Black Bartlemys Treasure

Now as I stood watching the moonbeams play up and down the long blade, I heard the light, quick tread of feet ascending the stairs without and a voice (very rich and sweetly melodious) that brake out a-singing, and the words it sang these: "A poor soul sat sighing by a green willow tree With hand on his bosom, his head on his knee, Sighing Willow, willow, willow! O willow, willow, willow! And O the green willow my garland shall be!"

Nearer came the singing while I stood, sword in hand, waiting; the song ended suddenly and the sweet voice called: "O Marjorie, wake me betimes, I must be abroad with the sun to-morrow--good-night, sweet wench!"

I crouched in the curtains of the great bed as the latch clicked and the room filled with the soft glow of a candle; a moment's silence, then: "O Marjorie, I'll wear the green taffety in the morning. Nay indeed, I'll be my own tirewoman to-night."

The light was borne across the room; then coming softly to the door I closed it and, setting my back against it, leaned there. At the small sound I made she turned and, beholding me, shrank back, and I saw the candlestick shaking in her hand ere she set it down upon the carved press beside her.

"Who is it--who is it?" she questioned breathlessly, staring at my bruised and swollen features.

"A rogue you had dragged lifeless to the pillory!"

"You?" she breathed. "You! And they set you in the pillory? 'Twas by no order of me."

"'Tis no matter, lady, here was just reward for a rogue," says I. "But now I seek Sir Richard--"

"Nay indeed--indeed you shall not find him here."

"That will I prove for myself!" says I, and laid hand on latch.

"Sir," says she in the same breathless fashion, "why will you not believe me? Seek him an you will, but I tell you Sir Richard sailed into the Spanish Main two years since and was lost."

"Lost?" says I, feeling a tremor of apprehension shake me as I met her truthful eyes. "Lost, say you--how lost?"

"He and his ship were taken by the Spaniards off Hispaniola."

"Taken?" I repeated, like one sore mazed. "Taken--off--Hispaniola?" And here, bethinking me of the cruel mockery of it all (should this indeed be so) black anger seized me. "You lie to me!" I cried. "Ha, by God, you lie! An there be aught of justice in heaven then Richard Brandon must be here."

"Who are you?" she questioned, viewing me with the same wide-eyed stare. "Who are you--so fierce, so young, yet with whitened hair, and that trembles at the truth? Who are you--speak?"