Far down beneath us we could see many a loch, and around each were the everlasting banks of silvery-stemmed, drooping birch-trees.
The sun himself was already declining in the west, and a gentle breeze was stirring the heather. It had been a hot day, and somewhat uneventful as regards sport, and as we lay here on a patch of moss, we conversed somewhat languidly; albeit Reeves had lit that wondrous meerschaum of his, and—just for once in a way—I had “bent” a cigar.
“Gordon,” said the captain at last, taking the pipe from his lips for a moment and glancing towards me—“Gordon, in you I think I have found a friend.”
“I am certain,” I answered, “that if I can be of service to you, you have only to ask me.”
“And a man,” he added, “that can be trusted with a secret.”
I laughed lightly.
“Am I not like yourself, a sailor?” I said. “I have never, however, gone secret-hunting; yet when such a thing came my way, I have always cherished and respected it. A secret belongs to the other fellow, not to you, and if you happen to have it in your possession, you have no more right to give it away than you would have to sell his watch, if he had lent you that.”
“My own sentiments to a ‘t.’ Well, that which I am about to tell you no one at present knows anything about, except Miguel. He is in the swim, and will join me, and I trust that you too will when you have heard all.”
“It is,” he added, “a story of buried treasure.” He glanced half uneasily around him as he spoke, as if afraid that even the curlews had ears, and could understand his story.
“Buried treasure?” I said, somewhat astonished, but probably doubtingly; “why, that sounds interesting. But—”