So I left the island forever; the noble home ruined and gutted; the pirates dead; DeNortier I knew not where; behind me somewhere concealed a princely treasure, the spoils of a hundred galleons, the fruits of five long years of bloodshed and carnage. Perhaps some unborn explorer of some unknown people may sometime in the dim and misty future sail out upon these seas and find this deserted isle, with its crumbling ruins and hidden gold. I know not; it may be that it will lie forever deep down in the bowels of the earth, for no good can come of treasure won as this.
I know only this, that not for the wealth of the earth would I touch foot again upon the shore of this isle Eldorado. For me it is a page in life's book finished and closed—past forever. Other regions might I explore, other isles might I look upon, but I knew that I would never again see Eldorado. And thus we left its shore forever.
Often since have I thought of the island, and wondered if it still lies in ruins and silence, broken only by the cries of the birds and the call of the natives. Often in the long winter nights, my pipe in hand, as I sit in my great chair in front of the blazing fire, watching the white clouds of smoke and hearing the wind groaning and whistling about the house, have I mused of its tropic clime and starlit nights, and of the noble white mansion.
Often have I seen in fancy the faces of DeNortier and the fat priest; lived over the stirring scenes of the past, and reveled again, as on the night we held high carnivals; have half turned to where the patient Indian José stood behind my chair with a cup of the King's wine. Lo! I start, I am dozing here, my head upon the cushion of my easy-chair.
CHAPTER XI THE GREAT ARMADA
We sailed for three long months; July, 1588, was here when we neared England. I had been sick with a fever, brought on by the life of peril that I had lived for so long; the last stroke had been too much for my enfeebled system. I had rolled and tossed for six weary weeks, day and night, and prayed to die, but it was not to be.
Oliver had been ever with me; did I moan he was up in an instant to change my rumpled pillow; did my head ache he would stroke it for me. Gentle, light-footed, tender as a woman, he nursed me day and night. Sometimes when I would grow quiet, he would throw himself upon his cot and doze for a few moments, but when I stirred he was upon his feet instantly again. I know not how he lived, but pale and serene he moved about as usual; I know I would have died, had it not been for his care of me.
At last after six weeks I began to mend, and would lie weak and exhausted, listening as he would sing to me some old ballad, or give me the news of the ship as he learned it from the gentlemen; for he was a general favorite with all on board, from Drake himself, down to the humblest man who walked the vessel. His bright sunny ways and laughing face had endeared him to the hearts of all.