"My father," said he, making a step forward and catching hold of the pastor's arm, "it is all over—Freskel has lost all—and—and—" Here the lad's voice broke in a hard, dry sob.
"Why, what is this, my son?" questioned the good old man tenderly. "I understand thee not; thou speakest in riddles. Surely such as thou and I, my Freskel, have nothing to lose, and therein lies one comfort of being poor."
"Alas, you know not!" cried Freskel. "I kept it from you."
"Kept what from me, my son?"
"My secret, my great secret!" cried the boy, his eyes gleaming wildly. "And now it is all of no use. Some one has found out its hiding-place and stolen it away, and poor Freskel no longer cares to live."
"Hush! Oh, hush, my child!" said the old man. "These are wild and wicked words. Try to tell me the whole story quite simply, and let me judge of thy loss. It may be that I can help and comfort thee."
But Freskel shook his head. "No, no," he said, "no one can help. But I will tell you, my father—tell you all. My father knows the story of the Isle of Ghosts and of the treasure there?"
"Yes, surely, Freskel. Has not every child heard this fable and in his turn believed it?"
"But what if it be no fable, dear pastor?" cried the lad, his eyes kindling and a sudden colour flushing his pale cheeks. "What if it were true, my father? And what—Oh, pastor, the story is no fable—the treasure is real, not fairy gold. I found it—I, Freskel—myself, the night I swam across the lake to hide Rolf Bresser's bag of money."
"Gently, Freskel; what didst thou find?" asked the old man.