My next memory was of sun and a dance of leafy shadows on the wall of the cave, the which shadows held my attention so that I had no will to look otherwhere; for these were merry shadows that leapt in sportive gambols, that danced and swayed, pleasing me mightily. And as I watched these antic shadows I could hear the pleasant murmur of the little rill without the cave, that bubbled with sweet, soft noises like small, babbling voices and brake ever and anon into elfin laughter. And presently, mingled with this pretty babblement, I seemed to hear a whisper:
"Martin! Dear Martin!"
And now I saw my lady plunge to death from the rock, and started up, filling the place with my lamentations, until for very weakness I lay hushed and heard again the soft rippling of the brook and therewith her voice very sweet and faint and far away:
"Martin! Dear Martin!"
I remember a season of blackness in which dim-seen, evil things menaced me, and a horror of dreams wherein I, fettered and fast bound, must watch my sweet lady struggle, weeping, in the arms of vile rogues whiles I strove desperately to break my bonds, and finding this vain, fell to raging madness and dashed myself hither and thither to slay myself and end my torment. Or, axe in hand, amid smoke and flame, I fell upon her murderers; then would I smite down the man Humphrey only for him to rise to be smitten again and yet again, nodding shattered head and flapping nerveless arms in derision of me until, knowing I might never slay him—he being already dead—I turned to flee, but with him ever behind me and in my ears his sobbing cry of "Death for all of us—death!" And feeling his hands on me I would fall to desperate struggle until the blackness closed over me again thick and stifling like a sea.
And behind all these horrors was a haunting knowledge that I was going mad, that this man Humphrey was waiting for me out beyond the surf beckoning to me with flapping arms, and had cast on me a spell whereby, as my brain shrivelled to madness, my body was shrivelling and changing into that of Black Bartlemy. Always I knew that Humphrey waited me beyond the reef, watchful for my coming and growing ever more querulous and eager as the spell wrought on me so that he began to call to me in strange, sobbing voice, hailing me by my new name:
"Bartlemy, ahoy! Black Bartlemy—Bartlemy ho! Come your ways to Humphrey, that being dead can die no more and, knowing all, doth know you for Bartlemy crept back from hell. So come, Bartlemy, come and be as I am. And there's others here, proper lads as wants ye too, dead men all—by the rope, by the knife, by the bullet—oho!
There be two at the fore,At the main be three more,Dead men that swing all of a row;Here's fine, dainty meatFor the fishes to eat:Black Bartlemy—Bartlemy ho!
There's a fine Spanish dame,Joanna's her name,Must follow wherever ye go;Till your black heart shall feelYour own cursed steel:Black Bartlemy—Bartlemy ho!"
And I, hearkening to this awful sobbing voice, sweating and shivering in the dark, knew that, since I was indeed Black Bartlemy, sooner or later I must go.
Thus it befell that of a sudden I found myself, dazzled by a fierce sun, supporting me against a rock and my breath coming in great gasps. And in a while, my eyes growing stronger, I stared away to the reef where this man Humphrey waited me with his "dead men all"; and since I must needs go there I wept because it was so far off.
Now as I stood grieving thus, I saw one stand below me on Deliverance, looking also towards the reef, a woman tall and very stately and habited in gown of rich satin and embroidery caught in at slender waist with golden girdle, and about her head a scarf of lace. And this woman stood with bowed head and hands tight-clasped as one that grieved also; suddenly she raised her head and lifted folded hands to the cloudless heaven in passionate supplication. And beholding her face I knew her for the poor Spanish lady imploring just heaven for vengeance on me that had been her undoing; and uttering a great cry, I sank on my knees:
"Mercy, O God—mercy! Let me not be mad!"
Yet, even as I prayed, I knew that madness was upon me ere I plunged again into the dreadful dark.
But God (whose mercy is infinite) hearkened to my distressful cry, for, in a while, He brought me up from that black abyss and showed me two marvels, the which filled me with wonder and a sudden, passionate hope. And the first was the bandage that swathed my thigh; and this of itself enough to set my poor wits in a maze of speculation. For this bandage was of linen, very fine and delicate, such as I knew was not to be found upon the whole island; yet here was it, bound about my hurt, plain and manifest and set there by hands well-skilled in such kindly work.
And my second wonder was a silver beaker or ewer, very artfully wrought and all chased and embossed with designs of fruit and flower and of a rare craftsmanship, and this jug set within my reach and half-full of milk. The better to behold this, I raised myself and with infinite labour. But now, and suddenly, she was before me again, this poor Spanish lady I had slain upon a time, wherefore I blenched and shrank from her coming. But she, falling upon her knees, sought to clasp me in her arms, crying words I heeded not as (maugre my weakness) I strove wildly to hold her off.
