So many years had elapsed since Brandon had last been in the village which bore the family name that he had no fear of being recognized. He had been a boy then, he was now a man. His features had passed from a transition state into their maturer form, and a thick beard and mustache, the growth of the long voyage, covered the lower part of the face like a mask. His nose which, when he left, had a boyish roundness of outline, had since become refined and chiseled into the straight, thin Grecian type. His eyes alone remained the same, yet the expression had grown different, even as the soul that looked forth through them had been changed by experience and by suffering.

He gave himself out at the inn as an American merchant, and went out to begin his inquiries. Tearing two buttons off his coat, he entered the shop of the village tailor.

“Good-morning,” said he, civilly.

“Good-morning, Sir; fine morning, Sir,” answered the tailor, volubly. He was a little man, with a cast in his eye, and on looking at Brandon he had to put his head on one side, which he did with a quick, odd gesture.

“There are two buttons off my coat, and I want to know if you can repair it for me?”

“Certainly, Sir; certainly. Take off your coat, Sir, and sit down.”

“The buttons,” said Brandon, “are a little odd; but if you have not got any exactly like them, any thing similar will do.”

“Oh, I think we’ll fit you out, Sir. I think we’ll fit you out,” rejoined the tailor, briskly.

He bustled about among his boxes and drawers, pulled out a large number of articles, and finally began to select the buttons which were nearest like those on the coat.

“This is a fine little village,” said Brandon, carelessly.

“Yes, Sir; that’s a fact, Sir; that’s just what every body says, Sir.”

“What old Hall is that which I saw just outside the village?”

“Ah, Sir, that old Hall is the very best in the whole county. It is Brandon Hall, Sir.”

“Brandon Hall?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I suppose this village takes the name from the Hall—or is it the Hall that is named after the village?”

“Well, neither, Sir. Both of them were named after the Brandon family.”

“Is it an old family? It must be, of course.”

“The oldest in the county, Sir.”

“I wonder if Mr. Brandon would let a stranger go through his grounds? There is a hill back of the house that I should like to see.”

“Mr. Brandon!” exclaimed the tailor, shaking his head; “Mr. Brandon! There ain’t no Mr. Brandon now!”

“How is that?”

“Gone, Sir—ruined—died out.”

“Then the man that lives there now is not Mr. Brandon?”

“Nothing of the kind, Sir! He, Sir! Why he isn’t fit to clean the shoes of any of the old Brandons!”

“Who is he?”

“His name, Sir, is Potts.”

“Potts! That doesn’t sound like one of your old county names.”

“I should think not, Sir. Potts! Why, Sir, he’s generally believed in this here community to be a villain, Sir,” said the little tailor, mysteriously, and with the look of a man who would like very well to be questioned further.

Brandon humored him. “How is that?”

“It’s a long story, Sir.”

“Oh, well—tell it. I have a great curiosity to hear any old stories current in your English villages. I’m an American, and English life is new to me.”

“I’ll bet you never heard any thing like this in all your born days.”

“Tell it then, by all means.”

The tailor jumped down from his seat, went mysteriously to the door, looked cautiously out, and then returned.

“It’s just as well to be a little careful,” said he, “for if that man knew that I was talking about him he’d take it out of me quick enough, I tell you.”

“You seem to be afraid of him.”

“We’re all afraid of him in the village, and hate him; but I hope to God he’ll catch it yet!”

“How can you be afraid of him? You all say that this is a free country.”

“No man, Sir, in any country, is free, except he’s rich. Poor people can be oppressed in many ways; and most of us are in one way or other dependent on him. We hate him all the worse, though. But I’ll tell you about him.”

“Yes, go on.”

“Well, Sir, old Mr. Brandon, about twenty years ago, was one of the richest men in the county. About fifteen years ago the man Potts turned up, and however the old man took a fancy to him I never could see, but he did take a fancy to him, put all his money in some tin mines that Potts had started, and the end of it was Potts turned out a scoundrel, as every one said he would, swindled the old man out of every penny, and ruined him completely. Brandon had to sell his estate, and Potts bought it with the very money out of which he had cheated the old man.”

“Oh! impossible!” said Brandon. “Isn’t that some village gossip?”

“I wish it was, Sir—but it ain’t. Go ask any man here, and he’ll tell you the same.”

“And what became of the family?” asked Brandon, calmly.

