Cursed be the treasure
are clever enough, you may get another to fight them for you. Now
suppose...."
"Oh, daddy, I see, I see," I cried, for I loved to display my sagacity
before my father.
"Well," he smiled at me.
"Why," I went on breathlessly, "it's Shadow-of-Fear." I paused for a
moment at the awful name and looked furtively about me, repeating in a
lower tone, "Shadow-of-Fear." I took courage again and continued: "He
couldn't catch you, so he made the smugglers think you were a spy."
"Quite right, Tommy; full marks," said my father. "But ..."--and now he
leant over me and said very slowly and solemnly--"how does he know the
sign of the burn? How does he know, Tommy? How does he know?" And again
something of the tone that had frightened me rang in his voice.
"Daddy, he's wonderful," I said; for that was my simple creed.
I think the childish words relieved the tension of his mind, for he
laughed brightly, and tucking in the bed-clothes about my shoulders he
told me to get back to my dreams. When I woke later all was dark, and
he was sleeping peacefully at my side.
But that wasn't the last of my strange awakenings. It must have been
two nights later when I found myself lying on my back gazing at
the ceiling in that state of strange awareness which precedes full
consciousness. Dimly the utter quietness of the room made itself felt
like a pressure at my heart, and my ears seemed to be straining out to
an infinite distance to catch some faintest echo of sound. And the room
was full of light.
In sudden alarm I sprang up, but was immediately reassured, for my
father was sitting with his arms across the table, his head thrown
forward, asleep. I could see the slow heaving of his shoulders as he
breathed.
My first thought was to lie down again, but the sight of a large
parchment across which his arms were sprawled piqued my curiosity, and
I didn't debate long with myself before I was out of bed and scanning
a sheet of beautiful black script, but written in a language I didn't
understand. And then a word or two told me it was Latin, but the
meaning was quite dark to me, as my father hadn't so far succeeded in
making much of a scholar of me.
There were a few odd papers too with tracings on them like plans, some
scored through, and some mere fragmentary sketches; but they conveyed
little to me, half hidden as they were by my father's arms. I could see
they were his own work, and by occasional underlined passages in the
manuscript, and by odd notes jotted in the margin, I guessed he had
been drawing up plans according to some mysterious instructions in the
parchment.
The manuscript looked to me exceedingly old and frail. The edges were
frayed and tattered, and here and there decayed pieces had fallen from
the text itself. But it was obvious that great pains had been taken
to preserve and restore it, and where the old ink was faint the words
had been written over afresh. But it seemed to me that the task of
deciphering it must be no easy one. A glimmering of an idea flittered
through my mind, that it was somehow on account of this manuscript that
my father wanted me to learn Latin.
All these considerations were merely momentary, for a glance or two
showed me the whole picture there, and something of its meaning; and I
began to understand what the mystery was which kept my father from his
bed, though of course I couldn't guess at the contents of the ancient
script.
I was for creeping back to bed again unheeded, but stopped short at my
father's open eyes fixed upon me. He had awakened without a sound or a
stir, and was watching me. I half wondered whether he would be angry,
but with something of the matter-of-factness with which he had accepted
my discovery of the Smugglers' Tunnel he said, almost in the same
words, "Very well, Tommy, I'll show you."
Very carefully he turned a page or two of the manuscript, and the dry
old stuff crackled beneath his fingers.
"It's an old, old story," he began, "and I'll tell it to you some day.
But this is what is troubling me."
He folded a page back, and here instead of writing was an elaborate
diagram; but the edges of this page were particularly worn, as though
by frequent use, and part of the diagram was missing.
"Now, Tommy," said my father, drawing the lamp up close, "you've got
good eyes. What do you make of this?"
He pointed with his pencil to the very spot where the diagram faded
from the frayed edge.
I stooped over the table and strained my eyes to the sheet. What I saw
looked to me like a long passage, but just at the crucial point where
something important seemed to be indicated the impression was faded and
blurred.
"Looks like a hole here," I said at last.
"Yes, yes," said my father eagerly.
"And something stopping it."
"Yes...."
I looked more intently. The passage was sloping down to what I guessed
must be the opening, though this was off the page. Beneath the passage
was a short stairway leading to a tunnel which followed parallel
beneath the passage above; and after this the rest was comparatively
clear. But the puzzling part was how the stairway joined the passage.
Was it from beneath or from the side? The precious fragment which held
the secret was missing, and only a roughly rounded line, which might
have been a hole or a boulder, faded off the sheet.
I turned away blinking and rubbed my eyes, dazzled with the strain.
"Sorry, daddy," I said, "I can't see. But I think...."
"Yes, Tommy?"
"I think there's a hole in the earth, and a big stone on top."
"Ah," he said, "on top."
There was a long pause, while he sat toying with his pencil. Then he
turned to me again and said rather sadly, "You see, I thought it might
have been Ebb-Tide Gate. But if the hole is in the floor...."
"But," I said, "there is a hole in the floor where the gate drops down.
It might be...."
"No, Tommy," he smiled at me, "if there were it would be full of water.