"I am Bartlemy that killed you!" says I. "I am Black Bartlemy! They know out yonder beyond the reef, hark and you shall hear how they hail me—"
"O kind God, teach me how I may win him back to knowledge!" So crying, this Spanish lady of a sudden unpinned her hair and shook its glossy ripples all about her:
"Look, Martin!" cries she, "Don't you know me—O don't you know me now? I am Joan—come back to you—"
"No!" says I, "No—Damaris is dead and lost—I saw her die!"
"Then who am I, Martin?"
"The Spanish lady or—one of the ghosts do haunt me."
But now her hands were clasping mine, her soft hair all about me as she stooped. And feeling these hands so warm and vital, so quick and strong with life, I began to tremble and strove against her no longer; and so she stooped above me that I might feel her sweet breath on fevered cheek and brow:
"'Tis your Damaris, Martin," says she, her tears falling fast, "'tis your comrade hath come back to comfort you."
Now seeing how I stared all trembling and amazed, she set her arms about me, and drawing me to her bosom, clasped me there. And my head pillowed thus I fell a-weeping, but these tears were tears of joy and thankfulness beyond all words.
"O Damaris," quoth I at last, "if this be death I care not since I have seen thee again!"
"Why, Martin," says she, weeping with me, "art indeed so glad—so glad to find again thy poor comrade!"
And thus, knowing myself forgiven, a great joy sang within me.
I was sitting in one of our armchairs amid the leafy shade watching her knead dough with her two pretty fists. To this end she had rolled up the sleeves of her splendid gown; and thus I, hearkening to her story, must needs stare at her soft, round arms and yearn mightily to kiss their velvety smoothness and, instantly be-rating myself therefor, shifted my gaze from these temptations to my own unlovely figure, contrasting myself and my worn garments with her rich attire and proud and radiant beauty; she was again the great lady and far removed above such poor wretch as I, for all her pitiful tenderness.
"... and so when I plunged from the rock," she was saying, "I never thought to see this dear place again or the blessed sun! And I sank ... O deep—deep! Then, Martin, I seemed to be caught in some current, far down there in the darkness, that whirled and tossed me and swept me up behind the torrent. And in the rock was a great cavern sloping to the water, and there this current threw me, all breathless and nigh dead, Martin."
"God be thanked!" says I fervently.
"And there I lay all night, Martin, very sick and fearful. When day came I saw this great cave opened into a smaller and this into yet another. So I came to a passage in the rock, and because there was none other way for me, I followed this—and then—O Martin!"
"What?" quoth I, leaning forward.
"Have you ever been to the palace at Versailles, Martin!"
"Once, as a boy with my father."
"Well, Martin, the cave—the hall I came to at last was more splendid than any Versailles can show. And then I knew that I had found—Black Bartlemy's Treasure!"
"Ha!" quoth I. "And is it indeed so great?"
"Beyond description!" says she, clasping her floury hands and turning on me with shining eyes. "I have held in my hands, jewels—O by the handful! Great pearls and diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires—beyond price!"
"Aye!" I nodded, "But was this all?"
"All, Martin?" says she, staring.
"Why, according to Adam there should be all manner of stores," says I, "powder and shot, tools—a carpenter's chest—"
"They are all there, with provisions of every kind; as witness this flour, Martin, but I heeded only these wondrous jewels!" Hereupon she turns to her work again, describing to me the splendour of these precious stones and the wonder of Bartlemy's treasure, whiles I, viewing her loveliness, would have given such foolish treasure a thousand times for but her little finger, as watching the play of her round arms again, I fell a-sighing, whereupon she turns, all anxious questioning.
"Doth your wound trouble you, Martin?"
"Nay, indeed," says I, shaking my head, "I am very well, I thank you!"
"Then wherefore sigh so deep and oft?"
"I am a vasty fool!"
"Are you, Martin—why?" But in place of answer I rose and, coming beside her, scowled to see the tender flesh of her arms all black and bruised:
"What is this?" I demanded.
"Nought to matter!"
"Who did it?"
"You, Martin. In your raving you were very strong, mistaking me for the poor Spanish lady."
"O forgive me!" I cried, and stooping to this pretty arm would have touched my lips thereto for mere pity but checked myself, fearing to grieve her; perceiving this she comes a little nearer:
"You may—an you so desire, Martin," says she, "though 'tis all floury!" So I kissed her arm, tenderly and very reverently, as it had been some holy thing (as indeed so I thought it).
