The time did not seem long to me as I paced the deserted deck aft, or went forward occasionally to assure myself that the lookouts on the forecastle were alert.  There was nothing to see or do, the sea and sky both so black as to be indistinguishable, and the breeze barely heavy enough to distend the canvas, giving the schooner a speed not to exceed six knots, I suspicioned a storm in the hatching, but nothing evidenced its near approach.  However my thoughts busied me, and vanished all drowsiness.  I believed I had won a way to freedom—­to a government pardon.  The good fortune which had befallen me in the salvage of this vessel, as well as our success against the pirates of the Namur, could scarcely be ignored by the authorities of Virginia, while the rescue of Dorothy Fairfax, and her pleading in our behalf, would commend us to mercy, and reward from the very highest officials.  The money, the treasure, I personally thought nothing about, willing enough that it should go to others; but I was ambitious to regain my honor among men, my place of respectability in the world, for the one vital purpose which now dominated my mind—­that I might claim Dorothy Fairfax with clean hands.  My love, and the confession of her own, had brought to me a new vista, a fresh hope.  It seemed to me already her faith had inspired me with new power—­power to transform dream into reality.

I stood above her motionless figure as she lay asleep, and solemnly took a resolve.  At whatever cost to myself, or others, the Santa Marie should sail in between the Capes to the waters of the Chesapeake.  Be the result reward or punishment, liberty or freedom, the chance must be accepted, for her sake, as well as my own.

CHAPTER XXX

OPENING THE TREASURE CHEST

The dawn came slowly, and with but little increase of light.  The breeze had almost entirely died away, leaving the canvas aloft motionless, the schooner barely moving through a slightly heaving sea, in the midst of a dull-gray mist.  It was a dismal outlook, the decks wet, the sails dripping moisture, and nothing to look about upon but wreaths of fog.  Even as the sun rose, its rays failed to penetrate this cloud bank, or yield slightest color to the scene.  It was all gray, gloomy, mysterious—­a narrow stretch of water, disappearing so suddenly the eye could not determine ocean from sky.  The upper masts vanished into the vapor, and, from where I stood aft, I could but dimly perceive the open deck amidships.  The light yet burning in the binnacle was hazy and dull.