As I stood there, peering ahead, and holding aloft a burning stick—­which proved, however, a poor substitute for my lantern—­a wonderful sound smote my ears.  I could not believe it, and my knees shook beneath me.  It was the sound of the sea.

Yes! it was no illusion.  It was the sound that the sea makes singing and echoing through hollow caves—­the sound I heard that night as I stood at the moonlit door of Calypso’s cavern, and saw that vision which my heart nearly broke to remember.  Calypso!  O Calypso! where was she at this moment?  Pray God that she was indeed safe, as her father had said.  But I had to will her from my mind, to keep from going mad.

And my poor torch had gone out, having, however, given me light enough to see that the door which I had just burnt through let out on to a narrow platform on the side of a rock that went slanting down into a chasm of blackness, through which, as in a great shell, boomed that murmuring of the sea.  It had a perilous ugly look, and it was plain that it would be foolhardy to attempt it at the moment without a light; and my fire was dying down.  Besides, I was beginning to feel lightheaded and worn out, partly from lack of food, no doubt.

As there was no food to be had, I recalled the old French proverb, “He eats who sleeps”—­or something to that effect—­and I determined to husband my strength once more with a brief rest.  However, as I turned to throw some more wood on my fire—­preparing to indulge myself with a little camp-fire cheerfulness as I dozed off—­my eyes fell once more on that grim line of locked doors; and my curiosity, and an idea, made me wakeful again.  I had burned down one door—­why not another?  Why not, indeed?

So I raked over my fire to the family vault nearest to me, and presently had it roaring and licking against the stout door.  It was, apparently, not so solid as the gallery door had been.  At all events, it kindled more easily, and it was not long before I had the satisfaction of battering that down too.

As I did so, I caught sight of something in the interior that made me laugh aloud and behave generally like a madman.  Of course, I didn’t believe my eyes—­but they persisted in declaring, nevertheless, that there in front of me was a great iron-bound oaken chest, to begin with.  It might not, of course, contain anything but bones—­but it might—!  The thing was too absurd.  I must have fallen asleep—­must be already dreaming!  But no!  I was labouring with all my strength to open it with one of those rusty cutlasses.  It was a tough job, but my strength was as the strength of ten, for the old treasure-hunting lust was upon me, and I had forgotten everything else in the world.

At last, with a great wooden groan, as though its heart were breaking at having to give up its secret at last, it crashed open.  I fell on my knees as though I had been struck by lightning, for it was literally brimming over with silver and gold pieces—­doubloons and pieces of eight; English and French coins, too—­guineas and louis d’or:  “all”—­as Tobias’s manuscript had said—­“all good money.”