Nieta was the only member of the little party who really feared lightning. Now they were sheltered from the rain and far from tall trees, where danger from lightning really lurks, Doris and Johnny settled back each in a dark corner for a good rest.
“Wonder whose boat it is?” said Doris.
“Native boat,” said Johnny. “Tell by the way the canvas is sewed and the boards are nailed.”
“Probably came from Cape Haitian,” said Doris. “Gone up in the hills to hunt wild guineas or cocoanuts. We’ll get them to take us to town with them.”
This was a consoling thought. To trek back up the mountain in the dark and wet after the storm would be difficult indeed.
“Wonder where Mr. Monk is?” said Doris.
“It’s curious about that ring,” said Johnny. “It looked old—old as the hills. The gold was all tarnished and the stone didn’t look a bit like the ones I’ve seen; wasn’t cut the same.”
Doris made no answer to this. She had suddenly recalled some strange stories told to her by a very old black woman of Cape Haitian. The stories had to do with days long gone by. They told of the rule of Christophe, the only powerful emperor Haiti has ever known.
“And Honey,” the toothless old crone had said to her, “I had it right from my own Mammy and I know it’s true; the ladies of that Emperor’s court wore diamonds and rubies and pearls, such jewels as you only hear of now, but don’t most never see.
“And when the uprisin’ came and the Emperor was expectin’ to be overthrowed, the wicked old Emperor took all the jewels an’ gold an’ buried it somewheres; nobody’s found out where. No Honey, not nobody has ever found it yet.”