IT would be impossible to convey to another an adequate idea of the feelings I experienced when I clambered for the first time upon the deck of the old galleon. Alice and her father stood on the rocks as I advanced along the shell-incrusted structure, axe in hand, to the raised cabin or poop. I struck the cemented door with the axe several blows, until it broke and fell in with a crash. Then there came up a damp sea-smell from a dark, cavernous interior, into which here and there penetrated a narrow beam of light from small crevices and openings above. I was about to break in the window containing the iridescent pane of milky glass, when Alice called to me to spare it, if possible, for its exceeding beauty. So I dashed my axe through all the other incrusted openings, and let in a flood of light and fresh air to the long sunken apartment. Mr. Millward cautioned me to beware of foul air and gases; but the caution was needless, the air was pure and sweet and impregnated only with an odor such as a receding tide leaves behind. Testing it cautiously at first, I soon felt that it was safe, and entered the cabin, the floor of which was flush with the deck on which I stood.

On either hand were berths, the doors of some of which were closed, and some fallen open. Within the berths I found the usual bunks, and looked with dread for ghastly memorials of those who once occupied them. But if there had been skeletons there at one time, the bones were long since dissolved and gone; not a trace was left. All about were remains of sea organisms of various kinds, animal and vegetable, which had lived and flourished here in the dark deep under the sea. I could note here and there heaps indicating the decayed or covered remains of the furniture. A glass decanter and several goblets stood encrusted and cemented to what had once been a table. It was a strange sight, never to be forgotten.

With the axe I went about and stove in one after another all the doors, except one which resisted my efforts. This door was made stronger than the others, and was banded and barred with iron much rusted, and in places so oxidized as to be mere streaks and stains of rust. I inferred that here was the strong-room of the ship, and doubtless within its precincts would be found whatever of treasure the galleon contained. I reserved the opening of this apartment, which was located at the port side of the rudder, until my companions should be present to share with me the pleasure or disappointment that might result from a disclosure of its contents. Having done this much I returned on deck and announced the result of my investigations, and that I wanted all to be present at the opening of the treasure chamber.

The old man waded to the vessel as I had done, and I took Alice in my arms and carried her, helping her up to a footing on the deck. Duke, not to be left behind, came plunging in and swam to the side, following his mistress, and I helped him also on board. Then we all entered the cabin, and I began at the door with the axe. At the second blow the blade went through near the bottom of the door, and out gushed a stream of water which poured down the slanting cabin-floor, draining away into one of the berths. I enlarged this opening until the confined water flowed more freely, and then we waited until it had drained out and ceased to flow. I wished very much for the crowbar that I had seen in the hands of our departed neighbors, but it had gone with them, and so I was fain to continue the work with the axe. Little by little the barrier was completely demolished and the chamber lay open before us.

There upon the floor was a great heap of something half filling the room. With the axe I struck into it, and there shone out the yellow lustre of gold. Mingled with a black, oxidized mass of silver, all glued together, were great bars or bricks of the pure, indestructible, untarnishable, precious metal, unchanged by all the time it had lain sunken beneath the waters. It shone with the same dull yellow that it had given back to the light so long ago. Iron might rust, the bolts and bars might dissolve and fall away; the inferior silver might blacken, soften, and change; but the noble gold was proof against time, and against the insidious tooth of the bromides, the chlorides, and iodides, and all the other salts that the sea held in solution in its mighty waters. A simultaneous cry of delight from all went up at the sight. I clasped my darling close in my arms and kissed her sweet lips.

“See,” cried I, “the gold! That means a home for us, my queen! It means the redemption of the hills and valleys, the woodland and fields where I was born, and where you shall rule, sweetheart!”

“It means very much to us, my son,” said the old man; “it is at once your fortune and my daughter’s dowry. Think of the good that can be done in the world by a proper use of this treasure which will be entrusted to your care and stewardship.”

Duke came up and sniffed suspiciously at the pile, and turned away as though disgusted at the whole business, and the exceeding bad taste of his friends. While I had been chopping at the door the dog was in the greatest state of excitement, expecting no doubt that some sort of game would be unearthed. But as it proved, nothing came forth, not even a chipmunk, and not even the stale scent of one. We all happened to be looking at this display of canine wisdom, which was so significant and so complete a commentary on the artificial character of the value pertaining to what we had found, that the effect was irresistible. We all burst into merry laughter, peal on peal, till the cabin of the old craft rang with such a burst of hilarity, echoing through its cavernous recesses, as it had not heard for centuries if ever before.

