t have had some special character of
sacredness which led to its preservation here. It is strange to
find such a relic among a treasure so stained by blood and crime.

And now I have to think about moving the gold. First of all I must
get the chest itself aboard the _Island Queen_. This means that I
shall have to empty it and leave the gold in the cave, while I get
the chest out by sea. When the chest is safely in the cabin of the
sloop--where it won't leave much room for Benjy and his master, I'm
afraid--I will take the bags of coin out by the land entrance. I
can't think of risking my precious doubloons in the voyage around
the point.

Of course I should have liked to get to the task to-day, but after
the first mad thrill of the great event was over, I found myself as
weak and unnerved as a woman. So by a great effort I came away and
left my glorious golden hoard. Now I dream and gloat, playing with
the idea that to-morrow I shall find it all a fantasy. The
pleasure of this is, of course, that all the while I _know_ this
wildest of all Arabian fairy tales to be as real as the most drab
and sober fact of my hitherto colorless life.

After all, on the way back from the cave Benjy brought down a pig.
So he is as well pleased with the day as I am. Now I am sitting in
the doorway of my cabin, writing up my journal, and trying to calm
down enough to go to bed. If it were not for the swift fading of
daylight, I would go back to the cave for another peep into the
chest. But all round the island the sea is moaning with that
peculiarly melancholy note that comes with the falling of night.
The sea-birds have risen from the cove and gone wheeling off in
troops to their nests on the cliffs. Somehow a curious dislike,
almost fear, of this wild, sea-girt, solitary place has come over
me. I long for the sound of human voices, the touch of human
hands. I think of the dead man lying there at the door of the
cave, its silent guardian for so long. I suppose he brooded once
on the thought of the gold as I do--perhaps he has been brooding so
these ninety years! I wonder if he is pleased that I, a stranger,
have come into possession of his secret hoard at last?

Oh, Helen, turn your heavenly face on me--be my refuge from these
shuddering unwholesome thoughts! The gold is for you--for you!
Surely that must cleanse it of its stains, must loose the clutch of
the dead hands that strive to hold it!

February 11. This m