“I have made my will,” she said, “and you are handsomely provided for, in consideration of your proving faithful to the trust I repose in you. Besides this, while I live, you shall never want for gold. Is it all fully understood?”
Then Crimson Tuft said, “It is understood, señora, fully.” And she took from her desk a carefully sealed paper, which she wrapped in sheep-skin, and, again sealing it, gave it to the boy. “This paper,” she said, “describes the exact spot where a great treasure is hidden upon my hacienda, near the City of Mexico. There is no chance of your gaining this for yourself for there are two other persons living who have similar papers; indeed, precautions, that I shall not tell you of, have been taken, so that it must fall to the Donna Leota at last, for she is the only true heiress. You see I am cautious, very cautious,” she added, the old look of suspicion rising in her face.
From this day Crimson Tuft was her chief adviser. He and the dwarf made all preparations for the journey. In about a week all was ready, and they went to San Francisco in a carriage, which drove immediately down to the steamer, and they were soon comfortably settled on board.
“Now,” said Crimson Tuft, “there is still time, and I can walk about the city for half an hour.” But the señora grew excited, and exclaimed, “No! no! you might get lost; remember, you are a stranger.” And the Donna Leota said, softly, “Surely, you will not go away!”
So the dwarf performed all the commissions, and for an hour the señora was absent; but, before leaving, she had said to Crimson Tuft, “I leave the Donna Leota in your care.”
At length the ship sailed. Then came the long, sluggish, dreamy days at sea. Crimson Tuft and Leota were often together upon the deck, for the old señora would not allow her there alone. What golden days they were to the poor Crimson Tuft. More and more he was growing to love the pretty young señorita, and she could not resist the powerful spell of his luminous eyes.
One night she rushed wildly through the saloon to his state-room. The grandmother had been taken suddenly very ill, and must see Crimson Tuft.
She breathed with great difficulty, and her words came low and broken: “If I live to reach Mexico, you will not need this paper; but I am old,” she added, bitterly, “and the old must die.”
With great pain she went on: “If I should not live to reach the hacienda, you will see the child has her own. Dig up the treasure yourself, and do not defraud her of one single gold piece, or the curse of a dying woman will follow you, even from the darkness of the grave.” Then again Crimson Tuft promised, and, taking the paper, left her alone with “the child,” as she still fondly called the Donna Leota.
This attack passed away, but another soon followed, and again Crimson Tuft was summoned to her side. Her glazed eye brightened as she saw him. “Remember,” was all she could say, and again he made the solemn promise. It was the third and last time. With the old señora all was now over.