“Ah, Sir! that is the worst part of it.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you, Sir. He was ruined. He gave up all. He hadn’t a penny left. He went out of the Hall and lived for a short time in a small house at the other end of the village. At last he spent what little money he had left, and they all got sick. You wouldn’t believe what happened after that.”

“What was it?”

“They were all taken to the alms-house.”

A burst of thunder seemed to sound in Brandon’s ears as he heard this, which he had never even remotely imagined. The tailor was occupied with his own thoughts, and did not notice the wildness that for an instant appeared in Brandon’s eyes. The latter for a moment felt paralyzed and struck down into nothingness by the shock of that tremendous intelligence.

“The people felt dreadfully about it,” continued the tailor, “but they couldn’t do any thing. It was Potts who had the family taken to the alms-house. Nobody dared to interfere.”

“Did none of the county families do anything?” said Brandon, who at last, by a violent effort, had regained his composure.

“No. They had all been insulted by the old man, so now they let him suffer.”

“Had he no old friends, or even acquaintances?”

“Well, that’s what we all asked ourselves, Sir; but at any rate, whether he had or not, they didn’t turn up—that is, not in time. There was a young man here when it was too late.”

“A young man?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Was he a relative?”

“Oh no, Sir, only a lawyer’s clerk; wanted to see about business I dare say. Perhaps to collect a bill. Let me see; the lawyer who sent him was named Thornton.”

“Thornton!” said Brandon, as the name sank into his soul.

“Yes; he lived at Holby.”

Brandon drew a long breath.

“No, Sir; no friends came, whether he had any or not. They were all sick at the alms-house for weeks.”

“And I suppose they all died there?” said Brandon, in a strange, sweet voice.

“No, Sir. They were not so happy.”

“What suffering could be greater?”

“They do talk dreadfully in this town, Sir; and I dare say it’s not true, but if it is it’s enough to make a man’s blood ran cold.”

“You excite my curiosity. Remember I am an American, and these things seem odd to me. I always thought your British aristocrats could not be ruined.”

“Here was one, Sir, that was, anyhow.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Sir, the old man died in the alms-house. The others got well. As soon as they were well enough they went away.”

“How did they get away?”

“Potts helped them,” replied the tailor, in a peculiar tone. “They went away from the village.”

“Where did they go?”

“People say to Liverpool. I only tell what I know. I heard young Bill Potts, the old fellow’s son, boasting one night at the inn where he was half drunk, how they had served the Brandons. He said they wanted to leave the village, so his father helped them away to America.”

“To America?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Brandon made no rejoinder.

“Bill Potts said they went to Liverpool, and then left for America to make their fortunes.”

“What part of America?” asked Brandon, indifferently. “I never saw or heard of them.”

“Didn’t you, Sir?” asked the tailor, who evidently thought that America was like some English county, where every body may hear of every body else. “That’s odd, too. I was going to ask you if you had.”

“I wonder what ship they went out in?”

“That I can’t say, Sir. Bill Potts kept dark about that. He said one thing, though, that set us thinking.”

“What was that?”

“Why, that they went out in an emigrant ship as steerage passengers.”

Brandon was silent.

“Poor people!” said he at last.

By this time the tailor had finished his coat and handed it back to him. Having obtained all the information that the man could give Brandon paid him and left.

Passing by the inn he walked on till he came to the alms-house. Here he stood for a while and looked at it.

Brandon alms-house was small, badly planned, badly managed, and badly built; every thing done there was badly and meanly done. It was white-washed from the topmost point of every chimney down to the lowest edge of the basement. A whited sepulchre. For there was foulness there, in the air, in the surroundings, in every thing. Squalor and dirt reigned. His heart grew sick as those hideous walls rose before his sight.

Between this and Brandon Hall there was a difference, a distance almost immeasurable; to pass from one to the other might be conceived of as incredible; and yet that passage had been made.

To fall so far as to go the whole distance between the two; to begin in one and end in the other; to be born, brought up, and live and move and have one’s being in the one, and then to die in the other; what was more incredible than this? Yet this had been the fate of his father.

Leaving the place, he walked directly toward Brandon Hall.

