I then related my history of the sunken galleon in the Isle of Tortoises, and he heard with growing wonder my detail of her exact position in the cavern, and the treasure she contained.
"Thirty millions of pieces of eight—ah! Marie, Mère de Dieu! One must boil a good many acres of sugar-cane to realize such a sum as that!"
"Well, take her, monsieur, and all she contains—but give me your daughter."
"M. le Capitaine—Georgette is yours."
* * * * * *
CHAPTER LXXI.
CONCLUSION.
Six months after the interview related here, I found myself on the brow of an eminence which overlooks the little wooded dell wherein lies the village in which the first chapter of this story opens, and where my mother's little cottage stands.
The month was October, and the russet hues of autumn, lent a sombre aspect to the evening landscape. The village and the scene were all unchanged as when I saw them before; and it was difficult for me to realize the events and years that had passed since last I stood there. But I had still on the uniform of a Scots Fusilier; Rowland Haystone was by my side, and I had left Georgette fatigued with her journey and our long voyage home in the Adder, at an hotel in town, while accompanied by my friend and comrade, I proceeded on foot to the residence of my mother.
The red crisped leaves whirled on the evening wind; a ruddy gleam played on the windows of the wayside houses from the coal fires within and a warm glow glared across the road from the smith's forge, where we heard the clang of a hammer on the resounding anvil.