They crossed to it—marked by a blue slate slab, which covered it entirely. The inscription, cut in script, was faint in places and blurred by moss, in others.
Macloud stooped and, with his knife, scratched out the latter.
“He died two days after the letter was written: May 12, 1738,” said he. “His age is not given. Duval did not know it, I reckon.”
“See, here is the picture—it stands out very plainly,” said Miss Carrington, indicating with the point of her shoe.
“I’m not given to moralizing, particularly over a grave,” observed Macloud, “but it’s queer to think that the old pirate, who had so much blood and death on his hands, who buried the treasure, and who wrote the letter, lies at our feet; and we—or rather Croyden is the heir of that treasure, and that we searched and dug all over Greenberry Point, committed violence, were threatened with violence, did things surreptitiously, are threatened, anew, with blackmail and violence——”
“Pirate’s gold breeds pirate’s ways,” she quoted. 240
“It does seem one cannot get away from its pollution. It was gathered in crime and crime clings to it, still. However, I fancy Croyden would willingly chance the danger, if he could unearth the casket.”
“And is there no hope of finding it?” she asked.
“Absolutely none—there’s half a million over on Greenberry Point, or in the water close by, and none will ever see it—except by accident.”
“What sort of accident?”