"I'm glad 'twas I did this, comrade."
"Glad, Martin?"
"Aye! I had rather 'twas myself than yon evil rogues—nay forget them," says I, seeing her shiver, "plague on me for reminding you."
"Hush, Martin!"
"Why then, forget them—and I have their weapons to cope with 'em should they return."
"Now thank God!" cries she, clasping my hand in both of hers. "Thank God, Martin! I feared you had killed them all!"
"Why, I did my best," I sighed, shaking my head, "but they were too strong for me! Would to God I had indeed slain—"
"Hush, Martin, O hush!" And here she claps her pretty hand to my lips, where I straightway 'prisoned it to my kisses. "Though truly," says she the whiles this was a-doing, "from your raving I feared them all slain at your hand, so do I rejoice to know you innocent of their deaths!" Here, her hand released, she fell a-laughing (albeit a little tremulously) to see my face all patched with flour; and so, back to her labour.
"But, Martin," says she, turning to glance at me in a while, "You must be very terrible to drive away these four great men, and very brave!"
"Here was no bravery!" quoth I, "Methought you surely dead and I meant them to slay me also."
"Did you—miss me—so greatly?" she questioned and not looking at me.
"Yes!"
"You fought them in Skeleton Cove, beyond Deliverance, Martin?"
"Aye! You found their guns there?"
"And the sand all trampled and hatefully stained. 'Tis an evil place, Martin."
"And so it is!" says I. "But as to these weapons, there were two good firelocks I mind, and besides—"
"They are all here, Martin, guns and swords and pistols. You raved for them in your sickness so I fetched them while you slept. Though indeed you have no need of these, there be weapons of every sort in the Treasure cave, 'tis like an arsenal."
"Ha, with good store of powder and shot, comrade?"
"Yes, Martin."
"How many weeks have I lain sick, comrade?"
"Nay, 'twas only four days."
At this I fell to marvelling that so much of agony might be endured in so little time.
"And you—tended me, Damaris?"
"Why, to be sure, Martin."
"And so saved my life."
"So I pray may it be a life lived to noble purpose, Martin."
And now I sat awhile very thoughtful and watched her shape the dough into little cakes and set them to bake.
"I must contrive you an oven and this at once!" says I.
"When you are strong again, Martin."
"Nay, I'm well, thanks to your care of me. And truly 'twill be wonderful to eat bread again."
"But I warned you I had no yeast!" says she, looking at me a little anxiously, "Nay, sir, why must you smile?"
"'Tis strange to see you at such labour and clad so vastly fine!"
"Indeed, sir needs must this your cook-maid go bedight like any queen since nought is there in Black Bartlemy's Treasure that is not sumptuous and splendid. Have you no desire to behold these wonders for yourself?"
"Not a tittle!" says I.
"But, Martin, three months are nigh sped and Master Penfeather not come, and according to his letter, three-quarters of this great treasure is yours."
"Why then, my lady, I do freely bestow it on you."
"Nay, this have I taken already because I needed it, look!" So saying she drew a comb from her hair and showed me how it was all fashioned of wrought gold and set with great gems, pearls and sapphires and rubies marvellous to see.
"'Tis mighty handsome," quoth I, "and beyond price, I judge."
"And yet," says she, "I would rather have my wooden pin in its stead, for surely there was none like to it in all this world."
Hereupon, groping in my pocket I brought out that three-pronged pin I had carved for her; beholding which, she uttered a little cry of glad surprise, and letting fall her golden comb, took the pin to turn it this way and that, viewing it as it had been the very wonder of the world rather than the poor thing it was.
"Why, Martin!" says she at last, "Why, Martin, where found you this?" So I told her; and though my words were lame and halting I think she guessed somewhat of the agony of that hour, for I felt her hand touch my shoulder like a caress.
"Death's shadow hath been over us of late, Martin," says she, "and hath made us wiser methinks."
"Death?" says I, "'Tis mayhap but the beginning of a greater life wherein shall be no more partings, I pray."
"'Tis a sweet thought, Martin!"
"And you have never feared death!" says I.
"Aye, but I do, Martin—I do!" cries she. "I am grown craven these days, mayhap—"
"Yet you sought death."
"Because there was no other way, Martin. But when Death clutched at me from those black depths I agonised for life."
"Is life then—become so—sweet to you, Damaris?"
"Yes, Martin!" says she softly.
