“And did you find it out?” the Captain asked.
“I think so, sir,” Kit replied. “The story was evidently written about the middle of this century, or less than fifty years ago. I think the author wanted to show what wonderful things could be accomplished by a man with fabulous wealth. So after the hero had been imprisoned in that Castle d’If a great many years, he made his way through the walls to the dungeon of a very wise priest who was confined there. The priest became so attached to him that before he died he told him of the secret hiding-place of an immense treasure; and after the hero escaped he went to the island and got the treasure. As nearly as I can make out, the treasure amounted to about three million dollars, and he did all his wonderful things with that money. The interesting thing is, as I understand it, that less than fifty years ago, a great author, living in Paris, when he wanted to write about a man with as much money as anybody could imagine, much less really have, gave him only three million dollars, which in those days seemed beyond belief; whereas now within a single lifetime, some of our American millionaires are so much richer that three million dollars would seem like a small sum to them.”
“That’s it, exactly,” the Captain replied; “I am glad you caught the idea. It just shows how the wealth of the world has increased in the last fifty years—or perhaps how it has fallen into comparatively few hands. Half a century ago three millions was as great a fortune as could be imagined; now when a man gets three he is not satisfied till he turns it into thirty.”
“It has made me anxious to see that Castle d’If and its dungeons,” Kit said.
“I hope to have another look at it myself,” the Captain answered. “I was there once, but it was many years ago—long before you were born. We will go out together some day.”
When Gibraltar was reached, the hoisting of two or three flags caused a telegraphic message to be sent by cable to London and thence to New York, “Passed, steamer North Cape, New York for Marseilles. All well,” so that the ship’s owners and the crew’s friends knew within a few hours that she had once more crossed the Atlantic in safety.
“I should hardly like to be sailing past here in a ship that that tremendous fort was trying to keep out,” Kit declared. “It looks as if nothing could get past, with those great tiers of guns commanding this narrow passage. This is the strangest thing I have seen yet—Africa just across the channel, Spain on this side, and that great tall rock at the end of the peninsula belonging to England. I have read how the rock is full of underground passages and hidden batteries. They call it the impregnable fortress; don’t they, sir?”
“Impregnable is a very good word, Silburn,” the Captain answered, “but no place is impregnable in these days. That rock has been taken and retaken a number of times, so it cannot be impregnable. The English have fortified it very strongly, because it is an important point; but in case of attack they would have to depend largely upon their navy to defend it. A few dynamite cartridges thrown against the rock would soon reduce it.”
“Well, it doesn’t really look as if the English had any business with a big fort right on the best corner of Spain,” Kit went on.
“You will soon find yourself in deep water if you go into such questions as that, young man,” Captain Griffith laughed. “What business have the English in India, or Egypt, or Africa? What business have the Spaniards in Cuba? What business have we in America, for that matter, which belonged to the Indians? You will save yourself trouble by taking things as you find them. You’ll be saying next that the Phœnicians ought to own Marseilles, instead of the French, because they founded it.”