Now that the gold was found I was in a state of feverish anxiety to get it out of the galleon. It seemed as though misfortune hung over us in the cloudless sky. I could not hasten fast enough. The minutes seemed hours. A great dread was upon me. I could not have slept while the treasure remained where it lay. To my excited brain and wrought-up imagination it seemed that the very ghosts of those who once owned the gold would come to claim it. Though it would be days before the pearl-fishers could get back, I could not avoid casting anxious glances toward the western horizon. Mr. Millward appeared to partake in some degree of this same anxious condition of mind. I am certain no two men ever worked more freely up to the extent of their physical abilities than we did that day. We loosened up and carried to Mr. Millward’s boat the whole of the precious metal, more than a ton in weight including the gold and silver together, and stowed it on a layer of canvas where it might serve as ballast, clearing out the ballast that was already there, and covered it over with the sail cloth of the tent, and over that a layer of sand to conceal it all.

That night we slept on board the boat, and we began to feel the anxious care of the charge that wealth brings. I got little sleep, and was restless, and up and down all night. In the morning we began and continued until late in the afternoon a systematic examination of the entire interior of the galleon, searching for more treasure, but we found nothing, and brought nothing more away from the wreck except the pane of glass, and the decanter and goblets which I, for souvenirs, removed at Alice’s request.

There was nothing more to keep us on the island; the weather was fair and settled, the wind was favorable, and we might have started that night, but Mr. Millward thought it would be wise to provision the boat better and renew our water. Moreover, Alice expressed a wish to visit once more our house that we might bid farewell to scenes which we might never revisit. We therefore sailed for Home Creek in the sloop, leaving my boat behind me as we should have no further occasion for it. We reached the creek an hour before sunset, and moored the boat in her old snug place. Nothing at the house had been disturbed. By the level rays of the sun as he was about to sink behind the central plateau of the island I lit a fire, and soon we had one started in the oven as well. Then began the roasting, baking, and boiling, of pork and beans, bread, yams, potatoes, coffee, and whatever we had in store. It was midnight before we completed our task and went to bed.

Alice and her father slept at the house, and I made my bed in the boat, the gun by my side, and Duke curled up at my head.

The last day on the island dawned clear and bright; the blue sky unflecked by a single cloud hung high above; the favorable wind that we had sighed for in vain at times was gently rustling through the foliage and swaying the graceful palms; the myriad voices of Nature sounded all about in the song of bird and hum of insect and boom of surf. When I rose to greet the day I saw Alice standing on the porch in the full sunlight, looking out at the sea all glistening as it was with light from a million facets. Presently Mr. Millward came out, his white head bare and his commanding figure erect and unbowed by years. They stood together thus when I came up and joined the group.

There was little to do before we left. Our breakfast, for which we did not light a fire, was soon over. Then we loaded on our provisions, emptied and re-filled our water-gourds for the voyage, stored them, and were ready to go. I dug up my pearls from their place of concealment. Alice went into the house and brought out my nautilus-shell from the mantel. We would leave all else as it was for the benefit possibly of some shipwrecked successor, and carry away only what we needed for our use upon the voyage.

Then together we three, followed by the faithful Duke, made a round of visits to the various familiar places,—the salt-pan, incrusted now with white salt; the shed, beneath whose shade we had toiled so hard and passed so many pleasant hours; the house, the oven, the garden, now luxuriant in its rich abundance of growth; the cocoanut grove,—and to all bade a silent farewell. At the last, with tears in her sweet eyes, Alice begged that I would walk with her down the beach and sit upon the rock by the seaside as we had done once before in a time that now seemed so long ago. When we reached the rock she put her arms about my neck and said, “It was here I first knew I loved you, dear. I could not go away without coming here with you to say good-by to the dear old island.”

Ah! fair Key Seven, good-by, good-by. How much of happiness do I owe your friendly shores. Shine forth a gem of the sea. Smile ever in my remembrance as on that fair morning when, clad in all your loveliness, my bride and I bade farewell to your palms and sands and groves and streams, and listened for the last time to the chorus of your birds. Farewell, farewell. May we hope some day to come and visit these scenes again, and open once more the gates of this earthly paradise before we pass through the valley that leads us to the final home.

It was ten o’clock in the morning when we embarked and set sail from Key Seven bound for Martinique, a fair wind wafting us over the sea, the tinkling water at the bow and the broad wake behind speaking well for the good speed we made. By two o’clock the island hung a trembling, hazy, blue cloud in the west. We looked at it with regret filled with sweet remembrance, as it sunk lower and lower and finally, fading away out of sight, was gone from our view.