"Since when?" I questioned, "Since when?" But instead of answering she falls a-singing softly and keeping her back to me; thus I saw that she had set the pin back in her hair, whereat I grew all suddenly and beyond reason glad. Though indeed the thing accorded but ill with her fine gown, as I told her forthwith.
"Think you so, Martin?" says she gravely, but with a dimple in her cheek.
"I do! 'Tis manifestly out of keeping with your 'broideries, your pleats, tags, lappets, pearl-buttons, galoons and the rest on't."
"'Twould almost seem you do not like me thus," says she frowning down at her finery but with the dimple showing plainer than ever.
"Why truly," says I, stooping to take up the jewelled comb where it lay, "I liked your ragged gown better."
"Because your own clothes are so worn and sorry, sir. 'Tis time you had better, I must see to it—"
"Nay, never trouble!"
"'Twill be joy!" says she sweetly, but setting her chin at me. "And then—good lack, your hair, Martin!"
"What of it?"
"All elf-lox. And then, your beard!"
"What o' my beard?"
"So wild and shaggy! And 'tis so completely out o' the mode."
"Mode?" says I, frowning.
"Mode, Martin. Your spade beard was, then came your dagger or stiletto and now—"
"Hum!" says I, "It may be your broadsword or half-pike for aught I care. But as to yon gown—"
"Alas, poor thing! 'Twill soon look worn and ragged as you can wish, Martin. I have already lost three pearl studs, and should grieve for them were there not a coffer full of better that I wot of. O Martin, when I think of all these wonders, these great diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, pearls and rubies—I do tingle!"
"And can these toys so please you?" says I.
"Yes!" cries she, "Yes, and so would they any other that was not a stock or a stone or—Martin Conisby who is above such vanities!"
"Vanities indeed!" says I, "In this wilderness more especially."
"How if we should find the world again?"
"Hum!" says I. "But this powder and shot now—"
"Pho!" cries she, and stamping her foot turns her back on me. "Here am I yearning to show you all these hidden marvels, Martin, but I never will until you beg me—no, never! And now 'tis time you took your medicine."
"What medicine?" I questioned, wondering.
"'Tis a soothing draught I have decocted from some of my simples—it will make you sleep."
"But I have no mind to sleep!"
"'Tis why you must drink your potion."
"Never in this world!" says I, mighty determined.
"Why yes you will, dear Martin," says she gently, but setting her dimpled chin at me. "I'll go fetch it." And away she goes forthwith and is presently back bearing an embossed cup (like unto a little porringer) and of gold curiously ornamented.
"Here is a noble cup!" says I.
"In these secret caves, Martin, is nothing that is not beautiful. The walls are all hung with rich arras, the floors adorned with marvellous rugs and carpets. And there are many pictures excellent well painted. Pirate and wicked as he was, Black Bartlemy understood and loved beautiful things."
"Aye, he did so!" says I, scowling.
"And amongst these pictures is one of himself."
"How should you know this?"
"Because, were you shaven, Martin, this might pass for picture of you, though to be sure your expression is different—except when you scowl as you do now, sir. Come, take your medicine like a good Martin!" And here she sets the cup to my lips.
"No!" says I.
"Yes, Martin! 'Tis sleep you need, and sleep you shall have. For indeed I do long to hear you at work again and whistling. So drink it for my sake, Martin! Indeed, 'tis none so very bitter!"
So in the end I swallowed the stuff to be done with it. And in a while (sure enough) I grew drowsy, and limping into the cave, stared to behold my bed no longer a heap of bracken but a real bed with sheets and pillows, such indeed as I had not slept in for many a long day. Thus, instead of throwing myself down all dressed, as I had been minded, I laid aside my rough clothes lest they soil this dainty gear, and, getting into bed, joyed in the feel of these cool, white sheets, and closing my eyes, fell to dreamless slumber.
