He mumbled on, “Ay, there’s voices in the wind to-night! Voices I’ve heard! I do remember a merchantman—from the East it was—and full to the decks with rich stuffs. Many folks aboard. We boarded it at noon, and we sunk it at eve. None could live; there were men aboard as had known me. I remember the sunset—blood-red it was—and the seas were like blood about us. And the great cry when the ship went down; and the crying of the wind that night, as we sailed away. How the wind cries!”
I saw the sweat again upon him. I saw his brows wet, and his wet hands stained with the red gems. He gasped, “I’ve never thought to die! . . . Ah, Christ, that I rot in the ground and end so! . . . But to blow with the winds about the world, forever about the world—knowing no rest—no rest!”
I rose and held his glass to his lips. He drank, and for the time his courage and strength were restored to him; he gibed and mocked the crying wind, the voices that were about the house, in the house; surely now I heard sounds from below, laughter, and roaring chorus of drunken voices. No one yet sought admission to the room.
Now leaning forward, plucking at my sleeve, he whispered, “You’ve been wondering why I kept you here this night?”
“Surely because you loved my father, and would have me by you! Will you not lie down on your bed and rest?”
“No! No! But to show you—give you—what’s mine, what’s to be yours. Help me up! I’m weak! I fear the pain. Bring a light, boy!”
Wondering, I gave him my arm, and propped by me he made his way from the hearth to the wall beyond his chair. I saw him clutch at the tapestry and tear it aside; the cloud of dust nigh blinded me. Drawing from my support, he tapped and clawed at the old oaken panels; they parted suddenly, revealing a deep recess in the stones of the wall. Leaning against me, he fumbled at his breast, and took forth two slim keys on a silken ribbon strung about his neck, and groped in the recess, muttering, “The light, boy! Show the light!”
And while I held the candle, I saw in the recess a little iron door built into the stone; he set a key at last in the lock, and opening the door drew out a black box. This box was deep, but of no great length; it was heavy, for he nigh dropped it when he pulled it out; he clutched it to his breast and bore it to his chair with him. He cried to me, “Pull the curtain back. Hide the panels! Come and see!”
He sat with the black box resting on his knees; it seemed of ebony, and was bound plainly with silver. He set the key in the lock, and lifted the lid. Leaning over him, I saw that the contents of the box were packed in black silk. At his word, I aided him to lift this package out, and set the box down at his feet. The silk reeked with spices; with clawing fingers he unfolded the wrapper of silk, till it draped about his knees to the hearth—a flag of black silk it seemed, wrought with a design in silver thread and ringed with silver. And suddenly the grim thing shrouded in this black silken flag, broidered with the death’s head and cross bones, lay bare to me; for he gripped between his palms a white skull. Now this skull was fashioned into the form of a casket overwrought with silver, having a silver lid upon the crown, and in the sockets of the eyes two blue jewels burning to the reflection of the candles and the fire with an unholy light. The jaws were banded with silver, so that the skull resting on his palms, grinned at me, as shuddering I drew back, and dared not look upon the old man’s face and feared his laughter. Lowering the skull upon his knees, he touched the silver crown of it with his fingers; the lid flew up; and instantly, at the wonder of it, I cried out, for it seemed that fire burned from the casket—a miracle of light and colour, as the flame upon the hearth and from the candles gave life to the gems within. My grandfather’s fingers seemed to dip in fire. He laughed to himself; he drew out wonderful gems; held them gorgeous and glowing on his palms; he let them fall back into the skull.
He muttered, “Only a little store, only a little store,—and yet half the years of my sinning, child, are told in this odd little box. I had it fashioned to my fancy; they’re rare gems for its eyes. D’ye understand what’s hid in it? D’ye understand there’s not a man but would sell his soul for what’s in this little box? D’ye see this white stone—this big white stone? Did ever the moon or the sun shine like it? Was ever blood so red as this red stone, or leaf so green as this, or ever the Main so blue? Ay, there’s diamonds, there’s rubies, emeralds and sapphires; and there’s wonderful pearls. And thirty years and odd went to fill this box. Gold and plate, and many a precious thing that was scarce safe to sell—ivory and silks and spices—ay, they’re all told in the stones of this little box. There’s been blood on these stones—many of ’em. They’ve been plucked from white necks and dead fingers—ay, many of them! Charles has lost his soul for the bare tell of ’em. All my rogues are lost for the lust of ’em—Barwise and Thrale and the rest. Knowing I held my hoard—though where ’twas hid no one knew, and feared to seek, and feared to murder me, lest where ’twas hid should never be known. Ay—What’s that?”