The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where Flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me.  Oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about its coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of Captain Flint still ringing in my ears:  “Pieces of eight!  Pieces of eight!”