I awoke late next morning to find my clothes clean gone and others in their place; but garments these whose like I had never seen. For here were purple breeches be-laced and ribbanded at the knee and buttoning there with great gold buttons (six a side), and each set with a great pearl; a fine cambric shirt; a doublet cut in at the waist with gold-braided lappets, the sleeves slashed and very wide and turned up at the wrists with point-lace, and this wondrous garment fastening in front with many gold buttons all set with goodly pearls; so that I judged this coat to be a very fortune in itself. Besides this I found a great lace collar or falling band, a pair of silk stockings, shoes with gold buckles set with diamonds, and a great penthouse of a hat adorned with a curling feather fastened by a diamond brooch; whiles hard by was an embroidered shoulder-belt carrying a long rapier, its guards and quillons of wrought gold, its pommel flaming with great brilliants. Beholding all of which gauds and fopperies, I vowed I'd none of them, and cowering beneath the sheets fell to shouting and hallooing for my lady; but finding this vain, scowled at these garments instead. They were of a fashion such as I remembered my father had worn; and now as I gazed on them a strange fancy took me to learn how I (that had gone so long half-naked and in rags) might feel in such sumptuous apparel. So up I got and dressed forthwith, and found this a matter of no small difficulty, what with the unfamiliar shape of these garments and their numberless points and buttons. Howbeit 'twas done at last, and now, coming without the cave, there was my lady upon her three-legged stool preparing breakfast. Beholding me she stared wide-eyed for a moment, then rose, smiling roguishly, and sank down in a slow and gracious curtsey.
"Good morrow to your lordship," says she. "Your lordship called, I think, but I could not answer your lordship's shouts since I was busied preparing your lordship's breakfast."
Now beholding all the sweet and roguish witchery of her, the sun so bright and the world about us so joyous, what could I do but smile and, sweeping off my great hat, make her as deep and profound a reverence as ever was seen at Whitehall or Versailles.
"Madame," quoth I, "your ladyship's most humble and very obedient servant. I trust your ladyship hath breakfast ready, for of a truth my magnificence is mighty sharp set."
"O Martin," cries she, clapping her hands, "I vow 'twas most gallant! It needeth but for you to trim your hair and beard—no, I think I will have you clean-shaven, 'twill mind me of the boyish Martin of years ago! Yes, you shall shave—"
"Shave!" quoth I, staring like any fool.
"Yes, Martin, I have all things ready. Come, it shall not take you long, we will breakfast when you are shaved and trimmed." So, willy-nilly, she brings me back to the cave and presently comes bearing a gold-mounted box, wherein lay razors with soap and everything needful to a fine gentleman's toilet. Then she sets before me a gold-framed mirror, and taking a pair of scissors at her bidding I began to clip the hair from my face, but so bungled the business that she presently took the scissors and did it for me. Thereafter I shaved (awkwardly enough, and she mighty anxious lest I cut myself—the which I did!) and, having at last washed and dried my face, I stood all amazed to find myself so much younger-looking. Now, seeing how she stared at me, and with rosy lips all a-quiver, I smiled, then wondered to behold her eyes suddenly a-brim with tears.
"O Martin, you do look the same Martin after all!" says she and so away into the sunshine; yet when I presently joined her I found her blithe enough.
"Are you hungry, sir?"
"Ravenous, my lady!"
"Why then, here we have broiled fish—caught by my ladyship—salt, Martin! Butter—churned by my ladyship—and—bread, Martin! Bread baked by my ladyship's own two hands."
"O marvellous, sweet lady!" says I.
"And 'tis none so ill though I had no yeast, is it, Martin?"
"Delicious!" says I, my mouth full.
And now, all our recent woes and sorrows clean forgotten, a right joyous meal had we; our hearts light as the sweet air that breathed around us, and untroubled as the placid ocean and broad serenity of heaven, with no dark shadow anywhere to warn us of those evils to come. Thus we ate and talked, finding joy in everything. Often my fingers must go to feel my smooth cheeks and chin, and she, catching me, must needs laugh and vow a smooth face suited me well, and that I should be handsome were my nose another shape and my eyes a different colour. Thus (as I say) brooding sorrow seemed clean vanished from my world, so that my heart swelled with gratitude for that I should live to breathe the air she made sweet.
Breakfast done, I fetched my saw, and despite her remonstrances and my resplendent breeches, forthwith set about making a cupboard; vowing I was well again, that I never felt better, etc. Hereupon, finding me set on it, she presently brings me the following, viz., an excellent new saw, divers chisels of goodly edge, a plane, a hammer, an auger and an adze; the which rejoiced me greatly, more especially the adze, the which is an exceeding useful tool in skilled hands. All these she had brought from the secret store and I mighty grateful therefor, and told her so.
"Why then, Martin," says she, "if your gratitude be real and true, you shall do somewhat for me—"
"What you will!" says I eagerly.
"Nay," she laughed, "'tis no more than this—keep you shaved—henceforth."
And so it was agreed.
If clothes be the outward and visible (albeit silent) expression of a man, his tastes and certain attitudes of his mind, yet have they of themselves a mighty influence on their wearer, being, as it were, an inspiration to him in degree more or less.
