that, did they but have a way to carry it on the ship. I glanced through the open door, it was the same in the other room; even as I looked, I saw the men descending the stairs, bringing the booty from above and stripping the hall as they passed through.
Drake had made a clean job of it, yet even now he mourned because he could not discover the treasure of DeNortier. He turned from the window.
"'Tis a pity that thou dost not know where the treasure is hidden," he said. "The gold would have more weight with Elizabeth in freeing thee, than would the innocence of Saint George himself," and with these words he waited silently a moment to see what effect they would have upon me.
But I stood cold and unmoved, and growling out indistinctly a word or two, which I could not understand, he picked up his hat and strode away.
I felt a touch upon my arm; looking around, I saw Father Francis behind me.
"Dog!" I shouted, "and dost thou think to slink here thus to taunt me, and after thou hast sworn away my life?" and with a threatening look, I lifted my clenched fist.
"Hush!" he whispered, drawing nearer to me, his face grave and serious. "I have something of importance for thy ear alone. Come but into the next room. What! And when thy very life hangs in my hands, and I can save thee at a word? I offer to say that word even now for thee, and set thee and the lad free." And he pointed to Oliver, who upon seeing the priest had turned his back, and was gazing intently out of the window.
"Thy life is thine own, to throw away as thou choosest," he continued, "but the boy, so young and innocent—wouldst thou send him to his death? His blood would be upon thy head."
I hesitated, it would take but a moment after all, and I would save Oliver if I could.
"I will listen to thee," I finally replied, "but look thee—beware how thou dost trifle with me. Thou shalt pay dearly for it, if thou doest so," and I looked at him threateningly.
"I do not seek to trifle," he answered. "I talk but business for thee alone. Come!" and he crossed into the next room.
Hesitating I followed, and seated myself in a chair opposite him, which the plunderers had left.
"Out with it!" I cried impatiently. "Say quickly what thou wouldst and waste no time about it!"
"A moment," he mumbled, "only a moment. Dost know this handwriting?" And running his hand into the folds of his robe he brought out a paper and held it out to me.
Did I know it? Would I know my own heart beats, as they throbbed within my breast? I knew that delicate flowing hand. Did not there lie next my heart at that moment a yellow paper in the same writing?
I took it in my hand, and looking at its address a moment, broke the seal and opened it. It was addressed to Lord Dunraven, and ran as follows:
London, England.
Nov. 15, 1587.Lord Dunraven,
London, England.My Dear Lord:
I received thy note only a few moments ago and make haste to answer it. I have thought over thy flattering offer, in which with vows of eternal love thou askest me to be thy wife. Thou dost not know how much this means to a woman. Man has much else; love in his life plays but a little part, and if he should be disappointed, he has his estate, his business, and his friends. He can sail the wide seas, and with his sword carve out for himself a name and fortune. But a woman, if she mistakes the tinsel for pure gold—ah! hers is a wrecked and miserable existence; there is naught but sorrow left for her. I wonder if thou dost realize this, James? That I am putting into thy hands, trustingly and unafraid, my life, my love, my all? Dost thou appreciate the gravity of this step that I am taking? I am afraid that thou dost not, but I will hope, and try to believe that thou wilt come to a future realization of all that this must mean to me, and that thy love will ever be all that thou sayest it is. And so my answer is—yes. Good-night,
Margaret.
I looked at the paper in my hands; from it there floated that subtle odor that so often heralded the approach of my lady. I could not mistake that delicate perfume, nor the paper, for there were the dainty initials intertwined at the top of the sheet—M. C. Yes, it was in her handwriting—it was hers! Every letter seemed branded into my brain with a hand of fire. My head swam. So this was the last blow; cast off and spurned by my family; kidnaped and detained in captivity; my life in hourly danger—so that when I lay down at night I knew not whether I would awake again—scorned and distrusted by my friends; condemned to die as a pirate, alone, friendless—my sun about to set in disgrace and despair.
Yet I could bear all these things, sustained by my love and trust for her when all else failed. She was to me as the North Star to the storm-tossed mariner, ever calm, serene, lovely—what though she gleamed far away and distant, I could yet see her in memory and guide by her my tempest-tossed bark.
When that light failed, then indeed I was adrift without chart and compass, at the mercy of the winds and waves. This was the last drop that filled my cup to overflowing. There was naught left for me—all was lost! Night, black and inpenetrable, seemed to rise before my tortured eyes; the roll of the ocean beat and moaned in my ears; something within me seemed to snap and break; my breath choked and ceased; I dropped upon the floor, and all else was a blank to me.