And see here." He pointed to the diagram which marked the low-water
line, and the steps were clear. My father continued, "If the hole were
in the wall, you see, and fairly high, the steps would still be dry.
But," he added with a strange little smile, "there ain't no hole,
Tommy."
He began folding up the document, very carefully, pressing it down page
by page, and smoothing out the creases. And as he turned the last page
I saw in great black letters, at the very end, the words:
MALEDICTUS SIT THESAURUS
Now whether by chance I had met the words somewhere in my random
studies, or whether the haunting memory of some old story of my
father's lingered in my mind, I can't say; but the meaning was
instantaneously flashed across my brain, and involuntarily I exclaimed,
"Accursed be the treasure!"
My father started, but smiling humorously said, "A little learning,
Tommy ..." but left the quotation unfinished.
"Tell me the story," I said eagerly.
"Sometime, Tommy, sometime," he put me off.
"Now," I pleaded.
"But it's midnight, Tommy. And listen how the wind says 'Hush!' And
see how black it is through the window. You'd dream."
"I like to dream," I said.
"Yes, Tommy, yes," he answered. "I'd like to dream your dreams. Golden
sands, and a wide blue sea; and palms and reefs, and caverns, and long,
white, racing waves. Eh, Tommy? But there are dreams that spring at you
out of the dark and clutch at your throat and tangle you in a net, and
your limbs are heavy and dead, and your lungs are bursting, but you
can't utter a sound; and something laughs 'Ah!' and a hand goes over
your face...."
"Yes, yes," I said, as he paused.
But all he answered was "Not to-night, Tommy; not to-night."
So I went back to bed again quietly, and dipping my head into my pillow
saw in glittering great letters that deepened into red like blood,
MALEDICTUS SIT THESAURUS. And the night was full of dreams,
for all that I hadn't heard the story; for the strange curse rang like
a cry through my imagination, wailing menacingly like an echo from
another world; and ever it seemed that a coffined corpse struggling
frenziedly in its prison shook a fleshless fist at me, and glared at
me from hollow eyeless sockets, repeating and repeating a terrible
threat which I couldn't understand though I strained my ears to listen.
And though the earth was between us I could see the writhing figure
tearing at the stifling tangles of its shroud, chattering insanely.
Then suddenly I was the corpse myself; and I knew I was dead, but the
grave-clothes were choking me; and with an agonized effort I heaved
at the suffocating obstruction, and woke panting and puffing with the
blankets about my face.
I threw them off; and the room was white with morning.
CHAPTER VIII
PICARDINO
Running downstairs I was aware of an unaccustomed music in the house.
A high, vibrating voice was trilling and quavering to some twanging
instrument; and breaking into the kitchen I saw a merry brown little
fellow, with a ring of black stubbly beard about his lips, fingering
what I afterwards learnt was a guitar, and singing with the abandonment
of a bird. Without stopping his song he rolled a vivacious dark eye on
me, winking with such a knowing merriment that I beamed my broadest at
him, watching him with absorbed interest.
He finished his song and started speaking in a breath, chattering in
a pretty musical broken English, calling for wine, and pledging the
ladees of Italee, generally giving us to understand that Italy was the
land for a roving eye and a merry heart, where the gerrls knew the
meaning of love.
As he spoke he sipped at his wine, smacking his lips, and touching his
guitar with nervous fingers; and before any one had time to take up the
dialogue he was off on another song, throwing himself into it with a
humorous passion that set my blood tingling in my veins. Before he had
finished, my father came in, and as the song closed applauded heartily
with, "Brava! Brava!"
The Italian seemed gratified, and swept him an elaborate bow; but
my father held out his hand to the guitar, saying "Ah, the lovely
strings; my fingers have itched for them for years."
The Italian hastily unslung the gaudy instrument from his shoulders,
and handed it to my father eagerly, saying, "Ah, an arteest! He ees my
brotherr. He shall say he have play on the gueetar of Picardino. He
will remember me, yes? Picardino." And before my father could prevent
him he had embraced him with fervour, greatly to the amusement of the
host and the few early guests.
But my father wasn't in the least disconcerted, returning the embrace
with unction; and freeing himself he fingered at the guitar, at first
with some diffidence, but soon growing more confident, striking the
chords boldly or rippling out the arpeggios.
He hesitated a moment before launching into a song, and then began on
an old sea chantey:
"In Plymouth Town there lived a maid,
Bless you young women;
In Plymouth Town there lived a maid,
Now mind what I do say;
In Plymouth Town there lived a maid,
And she was mistress of her trade;
I'll go no more a ro--o--ving
With you--fair--maid."
We must have been a good day's journey from the sea, but the company
seemed to know the song and caught up the chorus:
"A ro--ving, a ro--ving,
Since roving's been my ru--i--in,
I'll go no more a ro--o--ving
With you--fair--maid."
And this was the beginning of a merry contest, the guitar passing from
the Italian to my father and back again, my father usually singing
some gay sailor ditty, and Picardino some wavering high-pitched song of
love. I listened delighted. Also Picardino, in his quaint English, was