The Mysterious Man, after eating ravenously of food set before him, curled himself up in one of the men’s bunks in the forecastle and soon went to sleep. One man, a well-spoken, middle-aged sailor named Harding, was told off to take care of the madman and to see that he did not get into mischief, while the cure of his intellect was left in my charge.
Together with Seal I proceeded to examine our find. As the sun sank crimson and stormy, flooding the skipper’s cabin with a blood-red glow, he and I carefully counted the gold. There were 1,783 pieces, large and small, and of great variety. The English ones mostly bore the effigies of Edward VI. and Elizabeth. There were none of James I., but many were of Henry IV. of France, together with a variety of Spanish doubloons and Italian pieces. I found none of a later reign than Elizabeth, therefore I put down the date of the Seahorse as about 1603, or a few years earlier.
“I wonder whether Old Mystery will claim the coin?” Seal reflected, as he slowly filled his pipe, having finished the counting.
“As the sole survivor, it most probably belongs to him,” I said.
“But if he’s a lunatic, what claim can he make to it? There’ll be some job to find the vessel’s owner, I reckon.”
His remark caused me to remember the two parchments I had in my pocket, and I drew them out, opened them, and examined them carefully.
The first was beautifully and clearly written, about a foot square, and headed “Cosmvs.” It was in Latin, and I must admit that although I had passed in Latin up at Edinburgh, I was very rusty in it. The document at commencement read as follows: —
Cosmus Dei Gratia Magnus Dux Etruriæ, etc. et sacræ Religionis, et Militiæ Militum S. Stephani Papæ, et Martyris Magnus Magister et Custos, etc., Dilecto Nobis Pompæo Marie a Paule, Nobili Pisano et S. Stephani Militi, gratiam uram, et omne bonum.
Then, after a screed of twenty long lines, the document ended: —
Datum Florentiæ die pa. Februarij anno ab incarn. MDCI. Nostri Magni Ducatus Etruriæ anno VI.