A Spanish
priest is making ready for that last long voyage, when the soul of man
sloughs the dross of earth. Beside him kneels another priest--a
Frenchman of the same order.
The dying man feebly takes from his breast a packet and hands it to his
friend.
"It is as I have said," he whispers. "Others may guess, but I know.
I know--and another. The rest are all dead. There were six of us, and
all were killed save myself. We were poisoned by a Spaniard. He thought
he had killed all, but I lived. He also was killed. His murderer's name
was Bucklaw--an English pirate. He has the secret. Once he came with a
ship to find, but there was trouble and he did not go on. An Englishman
also came with the king's ship, but he did not find. But I know that the
man Bucklaw will come again. It should not be. Listen: A year ago, and
something more, I was travelling to the coast. From there I was to sail
for Spain. I had lost the chart of the river then. I was taken ill and
I should have died, but a young French officer stayed his men beside me
and cared for me, and had me carried to the coast, where I recovered. I
did not go to Spain, and I found the chart of the river again."
There is a pause, in which the deep breathing of the dying man mingles
with the low wash of the river, and presently he speaks again.
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