Brandon Hall was begun, nobody knows exactly when; but it is said that the foundations were laid before the time of Egbert. In all parts of the old mansion the progress of English civilization might be studied; in the Norman arches of the old chapel, the slender pointed style of the fifteenth century doorway that opened to the same, the false Grecian of the early Tudor period, and the wing added in Elizabeth’s day, the days of that old Ralph Brandon who sank his ship and its treasure to prevent it from falling into the hands of the enemy.

Around this grand old Hall were scenes which could be found nowhere save in England. Wide fields, forever green with grass like velvet, over which rose groves of oak and elm, giving shelter to innumerable birds. There the deer bounded and the hare found a covert. The broad avenue that led to the Hall went up through a world of rich sylvan scenery, winding through groves and meadows and over undulating ground. Before the Hall lay the open sea about three miles away; but the Hall was on an eminence and overlooked all the intervening ground. Standing there one might see the gradual decline of the country as it sloped downward toward the margin of the ocean. On the left a bold promontory jutted far out, on the nearer side of which there was an island with a light-house; on the right was another promontory, not so bold. Between these two the whole country was like a garden. A little cove gave shelter to small vessels, and around this cove was the village of Brandon.

Brandon Hall was one of the oldest and most magnificent of the great halls of England. As Brandon looked upon it it rose before him amidst the groves of six hundred years, its many-gabled roof rising out from amidst a sea of foliage, speaking of wealth, luxury, splendor, power, influence, and all that men hope for, or struggle for, or fight for; from all of which he and his had been cast out; and the one who had done this was even now occupying the old ancestral seat of his family.

Brandon entered the gate, and walked up the long avenue till he reached the Hall. Here he rang the bell, and a servant appeared. “Is Mr. Potts at home?”

“Yes,” said the man, brusquely.

“I wish to see him.”

“Who shall I say?”

“Mr. Hendricks, from America.”

The man showed him into the drawing-room. Brandon seated himself and waited. The room was furnished in the most elegant manner, most of the furniture being old, and all familiar to him. He took a hasty glance around, and closed his eyes as if to shut it all out from sight.

In a short time a man entered.

He appeared to be between fifty and sixty years of age, of medium size, broad-shouldered and stout. He had a thoroughly plebeian air; he was dressed in black, and had a bunch of large seals dangling from beneath his waistcoat. His face was round and fleshy, his eyes were small, and his head was bald. The general expression of his face was that of good-natured simplicity. As he caught sight of Brandon a frank smile of welcome arose on his broad, fat face.

{Illustration: “YOU ARE, SIR. JOHN POTTS OF POTTS HALL."}

Brandon rose and bowed. “Am I addressing Mr. John Potts?”

“You are, Sir. John Potts of Potts Hall.”

“Potts of Potts Hall!” repeated Brandon. Then, drawing a card from his pocket he handed it to Potts. He had procured some of these in London. The card read as follows:

BEAMISH & HENDRICKS, FLOUR MERCHANTS & PROVISION DEALERS, 88 FRONT STREET, CINCINNATI, OHIO.

“I, Sir,” said Brandon, “am Mr. Hendricks, junior partner in Beamish & Hendricks, and I hope you are quite well.”

“Very well, thank you,” answered Potts, smiling and sitting down. “I am happy to see you.”

“Do you keep your health, Sir?”

“Thank you, I do,” said Potts. “A touch of rheumatism at odd times, that’s all.”

Brandon’s manner was stiff and formal, and his voice had assumed a slight nasal intonation. Potts had evidently looked on him as a perfect stranger.

“I hope, Sir, that I am not taking up your valuable time. You British noblemen have your valuable time, I know, as well as we business men.”

“No, Sir, no, Sir, not at all,” said Potts, evidently greatly delighted at being considered a British nobleman.

“Well, Sir John—or is it my lord?” said Brandon, interrogatively, correcting himself, and looking inquiringly at Potts.

“Sir John’ll do,” said Potts.

“Well, Sir John. Being in England on business, I came to ask you a few questions about a matter of some importance to us.”

“Proceed, Sir!” said Potts, with great dignity.

“There’s a young man that came into our employ last October whom we took a fancy to, or rather my senior did, and we have an idea of promoting him. My senior thinks the world of him, has the young man at his house, and he is even making up to his daughter. He calls himself Brandon—Frank Brandon.”

At this Potts started from an easy lounging attitude, in which he was trying to “do” the British noble, and with startling intensity of gaze looked Brandon full in the face.