And this is truth I will maintain let say who will to the contrary, since 'tis so my experience teacheth me.
Hitherto my ragged shirt, my rough leathern jerkin and open-kneed sailor's breeches had been a constant reminder of the poor, desperate rogue I had become, my wild hair and shaggy beard evidences of slavedom. Thus I had been indeed what I had seemed in looks, a rude, ungentle creature expectant of scorns and ill-usage and therefore very prone to fight and quarrel, harsh-tongued, bitter of speech, and in all circumstances sullen, ungoverned and very desperate.
But now, seeing myself thus gently dight, my wild hair tamed by comb and scissors, there grew within me a new respect for my manhood, so that, little by little, those evils that slavery had wrought slipped from me. Thus, though I still laboured at my carpentry and such business as was to do, yet the fine linen rolled high above my scarred and knotted arm put me to the thought that I was no longer the poor, wild wretch full of despairing rage against Fate her cruel dealings, but rather a man gently born and therefore one who must endure all things as uncomplainingly as might be, and one moreover who, to greater or less degree, was master of his own fate.
And now came Hope, that most blessed and beneficent spirit that lifteth the fallen from the slough, that bindeth up the broken heart, that cheereth the sad and downcast and maketh the oft-defeated bold and courageous to attempt Fortune yet again.
O thou that we call Hope, thou sweet, bright angel of God! Without thee life were an evil unendurable, with thee for companion gloomy Doubt, sullen Fear and dark Despair flee utterly away, and we, bold-hearted, patient and undismayed by any dangers or difficulties, may realise our dreams at last. O sweet, strong angel of God, with thee to companion us all things are possible!
Thus every morning came Hope to greet me on my waking, and I, forgetting the futile past, began to look forward to a future more glorious than I had ever dreamed; so I, from a sullen rogue full of black humours, grew to know again the joy of laughter and put off my ungracious speech and ways with my rough attire. Though how much the change thus wrought in me was the work of my sweet comrade these pages, I do think, will show.
As for my lady she, very quick to mark this change, grew ever the more kind and trusting, sharing with me all her doubts and perplexities; thus, did some problem vex her, she must come to me, biting her pretty lips and her slender brows wrinkled, to ask my advice.
At this time (and at her suggestion) I builded a fireplace and oven within our third or inmost cave (that was by turns her larder, stillroom, dairy and kitchen) and with a chimney to carry off the smoke the which I formed of clay and large pebbles, and found it answer very well. Thus, what with those things I contrived and others she brought from her treasure-house (the secret whereof she kept mighty close) we lacked for nothing to our comfort, even as Adam had promised in his letter. Moreover, I was very well armed both for offence and defence, for, one by one, she brought me the following pieces, viz., a Spanish helmet, inlaid with gold and very cumbersome; a back and breast of fine steel of proof; four wheel-lock arquebuses, curiously chased and gilded, with shot and powder for the same; three brace of pistols, gold-mounted and very accurate; and what with these, my sword, axe, and trusty knife, I felt myself capable to drive away any should dare molest us, be he Indian, buccaneer or pirate, as I told her.
"Aye but," says she, "whiles you fought for our lives what must I be doing?"
"Lying secure within your secret treasure-house."
"Never!" says she, setting her chin at me, "O never, Martin; since I am your comrade my place must be beside you."
"'Twould but distress me and spoil my shooting."
"Why then, my aim should be truer, Martin. Come now, teach me how to use gun and pistol."
So then and there I fetched a pistol and one of the arquebuses and showed her their manage, namely—how to hold them, to level, sight, etc. Next I taught her how to charge them, how to wad powder and then shot lest the ball roll out of the barrel; how having primed she must be careful ever to close the pan against the priming being blown away. All of the which she was mighty quick to apprehend. Moreover, I took care to keep all my firearms cleaned and loaded, that I might be ready for any disturbers of our peace.
So the days sped, each with its meed of work, but each full-charged of joy. And dear to me beyond expressing is the memory of those days whenas I, labouring with my new tools, had but to lift my head to behold my dear comrade (herself busy as I). Truly how dear, how thrice-blessed the memory of it all! A memory this, indeed, that was to become for me sacred beyond all others; for now came Happiness with arms outstretched to me and I (poor, blind wretch) suffered it to plead in vain and pass me by, as you shall hear.
It was a night of splendour with a full moon uprising in majesty to fill the world with her soft radiance; a night very warm and still and we silent, I think because of the tender beauty of the night.
"Martin," says my companion softly at last, "here is another day sped—"
"Alas, and more's the pity!" quoth I.
