“Come over to my desk,” cried Señor Bazán, as agile as the little brown monkey. “Now sit down and listen. You do that very well. It is a virtue worth its weight in pure gold. I have observed it in you. Have you read much about Spanish treasure? Have the legends fascinated you?”
Richard Cary jumped from his chair. The words had wrenched him out of his solid composure. All he could say was, like a deep-voiced echo: “Spanish treasure? Has it fascinated me? How did you happen to hit the mark like that?”
This quick vehemence startled Señor Bazán. It was unexpected. This new Richard Cary, aroused and masterful, was, indeed, like having a great yellow tiger in the house.
“Ah, ha, Ricardo, you smell the trail? You have dreamed of finding Spanish treasure? This is better than I hoped for. It might be a captain that sailed with El Draque as you stand there with eyes on fire.”
“With Drake?” exclaimed Richard Cary, his arms folded across his mighty chest. “Aye, Señor Bazán, there was treasure for the men that sailed these seas with Frankie Drake. Here at Cartagena, though it was like pulling teeth to make the fat Spanish merchants give up their gold.”
Señor Bazán was a trifle dazed. This amazing young man whom he had handled so carefully, with such solicitude to gain his good-will and gratitude, was fairly running away with him. He did not have to be coaxed or persuaded. This was already obvious.
“Dead stuff?” laughed Cary. “You have it in the books on your shelves. But I enjoy talking about it—how Drake and his seamen used their long pikes in carrying the barricadas in the streets after they made a breach in the wall. It was merry work while it lasted. Six hundred Englishmen to take the strongest town in the West Indies! There was a swarm of Indian bowmen with poisoned arrows that played the mischief with them. The town had to yield after Master Carlisle, the lieutenant-general, slew the chief ensign-bearer of the Spaniards with his own hand. They fought as pretty a duel with swords as ever a man saw. And all for what? After Drake and his men took their pleasure in sacking and spoiling the town and setting fire to a great part of it, the ransom they obtained was no more than a hundred and ten thousand ducats. A beggarly adventure that laid a hundred and fifty lads on their backs with wounds and fever.”
Señor Bazán sucked in his breath with a greedy sound. He was squirming in his chair. Here was a topic he could never tire of. His heart’s desire was revealed.
Richard Cary pleasantly rambled on, yarning of Spanish treasure like a sociable Elizabethan mariner in a waterside taproom. He was carried away by his own enthusiasm. The way was cleared for the cherished secret of Ramon Bazán. Ricardo was in a mood to respond and sympathize. He would not scoff at an old man’s dearest ambition that had long possessed him, body and soul, that had vivified old age and decrepitude with the magic of youth’s illusions.
Señor Bazán was careful to lock the library door before seating himself at the desk. From a drawer he withdrew a folded document much crumpled and soiled. His fingers fumbled with it. He was pitifully agitated. Cary stood leaning over the desk. He foresaw the nature of the document. Ramon Bazán delayed unfolding it. The habit of secrecy was not easily broken. He preferred first to explain what was more or less known to the picaresque race of modern treasure-seekers. It happened to be new to Richard Cary’s ears. He drank it in with gusto, while humming in his brain was an old sea chantey: