Beneath this nest lay the treasure, if it were still there.
“At any rate the place has not been disturbed lately,” said Foy. Then, even in his frantic haste, lifting the little fledglings—for he loved all things that had life, and did not wish to see them hurt—he deposited them where they might be found again by the mother.
“Nothing to dig with,” muttered Martin, “not even a stone.” Thereon Martha pushed her way to a willow bush that grew near, and with the smaller of the two axes, which she held in her hand, cut down the thickest of its stems and ran back with them. By the help of these sharpened stakes, and with their axes, they began to dig furiously, till at length the point of Foy’s implement struck upon the head of a barrel.
“The stuff is still here, keep to it, friends,” he said, and they worked on with a will till three of the five barrels were almost free from the mud.
“Best make sure of these,” said Martin. “Help me, master,” and between them one by one they rolled them to the water’s edge, and with great efforts, Elsa aiding them, lifted them into the boat. As they approached with the third cask they found her staring white-faced over the tops of the feathery reeds.
“What is it, sweet?” asked Foy.
“The sail, the following sail,” she answered.
They rested the barrel of gold upon the gunwale and looked back across the little island. Yes, there it came, sure enough, a tall, white sail not eight hundred yards away and bearing down straight upon the place. Martin rolled the barrel into position.
“I hoped that they would not find it,” he said, “but Martha draws maps well, too well. Once, before she married, she painted pictures, and that is why.”
“What is to be done?” asked Elsa.