“I think the young man is fairish,” continues Brandon, “but nothing extraordinary. He is industrious and sober, but he ain’t quick, and he never had any real business experience till he came to us. Now, my senior from the very first was infatuated with him, gave him a large salary, and, in spite of my warnings that he ought to be cautious, he wants to make him head-clerk, with an eye to making him partner next year. And so bent on this is he that I know he would dissolve partnership with me if I refused, take the young man, let him marry his daughter, and leave him all his money when he dies. That’s no small sum, for old Mr. Beamish is worth in real estate round Cincinnati over two millions of dollars. So, you see, I have a right to feel anxious, more especially as I don’t mind telling you, Sir John, who understand these matters, that I thought I had a very good chance myself with old Beamish’s daughter.”

Brandon spoke all this very rapidly, and with the air of one who was trying to conceal his feelings of dislike to the clerk of whom he was so jealous. Potts looked at him with an encouraging smile, and asked, as he stopped,

“And how did you happen to hear of me?”

“That’s just what I was coming to. Sir John!” Brandon drew his chair nearer, apparently in deep excitement, and in a more nasal tone than ever, with a confidential air, he went on:

“You see, I mistrusted this young man who was carrying every thing before him with a high hand, right in my very teeth, and I watched him. I pumped him to see if I couldn’t get him to tell something about himself. But the fellow was always on his guard, and always told the same story. This is what he tells: He says that his father was Ralph Brandon of Brandon Hall, Devonshire, and that he got very poor—he was ruined, in fact, by—I beg your pardon, Sir John, but he says it was you, and that you drove the family away. They then came over to America, and he got to Cincinnati. The old man, he says, died before they left, but he won’t tell what became of the others. I confess I believed it was all a lie, and didn’t think there was any such place as Brandon Hall, so I determined to find out, naturally enough, Sir John, when two millions were at stake.”

Potts winked.

“Well, I suddenly found my health giving way, and had to come to Europe. You see what a delicate creature I am!”

Potts laughed with intense glee.

“And I came here after wandering about, trying to find it. I heard at last that there was a place that used to be Brandon Hall, though most people call it Potts Hall. Now, I thought, my fine young man, I’ll catch you; for I’ll call on Sir John himself and ask him.”

“You did right, Sir,” said Potts, who had taken an intense interest in this narrative. “I’m the very man you ought to have come to. I can tell you all you want. This Brandon is a miserable swindler.”

“Good! I thought so. You’ll give me that, Sir John, over your own name, will you?” cried Brandon, in great apparent excitement.

“Of course I will,” said Potts, “and a good deal more. But tell me, first, what that young devil said as to how he got to Cincinnati? How did he find his way there?”

“He would never tell.”

“What became of his mother and sister?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“All I know,” said Potts, “is this. I got official information that they all died at Quebec.”

Brandon looked suddenly at the floor and gasped. In a moment he had recovered.

“Curse him! then this fellow is an impostor?”

“No,” said Potts, “he must have escaped. It’s possible. There was some confusion at Quebec about names.”

“Then his name may really be Frank Brandon?”

“It must be,” said Potts. “Anyhow, the others are all right.”

“Are what?”

“All right; dead you know. That’s why he don’t like to tell you about them.”

“Well, now, Sir John, could you tell me what you know about this young man, since you think he must be the same one?”

“I know he must be, and I’ll tell you all about him and the whole cursed lot. In the first place,” continued Potts, clearing his throat, “old Brandon was one of the cursedest old fools that ever lived. He was very well off but wanted to get richer, and so he speculated in a tin mine in Cornwall. I was acquainted with him at the time and used to respect him. He persuaded me—I was always off-handed about money, and a careless, easy fellow—he persuaded me to invest in it also. I did so, but at the end of a few years I found out that the tin mine was a rotten concern, and sold out. I sold at a very high price, for people believed it was a splendid property. After this I found another mine and made money hand over fist. I warned old Brandon, and so did every body, but he didn’t care a fig for what we said, and finally, one fine morning, he waked up and found himself ruined.

“He was more utterly ruined than any man I ever knew of, and all his estates were sold. I had made some money, few others in the county had any ready cash, the sale was forced, and I bought the whole establishment at a remarkably low figure. I got old Brandy—Brandy was a nickname I gave the old fellow—I got him a house in the village, and supported him for a while with his wife and daughter and his great lubberly boy. I soon found out what vipers they were. They all turned against their benefactor, and dared to say that I had ruined their father. In fact, my only fault was buying the place, and that was an advantage to old Brandy rather than an injury. It shows, though, what human nature is.

