EVEN IN SARGASSO DOTH ENVY FIND A PLACE.
Leaving Fidette, I hurried upon deck, clutching the first mate, who, in a disordered condition of mind, was hurrying past me, and demanded to know from him the cause of the universal consternation. I detained him with difficulty, and it was several seconds before he was able to stammer out:
“The Sacred Flint has been stolen!”
“The sacred what?”
“The Sacred Flint, in the custody of the priest.”
“Is that all?”
“Surely, that’s enough,” he gasped.
“What will come of it?” I asked, considerably relieved in mind.
“The Sacred Fire may burn out.”
“I can understand that,” was my answer, now feeling quite complacent.