"A touch of Wagner then," said Adolph merrily, "and we'll imagine we're back again on the island."
It was like the piping of Pan. It appeared not to come from any earthly instrument. In the silence it seemed to stir the mountains all around. Shrill yet poetical, as the song of the lark, or sweet and sad, like the love notes of Philomel in his native England.
Then suddenly it ceased, and Kep threw himself down to gaze for a moment at a white-winged ship on the blue of the far-off horizon.
"Ah! my old comrade," he said at last, "we must let our millions slumber for a time down in old ocean's slimy bed, and when we have time we may go in search of them. You got the latitude and longitude, didn't you, and have written it down?"
"There it is, Kep, that is your copy; I have mine, and I keep it under the lining of my sea-chest lid. It must neither be lost not shown to anyone."
"True."
"Yes, true, because I have more hopes than you."
"But even should there be gold there, it is safe. No one could dream of diving for sunken treasure in a place like that."
"I suppose," said Adolph, "you still have the bar of gold, though it was not large, which you brought up."
"Oh! I forgot to tell you. That bit of stuff was stolen from me on board the ship that saved us!"