Murray rose from the table and commenced to stroll the length of the cabin, hands clasped under the skirts of his coat. And as he strolled he talked. Flint followed his every move uneasily, with occasional drafts of rum. Peter and I watched the two of them, fascinated by this conflict of wills, which was to exert a vital influence upon our lives—yes, and upon those of hundreds of others.
"I must speak in simple terms, I perceive, Flint," began my great-uncle.
The passion was out of his voice, and the sentences trickled from his lips slowly, with an air of detachment.
"And that I may speak simply and present adequately an important subject, I must ask you to indulge me at length."
Flint nodded sullenly, seeing that an answer was required.
"We have frequently discussed the possibility of taking one of the Spanish treasure-ships," continued Murray. "But we have never attempted the project because we could not discover the date of sailing or the port wherein the treasure was embarked. It hath been the custom of the Spaniards in recent years—in fact, since the depredations of Morgan and his brethren—to shift arbitrarily the port of embarkation from year to year, as likewise to change the date of sailing. One year the port would be Cartagena, the next Chagres, the next Porto Bello, the next even Vera Cruz. They have been known to ship the year's produce of the mines around Cape Horn. And similarly the treasure ships, which used formerly to sail invariably in the Fall of the year, now depart whenever it pleases the fancy of the Council of the Indies to fix a date."
He paused, and Flint rasped——
"So much is known to all of us."
"I conceded as much," answered Murray smoothly. "What follows you do not know. When we returned from Madagascar——"
"'Twas against my advice," growled Flint. "Ye play too much wi' politics."