"O?" says she, looking at me askance.
"Our days fly all too fast, Damaris, here is a time I fain would linger upon, an I might."
"It hath been a very wonderful time truly, Martin, and hath taught me very much. We are both the better for it, I think, and you—"
"What of me, comrade?" I questioned as she paused.
"You are grown so much gentler since your sickness, so much more my dear friend and companion."
"Why, 'tis all your doing, Damaris."
"I am glad—O very glad!" says she almost in a whisper.
"Why, 'tis you who have taught me to—to love all good, sweet things, to rule myself that I—I may some day, mayhap, be a little more worthy of—of—" here, beginning to flounder, I came to sudden halt, and casting about in my mind for a likely phrase, saw her regarding me, the dimple in her cheek, but her eyes all compassionate and ineffably tender.
"Dear man!" says she, and reached me her hand.
"Damaris," says I heavily and looking down at these slender fingers, yet not daring to kiss them lest my passion sweep me away, "you know that I do love you?"
"Yes, Martin."
"And that, my love, be it what it may, is yet an honest love?"
"Yes, dear Martin."
Here was silence a while, she looking up at the moon, and I at her.
"I broke my oath to you once," says I, "nor will I swear again, but, dear my lady, know this: though I do hunger and thirst for you, yet mine is such reverent love that should we live thus together long years—aye, until the end of our lives, I will school myself to patience and wait ever upon your will. Though 'twill be hard!" says I 'twixt my teeth, thrilling to the sudden clasp of her fingers.
"But, Martin," says she softly, "how if our days together here should all suddenly end—"
"End?" cries I, starting, "Wherefore end? When? Why end?" And I trembled in a sick panic at the mere possibility. "End?" quoth I again, "Would you have an end?"
"No—ah no!" says she leaning to me that I could look down into her eyes.
"Doth this—O Damaris, can this mean that you are happy with me in this solitude—content—?"
"So happy, Martin, so content that I do fear lest it may all suddenly end and vanish like some loved dream."
"Damaris—O Damaris!" says I, kissing her sweet fingers, "Look now, there is question hath oft been on my lips yet one I have it dared to ask."
"Ask me now, Martin."
"'Tis this ... could it ... might it perchance be possible you should learn with time ... mayhap ... to love me a little? Nay, not a little, not gently nor with reason, but fiercely, mightily, beyond the cramping bounds of all reason?"
Now here she laughed, a small, sad laugh with no mirth in it, and leaned her brow against my arm as one very weary.
"O foolish Martin!" she sighed. "How little you have seen, how little guessed—how little you know the real me! For I am a woman, Martin, as you are a man and joy in it. All these months I have watched you growing back to your nobler self, I have seen you strive with yourself for my sake and gloried in your victories, though ... sometimes I have ... tempted you ... just a little, Martin. Nay, wait, dear Martin. Oft-times at night I have known you steal forth, and hearkened to your step going to and fro out in the dark, and getting to my knees have thanked God for you, Martin."
"'Twas not all in vain, then!" says I, hoarsely, bethinking me of the agony of those sleepless nights.
"Vain?" she cried, "Vain? 'Tis for this I do honour you—"
"Honour—me?" says I, wincing.
"Above all men, Martin. 'Tis for this I—"
"Wait!" says I, fronting her all shamefaced. "I do love you so greatly I would not have you dream me better than I am! So now must I tell you this ... I stole to you once ... at midnight ... you were asleep, the moonlight all about you and looked like an angel of God."
And now it was my turn to stare up at the moon whiles I waited miserably enough for her answer.
"And when you went away, Martin," says she at last, "when I heard you striding to and fro, out here beneath God's stars, I knew that yours was the greatest, noblest love in all the world."
"You—saw me?"
"Yes, Martin!"
"Yet your eyes were fast shut."
"Yes, but not—not all the time. And, O Martin, dear, dear Martin, I saw your great, strong arms reach out to take me—but they didn't, they didn't because true love is ever greatly merciful! And your triumph was mine also, Martin! And so it is I love you—worship you, and needs must all my days."
And now we were on our feet, her hands in mine, eyes staring into eyes and never award to speak.
"Is it true?" says I at last, "God, Damaris—is it true?"
"Seems it so wonderful, dear Martin? Why, this love of mine reacheth back through the years to Sir Martin, my little knight-errant, and hath grown with the years till now it filleth me and the universe about me. Have you forgot 'twas your picture hung opposite my bed at home, your sword I kept bright because it had been yours? And often, Martin, here on our dear island I have wept sometimes for love of you because it pained me so! Nay, wait, beloved, first let me speak, though I do yearn for your kisses! But this night is the greatest ever was or mayhap ever shall be, and we, alone here in the wild, do lie beyond all human laws soever save those of our great love—and, O Martin, you—you do love me?"
