“Lift up the lantern—­Dorothy, please.  No, higher than that.  What in God’s name?  Why, it is the corpse of a woman!”

I heard her cry out, and barely caught the lantern as it fell from her hand.  The hatchet struck the deck with a sharp clang, and I felt the frightened clasp of the girl’s fingers on my sleeve.  Yet I scarcely realized these things, my entire attention focussed on what was now revealed writhin the chest.  At first I doubted the evidence of my own eyes, snatching the bit of flaring candle from its tin socket, and holding it where the full glare of light fell across the grewsome object.  Ay, it was a woman, with lower limbs doubled back from lack of space, but otherwise lying as though she slept, so perfect in preservation her cheeks appeared flushed with health, her lips half smiling.  It was a face of real beauty—­an English face, although her eyes and hair were dark, and her mantilla, and long earrings were unquestionably Spanish.  A string of pearls encircled her throat, and there were numerous rings upon her fingers.  The very contrast added immeasurably to the horror.

“She is alive!  Surely she is alive?” the words were sobbed into my ear, trembling from Dorothy’s lips, as though she could barely utter them.  I stared into her face, the sight of her terror, arousing me from stupor.

“Alive!  No, that is impossible!” and conquering a repugnance, such as I had never before experienced, I touched the figure with my hand, “The flesh is like stone,” I said, “thus held lifelike by some magic of the Indies.  I have heard of such skill but never before realized its perfection.  Good God! she actually seems to breathe.  What can it all mean?  Who could the woman be?  And why should her body be thus carried about at sea.  Is it love, or hate?”

“Not love, Geoffry.  Love would never do this thing.  It is hate, the gloating of revenge; there can be no other answer—­this is the end of a tragedy.”

“The truth of which will never be known.”

“Are you sure?  Is there nothing hidden with her in there to tell who she was, or how she died?”

There was nothing, not a scrap of paper, not even the semblance of a wound exposed.  The smile on those parted lips had become one of mockery; I could bear the sight no longer, and rose to my feet, clasping Dorothy close to me, as she still gazed down in fascination at the ghastly sight.

“We will never know.  The man who could tell is dead.”

“Captain Paradilla?”

“Who else could it be?  This was his schooner, and here he alone could hide such a secret.  There is nothing more we can learn, and the horror unnerves me.  Hold the light, dear, while I replace the lid of the chest.”