“They all got sick at last, and as they had no one to nurse them, I very considerately sent them all to the alms-house, where they had good beds, good attendance, and plenty to eat and drink. No matter what I did for them they abused me. They reviled me, for sending them to a comfortable home, and old Brandy was the worst of all. I used to go and visit him two or three times a day, and he always cursed me. Old Brandy did get awfully profane, that’s a fact. The reason was his infernal pride. Look at me, now! I’m not proud. Put me in the alms-house, and would I curse you? I hope not.

“At last old Brandy died, and of course I had to look out for the family. They seemed thrown on my hands, you know, and I was too good-natured to let them suffer, although they treated me so abominably. The best thing I could think of was to ship them all off to America, where they could all get rich. So I took them to Liverpool.”

“Did they want to go?”

“They didn’t seem to have an idea in their heads. They looked and acted just like three born fools.”

“Strange!”

“I let a friend of mine see about them, as I had considerable to do, and he got them a passage.”

“I suppose you paid their way out.”

“I did, Sir,” said Potts, with an air of munificence; “but, between you and me, it didn’t cost much.”

“I should think it most have cost a considerable sum.”

“Oh no! Clark saw to that. Clark got them places as steerage passengers.”

“Young Brandon told me once that he came out as cabin passenger.”

“That’s his cursed pride. He went out in the steerage, and a devilish hard time he had too.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he was a little crowded, I think! There were six hundred emigrants on board the Tecumseh—”

“The what?”

“The Tecumseh. Clark did that business neatly. Each passenger had to take his own provisions, so he supplied them with a lot. Now what do you think he gave them?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“He bought them some damaged bread at one quarter the usual price. It was all mouldy, you know,” said Potts, trying to make Brandon see the joke. “I declare Clark and I roared over it for a couple of months, thinking how surprised they must have been when they sat down to eat their first dinner.”

“That was very neat,” rejoined Brandon.

“They were all sick when they left,” said Potts; “but before they got to Quebec they were sicker, I’ll bet.”

“Why so?”

“Did you ever hear of the ship-fever?” said Potts, in a low voice which sent a sharp trill through every fibre of Brandon’s being. He could only nod his head.

“Well, the Tecumseh, with her six hundred passengers, afforded an uncommon fine field for the ship-fever. That’s what I was going to observe. They had a great time at Quebec last summer; but it was unanimously voted that the Tecumseh was the worst ship of the lot. I send out an agent to see what had become of my three friends, and he came back and told me all. He said that about four hundred of the Tecumseh’s passengers died during the voyage, and ever so many more after the landing. The obtained a list of the dead from the quarantine records, and among them were those of the these three youthful Brandons. Yes, they joined old Cognac pretty soon—lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death not divided. But this young devil that you speak of must have escaped. I dare say he did, for the confusion was awful.”

“But couldn’t there have been another son?”

“Oh no. There was another son, the eldest, the worst of the whole lot, so infernally bad that even old Brandy himself couldn’t stand it, but packed him off to Botany Bay. It’s well he went of his own accord, for if he hadn’t the law would have sent him there at last transported for life.”

“Perhaps this man is the same one.”

“Oh no. This eldest Brandy is dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain—best authority. A business friend of mine was in the same ship with him. Brandy was coming home to see his friends. He fell overboard and my friend saw him drown. It was in the Indian Ocean.”

“When was that?”

“Last September.”

“Oh, then this one must be the other of course!”

“No doubt of that, I think,” said Potts, cheerily.

Brandon rose. “I feel much obliged. Sir John,” said he, stiffly, and with his usual nasal tone, “for your kindness. This is just what I want. I’ll put a stop to my young man’s game. It’s worth coming to England to find out this.”

“Well, when you walk him out of your office, give him my respects and tell him I’d be very happy to see him. For I would, you know. I really would.”

“I’ll tell him so,” said Brandon, “and if he is alive perhaps he’ll come here.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Potts.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Brandon, and pretending not to see Potts’s outstretched hand, he bowed and left. He walked rapidly down the avenue. He felt stifled. The horrors that had been revealed to him had been but in part anticipated. Could there be any thing worse?