The run to Martinique was wholly uneventful, though it took us four days to reach port, owing to the light winds. Throughout the voyage Mr. Millward and I took turns at the helm, steering by the compass. Not a single sail was sighted, and we drew into the old pier just four hours before the steamer bound for New York made the port and tied up to the same pier.

Mr. Millward went at once to the captain of the newly arrived vessel and related enough of our story to apprise him of the nature of our cargo, and the desire we had to get to New York with it as soon as possible. The captain, a New Bedford man, came back with Mr. Millward to the boat, and we then arranged for our passage and the safe carriage of our treasure. The latter was stowed in canvas bags and sealed and weighed under our supervision, and carried on board the steamer. Then my heart grew lighter as the care of the treasure was lifted from my mind. We secured ample insurance from the local underwriter, made arrangements that the sloop should be sold and the proceeds sent to some of Mr. Millward’s old parishioners in Jamaica, and then, just as the sun was setting, embarked for New York and home.

My story is done, for all our trials and labors and troubles were then over. Now we may ring the curtain down. But before it descends I may invite you to look at the last tableau.

It is a summer’s day. The dust lies thick on the shady road. The katydid rasps its musical wing in the tall elms which shade an old farmhouse. On the porch, enjoying the faint breath of the evening air that comes gently over the fields of yellow grain, and through the orchard where the home-returning cows have stopped a moment, is a group consisting of a white-haired old man, who smokes his pipe in quiet comfort, a young man, and a beautiful young woman, at whose feet lies a noble Gordon setter. It is the party whose story you have followed. This farmhouse and these broad acres have been redeemed with long sunken Spanish gold. It is a loving and a happy party, whose hearts beat kindly for each other and for all.

The old man speaks:—

“My children, to-day is the anniversary of our departure from Key Seven. Let us thank God for all the good gifts that have come to us from The Spanish Galleon.”

THE END.

THE BRIDGE OF THE GODS.

A ROMANCE OF INDIAN OREGON.

By F. H. Balch.

12mo, 280 pages. Price, $1.25.

This is a masterly and original delineation of Indian life. It is a strong story, charged with the elemental forces of the human heart. The author portrays with unusual power the intense, stern piety of the ministers of colonial New England, and the strange mingling of dignity, superstition, ferocity, and stoicism that characterized the early Indian warriors.

There is no need of romancing, and Mr. Balch’s scenic descriptions are for all practical purposes real descriptions. The legends he relates of the great bridge which once spanned the Columbia, for which there is some substantial history, adds to the mystical charms of the story. His Indian characters are as real as if photographed from life. No writer has presented a finer character than the great chief of the Willamettes, Multnomah; Snoqualmie the Cayuse; or Tohomish the Seer. The night visit of Multnomah to the tomb of his dead wife upon that lonely island in the Willamette is a picture that will forever live in the reader’s memory.... To those who have traversed the ground, and know something of Indian character and the wild, free life of pioneer days, the story will be charming.—Inter-Ocean, Chicago.

It is a truthful and realistic picture of the powerful Indian tribes that inhabited the Oregon country two centuries ago.... It is a book that will be of value as a historical authority; and as a story of interest and charm, there are few novels that can rival it.—Traveller, Boston.

There is much and deep insight in this book. The characters stand in clear outline, and are original. The movement of the story is quick and varied, like the running water of the great river.—The Pacific, San Francisco.

Its field is new for fiction; it is obviously the work of one who has bestowed a great deal of study on the subjects he would illustrate. It is very interesting reading, fluently written.—Times, Chicago.

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers,
Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago.

THE BEVERLEYS.

A Story of Calcutta.

BY MARY ABBOTT,

Author of “Alexia,” etc.

12mo, 264 pages. Price, $1.25.

The uncommonly favorable reception of Mrs. Abbott’s brilliant novelette, “Alexia,” by the public bespeaks in advance a lively interest in her new novel, “The Beverleys.” It is a more extended and ambitious work than the former, but has the same grace of style and liveliness of treatment, together with a much more considerable plot and more subtle delineations of character and life. The action of the story takes place in India, and reveals on the part of the authoress the most intimate knowledge of the official life of the large and aristocratic English colony in Calcutta. The local coloring is strong and unusual.

A more joyous story cannot be imagined.... A harum-scarum good-nature; a frank pursuit of cakes and ale; a heedless, happy-go-lucky spirit, are admirable components in a novel, however trying they may be found in the walks of daily life. Such are the pleasures of “The Beverleys.” To read it is recreation, indeed.—Public Ledger, Philadelphia.