Someone was sprinkling water upon my face, and looking up, I saw bending anxiously over me the priest, a look of concern upon his red face.
"Leave me," I moaned. "Canst thou not let me rest in peace? Go! Go!"
"I tell thee I cannot," he said. "Dost thou not remember that I had a proposition for thy ear alone?"
"I care not for thy proposition!" I answered. "Let me die in peace! I would not turn my finger for life or death—go!"
"Remember the lad then," he replied. "If thou dost care not for thyself, remember him. He has a life that even I, besotted as thou dost think me, would grieve to see lost. Would thou cast it from thee, when by one word thou couldst save him? One good deed thou wilt not regret."
"Help me to a chair then," I replied, "and I will hear what thou hast to say."
Bending over me he put his fat arms around my body, and lifting me as though I had been a child, he bore me to a chair. I felt as some careworn man, bending beneath his years, and tottering with feebleness and age; all my strength and energy had left me. Even the fat priest, hardened and bloodstained as he was, seemed to feel some sparks of pity as he looked down upon me.
"Had I known that the paper would affect thee thus, I would not have shown it to thee," he muttered.
"It matters little," I replied lifelessly. "What is thy offer?"
He hesitated—then spoke:
"Several days ago the Count showed thee a paper in which thou didst purport to formally renounce all claims that thou mightest have to the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll. Not that thou hast any interest after that paper," he chuckled, "but this matters not for the present. He told thee if thou wouldst but sign that document, thou shouldst be free, with a purse of gold. I offer thee this additional proposition besides what has already been offered—that is thy life, and the boy's (which are as good as gone) to deal with as thou choosest. Not only this, but I will increase the five hundred pounds to one thousand pounds. It is a noble offer. What sayest thou?" and he tapped the floor nervously with his foot.
"My reply now is as it was then. Not though thou offerest me the wealth of the Incas, the lives of a thousand men, though I suffered a dozen deaths by all the tortures that human ingenuity could devise, and my body rotted in the ground, would I sign the paper. Thy master has the lady. What more can he wish? Go back, and tell him once for all what I have said—begone!"
An ugly light had come into the priest's eye as he had listened to me; his bloated face was purple with baffled rage. With a snarl he sprang towards me, drawing his hand from behind his back, and I saw a dagger flash in the light.
"Then die!" he shrieked, and he raised the gleaming weapon above his head and brought it down.
At that moment there was a rush, and a blade flashed under the descending dagger and caught it—'twas Oliver's. Father Francis with a yell dropped the dagger, and rushing to the open window, sprang out of it. The lad, who was close behind him, lunged at him even as he went through—with an exclamation he held up his sword, it was streaming with blood.
"'Tis only a scratch; would that it had been through his breast. What ails thee?" he asked in alarm, as he saw my face. "What is it, that thou dost look as though thou hadst seen thy end?"
"Yes, my end, lad," I repeated, "it is in yonder paper."
He picked it up from the floor and read it through.
"'Tis false!" he cried, the red blood of indignation dyeing his cheeks. "It is only some trick of that fiend Dunraven."
"No," I answered, "'tis her paper, her crest, her handwriting, even the very perfume that she uses hangs about it. It must be true—I would not have believed it had I not seen the paper with mine own eyes. I loved her with a love that knew no distrust, faithfully, devotedly. The night, calm and silent, was not purer or more innocent than her soul; the stars as they peeped out from the distant sky, were no brighter than her eyes, azure, deep, serene; the gold of the sunset was like the glimmer of her hair; the fleecy clouds, white and snowy, were not lovelier than her neck and throat, and yet—yet—she weds Dunraven. Why hast thou forsaken me?—Margaret! Oh, Margaret!"
The lad looked at me, the great tears of pity running down his cheeks.
"Come," he sobbed, "come, we must go," and he led me by the hand from the room.
My mind, numbed by this last great shock, refused to serve me, and I was as one in a trance. Dimly I saw the room, heard the babble of Oliver's voice, my feet moved mechanically under me, but it was as though I were in a dream—a hideous and frightful phantom of the night that in a moment would pass away, and I would wake and find it false.