He left the gates and walked quickly away, he knew not where. Turning into a by-path he went up a hill and finally sat down. Brandon Hall lay not far away. In front was the village and the sea beyond it. All the time there was but one train of thoughts in his mind. His wrongs took shape and framed themselves into a few sharply defined ideas. He muttered to himself over and over the things that were in his mind: “Myself disinherited and exiled! My father ruined and broken-hearted! My father killed! My mother, brother, and sister banished, starved, and murdered!”

He, too, as far as Potts’s will was concerned, had been slain. He was alone and had no hope that any of his family could survive. Now, as he sat there alone, he needed to make his plans for the future. One thing stood out prominently before him, which was that he must go immediately to Quebec to find out finally and absolutely the fate of the family.

Then could any thing else be done in England? He thought over the names of those who had been the most intimate friends of his father—Thornton, Langhetti, Despard. Thornton had neglected his father in his hour of need. He had merely sent a clerk to make inquiries after all was over. The elder Langhetti, Brandon knew, was dead. Where were the others? None of them, at any rate, had interfered.

There remained the family of Despard. Brandon was aware that the Colonel had a brother in the army, but where he was he knew not nor did he care. If he chose to look in the army register he might very easily find out; but why should he? He had never known or heard much of him in any way.

There remained Courtenay Despard, the son of Lionel, he to whom the MS. of the dead might be considered after all as chiefly devolving. Of him Brandon knew absolutely nothing, not even whether he was alive or dead.

For a time he discussed the question in his mind whether it might not be well to seek him out so as to show him his father’s fate and gain his co-operation. But after a few moments’ consideration he dismissed this thought. Why should he seek his help? Courtenay Despard, if alive, might be very unfit for the purpose. He might be timid, or indifferent, or dull, or indolent. Why make any advances to one whom he did not know? Afterward it might be well to find him, and see what might be done with or through him; but as yet there could be no reason whatever why he should take up his time in searching for him or in winning his confidence.

The end of it all was that he concluded whatever he did to do it by himself, with no human being as his confidant.

Only one or two persons in all the world knew that he was alive, and they were not capable, under any circumstances, of betraying him. And where now was Beatrice? In the power of this man whom Brandon had just left. Had she seen him as he came and went? Had she heard his voice as he spoke in that assumed tone? But Brandon found it necessary to crush down all thoughts of her.

One thing gave him profound satisfaction, and this was that Potts did not suspect him for an instant. And now how could he deal with Potts? The man had become wealthy and powerful. To cope with him needed wealth and power. How could Brandon obtain these? At the utmost he could only count upon the fifteen thousand pounds which Compton would remit. This would be as nothing to help him against his enemy. He had written to Compton that he had fallen overboard and been picked up, and had told the same to the London agent under the strictest secrecy, so as to be able to get the money which he needed. Yet after he got it all, what would be the benefit? First of all, wealth was necessary.

Now more than ever there came to his mind the ancestral letter which his father had inclosed to him—the message from old Ralph Brandon in the treasure-ship. It was a wild, mad hope; but was it unattainable? This he felt was now the one object that lay before him; this must first be sought after, and nothing else could be attempted or even thought of till it had been tried. If he failed, then other things might be considered.

Sitting there on his lonely height, in sight of his ancestral home, he took out his father’s last letter and read it again, after which he once more read the old message from the treasure-ship:

“One league due northe of a smalle islet northe of the Islet of Santa Cruz northe of San Salvador——I Ralphe Brandon in my shippe Phoenix am becalmed and surrounded by a Spanish fleete——My shippe is filled with spoyle the Plunder of III galleons——wealth which myghte purchase a kyngdom-tresure equalle to an Empyr’s revenue——Gold and jeweles in countless store——and God forbydde that itt shall falle into the hands of the Enemye——I therefore Ralphe Brandon out of mine owne good wyl and intente and that of all my men sink this shippe rather than be taken alyve——I send this by my trusty seaman Peter Leggit who with IX others tolde off by lot will trye to escape in the Boate by nighte——If this cometh haply into the hands of my sonne Philip let him herebye knowe that in this place is all this tresure——which haply may yet be gatherd from the sea——the Islet is knowne by III rockes that be pushed up like III needles from the sande.

“Ralphe Brandon”

Five days afterward Brandon, with his Hindu servant, was sailing out of the Mersey River on his way to Quebec.