Now when I would have answered I could not, so I sank to my knees and stooping ere she knew, clasped and kissed the pretty feet of her.
"No, Martin—beloved, ah no!" cries she as it were pain to her, and kneeling before me, set her soft arms about my neck. "Martin," says she, "as we kneel thus in this wilderness alone with God, here and now, before your lips touch mine, before your dear strong hands take me to have and hold forever, so great and trusting is my love I ask of you no pledge but this: Swear now in God's sight to renounce and put away all thought of vengeance now and for ever, swear this, Martin!"
Now I, all bemused by words so unexpected, all dazzled as it were by the pleading, passionate beauty of her, closed my eyes that I might think:
"Give me until to-morrow—" I groaned.
"'Twill be too late! Choose now, Martin."
"Let me think—"
"'Tis no time for thought! Choose, Martin! This hour shall never come again, so, Martin—speak now or—"
The words died on her lip, her eyes opened in sudden dreadful amaze, and thus we remained, kneeling rigid in one another's arms, for, away across Deliverance, deep and full and clear a voice was singing:
"There are two at the fore,At the main are three more,Dead men that swing all in a row;Here's fine dainty meatFor the fishes to eat:Black Bartlemy—Bartlemy ho!"
Long after the singing was died away I (like one dazed) could think of nought but this accursed song, these words the which had haunted my sick-bed and methought no more than the outcome of my own fevered imagination; thus my mind running on this and very full of troubled perplexity, I suffered my lady to bring me within our refuge, but with my ears on the stretch as expectant to hear again that strange, deep voice sing these words I had heard chanted by a dead man in my dreams.
Being come within our third cave (or kitchen) my lady shows me a small cord that dangled in certain shadowy corner, and pulling on this cord, down falls a rope-ladder and hangs suspended; and I knew this for Adam's "ladder of cords" whereby he had been wont to mount into his fourth (and secret) cavern, as mentioned in his chronicle.
"Here lieth safety, Martin," says my lady, "for as Master Penfeather writes in his journal 'one resolute man lying upon the hidden ledge' (up yonder) 'may withstand a whole army so long as his shot last.' And you are very resolute and so am I!"
"True!" says I, "True!" Yet, even as I spake, stood all tense and rigid, straining my ears to catch again the words of this hateful song. But now my dear lady catches my hand and, peering up at me in the dimness, presently draws me into the outer cave where the moon made a glory.
"O Martin!" says she, looking up at me with troubled eyes, "Dear Martin, what is it?"
"Aye—what?" quoth I, wiping sweat from me. "God knoweth. But you heard? That song? The words—"
"I heard a man singing, Martin. But what of it—we are safe here! Ah—why are you so strange?"
"Damaris," says I, joying in the comfort of her soft, strong arms about me, "dear love of mine, here is thing beyond my understanding, for these were words I dreamed sung to me by a dead man—the man Humphrey—out beyond the reef—"
"Nay, but dear Martin, this was a real voice. 'Tis some shipwrecked mariner belike, some castaway—"
"Aye—but did you—mark these words, Damaris?"
"Nay—O my dear, how should I—at such a moment!"
"They were all—of Black Bartlemy! And what should this mean, think you?"
"Nay, dear love, never heed!" says she, clasping me the closer.
"Aye, but I must, Damaris, for—in a while this singing shall come again mayhap and—if it doth—I know what 'twill be!"
"O Martin—Martin, what do you mean?"
"I mean 'twill be about the poor Spanish lady," says I, and catching up my belt where it hung, I buckled it about me.
"Ah—what would you do, Martin?"
"I'm for Deliverance."
"Then will I come also."
"No!" says I, catching her in fierce arms, "No! You are mine henceforth and more precious than life to me. So must you bide here—I charge you by our love. For look now, 'tis in my mind Tressady and his pirates are upon us at last, those same rogues that dogged the 'Faithful Friend' over seas. Howbeit I must find out who or what is it is that sings this hateful—" I stopped, all at once, for the voice was come again, nearer, louder than before, and singing the very words I had been hearkening for and dreading to hear:
"There's a fine Spanish dame,And Joanna's her name,Shall follow wherever ye go:'Till your black heart shall feelYow cursed steel:Black Bartlemy—Bartlemy ho!"