Oliver chatted on:
"I did but go out into the yard to look at the vessel, and lingered longer than I thought, when remembering that I had left thee with the priest, I hastened back just in time to save thee."
"Yes," I answered, "in time to save me."
He looked at me anxiously.
"What ails thee, Sir Thomas?" he said. "Shall I have a leech attend thee? Perhaps thou hast fever and wouldst feel better for his attendance."
"'Tis useless—he cannot mend a broken heart, lad," I replied, rousing myself from the spell which hung over my senses. "If he is able to do that, thou canst call him."
We had passed down the path to the landing where Drake's vessel lay, and the men were coming and going as they loaded her with the spoils of the mansion. The last party was preparing to leave the house, as we passed from its portals. They were all ready and had gathered in front of the great white mansion.
At Oliver's request I listlessly turned to look at them, and could see Drake's golden beard as he strode among his crew arranging them into rank. The black flag with the ghastly skull and cross-bones still floated over the roof of the house, but even as we looked there arose a shout from the men which was echoed on board the ship. A single culverin boomed out, then slowly, as though reluctant to descend from where she had so long floated, supreme and invincible—the mistress of the isle—the flag lowered until it touched the roof. She had finished her course; her day here was done.
Then there arose a roar that made the other weak and puny in comparison, and lo, there floated high above her the cross of Saint George. Proudly and triumphantly she spread her folds and streamed out bravely in the breeze; the mistress of a hundred hard-fought fields and scenes of carnage, she now counted another among her many victories. The culverins upon the vessel opened their bronze throats and screamed a greeting to the noble banner, and then she too came down.
The men had left the splendid house, and were coming towards us, their hands laden with the last spoils.
Even as I looked at that stately home, Oliver touched my shoulder, and pointed towards it.
"Look!" he cried, "it is on fire!"
'Twas true, both the barrack and the house were in flames, and as we looked they burst out of one of the windows of the mansion, and licked their fiery tongues upwards as though rejoicing in their mad fury at the disaster they were creating. Higher they crept—higher, as if to climb upwards to their friend the red sun, as he hung above them—embracing the great white house in their fiery clutches, like the eager lover as he catches his cold lady in his passionate embraces, and presses her to him, while she hangs listless and silent in his arms.
The sailors had reached us, and the boats were ready to put out for the ships.
Drake approached me.
"Art ill, Sir Thomas?" he asked uneasily, "if so, my leech will attend thee."
I shook my head, for I could not speak. I was faint and sick; my head reeled as though I had been struck down by some heavy hand; my feet trembled under me from weakness and exhaustion—I was almost finished.
The lad spoke up:
"Aye, Sir Francis, if thou wilt but help me with him to the boat. He is ill, and when we reach the ship thy man shall attend him."
And so with hair dishevelled, and bloodshot eyes, like an old man, trembling and feeble, I staggered to the boat between Drake and Oliver. Laying me upon a seat, they pulled off. I glanced back only once; the fire had ascended to the roof, and the whole house was wrapped in flames; the barrack had burned down to the ground and lay in ashes.
So I left the island forever; the noble home ruined and gutted; the pirates dead; DeNortier I knew not where; behind me somewhere concealed a princely treasure, the spoils of a hundred galleons, the fruits of five long years of bloodshed and carnage. Perhaps some unborn explorer of some unknown people may sometime in the dim and misty future sail out upon these seas and find this deserted isle, with its crumbling ruins and hidden gold. I know not; it may be that it will lie forever deep down in the bowels of the earth, for no good can come of treasure won as this.
I know only this, that not for the wealth of the earth would I touch foot again upon the shore of this isle Eldorado. For me it is a page in life's book finished and closed—past forever. Other regions might I explore, other isles might I look upon, but I knew that I would never again see Eldorado. And thus we left its shore forever.
Often since have I thought of the island, and wondered if it still lies in ruins and silence, broken only by the cries of the birds and the call of the natives. Often in the long winter nights, my pipe in hand, as I sit in my great chair in front of the blazing fire, watching the white clouds of smoke and hearing the wind groaning and whistling about the house, have I mused of its tropic clime and starlit nights, and of the noble white mansion.
Often have I seen in fancy the faces of DeNortier and the fat priest; lived over the stirring scenes of the past, and reveled again, as on the night we held high carnivals; have half turned to where the patient Indian José stood behind my chair with a cup of the King's wine. Lo! I start, I am dozing here, my head upon the cushion of my easy-chair.