The folk at Polkimbra have many a fable about this grave, but if pressed will shake their heads sagely and refer you to “Master Trenoweth up yonder at Lantrig.  Folks say she was a play-actor and he loved her.  Anyway you may see him up in the churchyard most days, but dont’ee go nigh him then, unless you baint afeard of th’evil eye.”

And I?  After the treasure was divided with Government, I still had for my share what I suppose would be called a considerable fortune.  The only use to which I put it, however, was to buy back Lantrig, the home of a stock that will die out with me.  There again from the middle beam in the front parlour hangs my grandfather’s key, covered with cobwebs as thickly as on the day when my father went forth to seek the treasure.  There I live a solitary life—­an old man, though scarcely yet past middle age.  For all my hopes are buried in the grave where sleeps my lost love, and my soul shall lie for ever under the curse, engulfed and hidden as deeply as the Great Ruby beneath the shadow of Dead Man’s Rock.