“Don’t—­don’t cry!” implored Cuthbert earnestly.

“It’s been too much for her!” exclaimed the once dour Scot in tones of anguish.  “Hurry, lad—­we must find her some water—­”

“Nonsense,” I interposed, winking rapidly.  “Just think of some way to calm those creatures, so that I shan’t see them in my dreams, begging and beseeching—­” For I had not forgotten the immensity of my debt to Tony.

So a note was written on a leaf torn from a pocketbook and thrown over the cliff weighted with a stone.  The captives swooped upon it.  Followed then a vivid pantomime by Tony, expressive of eased if unrepentant minds, while Mr. Tubbs, by gestures, indicated that though sadly misunderstood, old H. H. was still our friend and benefactor.

It was an attentive group to which on our return to camp I related the circumstances which had made possible our late exploit of imprisoning the pirates in the cave.  The tale of my achievements, though recounted with due modesty, seemed to put the finishing touch to the extinction of Violet, for she wilted finally and forever, and was henceforth even bullied by Aunt Jane.  The diary of Peter was produced, and passed about with awe from hand to hand.  Yesterday’s discovery in the cave had rounded out the history of Peter to a melancholy completion.  But though we knew the end we guessed in vain at the beginning, at Peter’s name, at that of the old grandfather whose thrifty piety had brought him to Havana and to the acquaintance of the dying mate of the Bonny Lass, at the whereabouts of the old New England farm which had been mortgaged to buy the Island Queen, at the identity of Helen, who waited still, perhaps, for the lover who never would return.

But even our regrets for Peter did not chill the exultation with which we thought of the treasure-chest waiting there under the sand in the cabin of the Island Queen.

All afternoon we talked of it.  That, for the present, was all we could do.  There were the two prisoners in camp to be guarded—­and they had presently awakened and made remarks of a strongly personal and unpleasant trend on discovering their situation.  There was Crusoe invalided, and needing petting, and getting it from everybody on the score of his romantic past as Benjy as well as of his present virtues.  The broken leg had been cleverly set by Dugald—­somehow in the late upheaval Miss and Mister had dropped quite out of our vocabularies—­with Cuthbert as surgeon’s assistant and me holding the chloroform to the patient’s nose.  There was the fatigue and reaction from excitement which everybody felt, and Peter’s diary to be read, and golden dreams to be indulged.  And there was the delicate question to be discussed, of how the treasure should be divided.

“Why, it all belongs to Virginia, of course,” said Cuthbert, opening his eyes at the thought of any other view being taken but this obvious one.