rely on his inactivity.  In fact, I know that he has no wish to be told—­so far he will go with us, but no further—­and, as we wish neither to sully his fine probity, nor, on the other hand, to disgorge our “illgotten gains”—­for which, after all, each one of us risked his life (and for which one life, most precious of all, was placed in such terrible jeopardy)—­gains too which His Britannic Majesty is quite rich enough to do without—­the readers must pardon me my caution, and draw upon his imagination for what I must not tell him.

This, however, I will say:  he cannot well imagine too vividly or too magnificently, and that, in fact, he may accept those hyperboles fancifully indulged in by the “King” as very slightly overshooting the mark.  We do not, indeed, go disguised in cloth of gold, nor are we blinding to look upon with rings and ropes of pearls.  It does not happen to be our western fashion to be so garmented.  But—­well—­I won’t say that we couldn’t do so if we were so minded.

Nor will I say, either, that the “King” does not occasionally, in private, masquerade in some such splendour; though, as a rule, he still prefers that shabby tatterdemalion costume which we have still to accept as a vagary of his fantastic nature.  He is still the same Eternal Child, and his latest make-believe has been to fit up those caverns, through which so miserably I wormed my way, with the grandiose luxury of the Count of Monte Cristo; that, as he says, the prophecy might be fulfilled which said:  “Monte Cristo shall seem like a pauper and a penny gaff in comparison with the fantasies of our fearful wealth.”

Those caverns, we afterward discovered, did actually communicate with Blackbeard’s ruined mansion, and the “King,” who has now rebuilt that mansion and lives in it in semi-feudal state with Calypso and me, is able to pass from one to the other by underground passages which are an unfailing source of romantic satisfaction to his dear, absurd soul.

As to whether or not the mansion and the treasure were actually Blackbeard’s—­that is, Edward Teach’s—­we are yet in doubt, though we prefer to believe that they were.  At all events, we never found any evidence to connect them at all with Henry P. Tobias, whose second treasure, we have every reason to think, still remains undiscovered.

As for the sinister and ill-fated Henry P. Tobias, Jr., we have since learned—­through Charlie Webster, who every now and again drops in with sailors from his sloop and carries off the “King” for duck-shooting—­that his real name was quite different; he must have assumed, as a nom de guerre, the name we knew him by, to give colour to his claim.  I am afraid, therefore, that he was a plain scoundrel, after all, though it seemed to me that I saw gleams in him of something better, and I shall always feel a sort of kindness toward him for the saving grace of gallant courtesy with which he invested his rascally abduction of Calypso.