“I might not this believe
    Without the sensible and true avouch of mine own eyes ...”

Then, he was for starting off that very night.  But, reminded of the difficult seclusion in which the treasure still lay, he was persuaded to wait till the morrow.

“At dawn then,” he said, “to-morrow—­’what time, the rosy-footed dawn’ ... so be it.  And now I am going to talk to Ajax the Far-Darter of duck-shooting.”

“But wait!” I cried.  “Why did ‘Jack Harkaway’ go to Nassau?”

Calypso blushed.  The “King” chuckled.

“I prefer not to be known in Nassau, yet some of my business has to be done there.  Nor is it safe for beauty like Calypso’s to go unprotected.  So from time to time, ‘Jack Harkaway’ goes for us both!  And now enough of explanations!”; and he launched into talk of game and sport in various parts of the world, to the huge delight of the great simple-hearted Charlie.

But, after a time, other matters claimed the attention of his other auditors.  During the flow of his discourse night had fallen.  Calypso and I perceived that we were forgotten—­so, by an impulse that seemed to be one, we rose and left them there, and stole out into the garden where the little fountain was dancing like a spirit under the moon, and the orange trees gave out their perfume on the night breeze.  I took her hand, and we walked softly out into the moonlight, and looked down at the closed lotuses in the little pool.  And then we took courage to look into each other’s eyes.

“Calypso,” I said, “when are you going to show me where you keep your doubloons?”—­and I added, in a whisper, “Jack—­when am I going to see you in boy’s clothes again?”

And, with that, she was in my arms, and I felt her heart beating against my side.

“O! my treasure,” I said—­ever so softly—­“Calypso, my treasure.”

POSTSCRIPT

Now, such readers as have been “gentle” enough to follow me so far in my story, may possibly desire to be told what lay behind those other locked doors in the underground gallery where I so nearly laid my bones.

I should like nothing better than to gratify their legitimate curiosity.  But, perhaps, they will not have forgotten my friend John Saunders, Secretary to the Treasury of His Britannic Majesty’s Government at Nassau.

John is a good friend, but he is a man of very rigid principles and a great stickler in regard to any matters pertaining to the interests and duties of his office.  Were I to divulge—­as, I confess, my pen is itching to do—­the dazzling—­I will even say blinding—­contents of these other grim compartments (particularly if I were to give any hint of their value in bullion), no feelings of friendship would for one second weigh with him as against his duty to the august Government he so faithfully serves.  He may suspect what he likes, but, so long as he actually knows nothing, we may