As I struck down the iron barreta into the light earth, I sat down and fell into a musing fit, from which the dog aroused me by licking my hands and looking up into my face, as though reproaching me for deserting my task. I arose at once, and set to work in right earnest. The grave was now full five feet in depth, and needed only to be made a little longer. It was after about an hour's hard labor, and my task was all but completed, when the barreta struck a stone which it was requisite to move; it was a large and heavy one, and much more firmly impacted in the earth than I at first supposed, and it was only by splintering it with the iron “crow” that I was able to succeed. As I lifted the fragments and threw them away, my hands came in contact with a soft substance underneath, that, to the feel, at least, resembled the skin of a beast with the wool or hair on. I cleared away the earth, and saw to my astonishment what I at once knew to be a piece of buffalo hide, smeared over with a peculiar oil the Indians use to prevent rotting or decomposition. I drew forth my knife and ripped it open; a strong skin of undressed buck was now laid bare; again I applied my knife vigorously to this, and as the sharp steel ran freely along, a glittering heap of gold disclosed itself before me, and rolled in fragments to my feet!
I cannot attempt to describe the emotions of that moment, as, with a heart bursting with delight, I ran my fingers through the heaps of shining metal, many of them larger than my closed fist. I pulled off my cap and filled it; I opened my handkerchief, and in a few moments that also was crammed; I stuffed my pockets; but the treasure seemed inexhaustible. I arose, and hastened to the hut for the great canvas bag in which the poor miner used to keep his chestnuts, and, oh, the terror that came over me now, lest I should be seen, lest any other should discover me! With the speed that fear alone can supply I soon filled the sack, not alone with gold, but also with several little leather bags, which I discovered contained gems and precious stones, emeralds principally, with opals, sapphires, and rubies, some of a size and color I had never seen equalled before. There were eight of these bags, marked with some enigmatical letters, of which I did not know the meaning, nor, in good truth, did I puzzle myself to discover. The wealth, unbounded as it seemed, needed no explanation; there it lay glittering upon the grass beneath the morning sun, and there I sat amidst it, as Aladdin might have sat amidst the treasures of his mine.
As I opened the bags one after another, in eager impatience, I came upon one filled with papers, and these I quickly discovered were receipts for deposits of large sums placed at various times in the hands of Don Xafire Hijaros, banker, at Guajuaqualla, by Menelaus Crick! Yes, these were the hidden treasures for which the Black Boatswain of Anticosti had endured the tortures of the burning iron and the steel, the terrible agonies of the flesh pincers, and the slow, lingering pains of paralysis. These, then, were the visions that haunted his dotage in the very night I had seen him, as he struggled in some imaginary conflict, and patted the ground in some fancied act of concealment! A sudden chill ran through me as I thought by what horrible deeds of crime and blood all this treasure might—nay, must—have been amassed! What terrible acts of murder and assassination! Many of the gems were richly set, and showed that they had been worn. Some of the emeralds had been extracted from ornaments, or taken from the hilts of daggers or swords. Violence and blood had stained them all, there could not be a doubt of it; and now there arose within me a strange conflict, in which the thirst for wealth warred with a feeling of superstition that whispered, “No luck could go with gain so bought!” The perspiration rolled in great drops down my face; my heart swelled and throbbed with its emotions; the arteries of my temples beat with a force that seemed to smite the very brain as I canvassed this vital question, “Dare I touch wealth so associated with deeds of infamy?”
If my wishes arranged themselves on one side, all my fears were marshalled on the other; and what foes can wage a more terrible conflict! The world, with its most attractive pleasures, its thousand fascinations, all the delusions that gold can buy and convert into realities, beckoned here. Horrible fancies of an unknown vengeance, a Nemesis in crime unexpiated, menaced there! May I never have to preside in a court where the evidence is so strongly opposed, where the facts are so equally balanced! If, at one instant, I beheld myself the gorgeous millionnaire, launching forth into the wide ocean of unexplored enjoyment, at the next I saw myself crawling upon the earth, maimed and crippled like the old negro slave; a curse upon me; the cries of widowed mothers ringing in my ears; the curses of ruined fathers tracking me wherever I went! I cannot tell what verdict my poor empanelled conscience might have brought in at last, but suddenly a new witness appeared in the court and gave a most decided turn to the case. This was no less than “the Church,” whose testimony gently insinuated that if the matter were one of difficulty, it was not yet without a solution. “It is true, Master Con,” whispered she, “that these treasures have an odor of rapine; but let us see if the Church cannot purify them. A silver lamp to the Virgin can throw a lustre upon deeds that have not 'loved the light.' An embroidered petticoat can cover a great many small sins, and the incense that rises from a gold censer, offered by pious hands, will do much to correct the pungency of even the saltest tears.”
Build a chapel, Con; endow a nunnery,—or, if you don't like shutting up young ladies, let it be a “monkery;” make an investment in hair-cloth shirts and cord girdles; buy shares in the grand Purgatory scheme, and take out “next world scrip,” in the shape of masses, jubilees, and novenas. You can keep a bishop, without feeling the cost, and have a whole candle manufactory perpetually at the service of “Our Lady,” without being obliged to curtail one of your own wax-lights. What a revulsion did this bright thought give to all my previous doubtings! not only satisfying my scruples here, but suggesting very comfortable associations for hereafter. By this proceeding, Con, thought I, you are “hedging against hereafter;” you may be a Sardanapalus while you live, and a saint after death: it's betting upon the “double event,” with all the odds in your favor.
I must say, for the sake of my credit, that I resolved to “do the thing handsomely.” I determined that a finer virgin should not be seen than mine, and that if a “Saint Cregan” could be discovered in the catalogue, I'd adopt him as my patron, at any cost. Neither would I forget the poor old miner in my pious offerings: he should have masses said for him for a full twelvemonth to come, and I 'd offer a silver pickaxe to any of the calendar who would deign to accept it. In a word, there was nothing that money could do (and what can it not?) that I would not engage to perform, so that the Church should consent to take me into partnership.
Never was a poor head exposed to such a conflict of discordant thoughts. Plans of pleasures and pilgrimages; gorgeous visions of enjoyment warring with fancies of sackcloth and scourges; sumptuous dinners, equipages, theatres, balls, and festivities mingling with fastings, processions, and mortifications, made up a chaos only a shade above downright insanity.
The day wore on, and it was late in the afternoon ere I bethought me of the poor Gambusino, beside whose open grave I still sat, lost in speculation. “Poor fellow!” said I, as I hoisted his coffin on my shoulder, “you have got a rich pall-bearer for one who died in such poverty; you little thought you would be borne to the grave by a millionnaire!” As I said this—I shame to own it—there was a tinge of self-commendation in the notion, as though inferring, “See what a noble fellow I am! with gold and gems such as an emperor might envy, and yet look at me, carrying a poor old miner's body to the grave just as if we were equals!”
“It's very handsome of you, Con,—that I must say!” whispered I to myself; but, somehow, the poor dog did not appear to take the same exalted notion of my magnanimity, but was entirely engrossed by his sorrow; for he lay crouching upon the earth, uttering cries the most piteous and heartrending at each shovelful I threw in the grave.
“Cheer up, poor fellow!” said I, patting him, “you shall have a gold collar and a clasp of real emerald.” How naturally does a rich man recur to wealth as the cure for every affliction! How difficult for him to believe that gold is not a sovereign remedy for all disorders!