The author writes throughout with good taste, and with a quick eye for the picturesque.—Herald, New York.

It is a pretty story, charmingly written, with cleverly sketched pictures of various types of character.... The book abounds in keen, incisive philosophy, wrapped up in characteristic remarks.—Times, Chicago.

An absorbing story. It is brilliantly and vivaciously written.—Literary World, Boston.

The author has until now been known, so far as we are aware, only by her former story, “Alexia.” Unless signs fail which seldom do fail, these two with which her name is now associated are simply the forerunners of works in a like vein of which American literature will have reason to be proud.—Standard, Chicago.

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers,
Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago.

M A R T H A C O R E Y.

A TALE OF THE SALEM WITCHCRAFT.

By Constance Goddard du Bois.

12mo, 314 pages. Price, $1.25.

The same material drawn upon by Longfellow for his “New England Tragedies” is here used with greater fulness and with no less historical exactitude. The story has for its background the dark and gloomy pictures of the witchcraft persecution, of which it furnishes a thrilling view. It is remarkable for bold imagination, wonderfully rapid action, and continued and absorbing interest.

In short, it is too good a piece of fiction to be accepted as truth, which is to the credit of the author’s imaginative powers; for “Martha Corey” is an absorbing tale.—Public Ledger, Philadelphia.

The story is curious and quaint, differing totally from the novels of this day; and the pictures of life among the early inhabitants of Massachusetts show that the author has been an untiring and faithful student for her work.—Weekly Item, Philadelphia.

The characters are well delineated; the language is smooth and refined; and from frequent change of scene and character the book is rendered very entertaining. The passions, love and hate, are carefully analyzed and faithfully described. It is a valuable little book.—Globe, Chicago.

An interesting tale of love and intrigue.... Miss Du Bois has given us a very readable book, and has succeeded where others have failed.—Advertiser, Boston.

The story of this book is pleasantly told; and as a picture of those sad times, when some of the worst and the best, of the darkest and the brightest, of the most hateful and the most lovable traits of human nature were openly manifested, is well worth reading.—Illustrated Christian Weekly, New York.

A story of marked strength, both of imagination and narration.—Home Journal, New York.

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers,
Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago.

M O N K A N D K N I G H T.

An Historical Study in Fiction.

By the Rev. Dr. F. W. Gunsaulus.

Two Vols. 12mo, 707 pages. Price, $2.50.

This work is one that challenges attention for its ambitious character and its high aim. It is an historical novel,—or, rather, as the author prefers to call it, “An Historical Study in Fiction.” It is the result of long and careful study of the period of which it treats, and hence is the product of genuine sympathies and a freshly-fired imagination. The field is Europe, and the period is the beginning of the sixteenth century,—a time when the fading glow of the later Renaissance is giving place to the brighter glories of the dawning Reformation.

The book deals, in a broad sense, with the grand theme of the progress of intellectual liberty. Many of its characters are well-known historical personages,—such as Erasmus, Sir Thomas More, Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII. of England, Francis I. of France, the disturbing monk Martin Luther, and the magnificent Pope Leo X.; other characters are of course fictitious, introduced to give proper play to the author’s fancy and to form a suitable framework for the story.

Interwoven with the more solid fabric are gleaming threads of romance; and bright bits of description and glows of sentiment relieve the more sombre coloring. The memorable meeting of the French and English monarchs on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, with its gorgeous pageantry of knights and steeds and silken banners, and all the glitter and charm of chivalry, furnish material for several chapters, in which the author’s descriptive powers are put to the severest test; while the Waldensian heroes in their mountain homes, resisting the persecutions of their religious foes, afford some thrilling and dramatic situations.

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers,
Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago.

T H E S T O R Y OF T O N T Y.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

By Mrs. Mary Hartwell Catherwood.

12mo, 224 pages. Price, $1.25.

“The Story of Tonty” is eminently a Western story, beginning at Montreal, tarrying at Fort Frontenac, and ending at the old fort at Starved Rock, on the Illinois River. It weaves the adventures of the two great explorers, the intrepid La Salle and his faithful lieutenant, Tonty, into a tale as thrilling and romantic as the descriptive portions are brilliant and vivid. It is superbly illustrated with twenty-three masterly drawings by Mr. Enoch Ward.

Such tales as this render service past expression to the cause of history. They weave a spell in which old chronicles are vivified and breathe out human life. Mrs. Catherwood, in thus bringing out from the treasure-houses of half-forgotten historical record things new and old, has set herself one of the worthiest literary tasks of her generation, and is showing herself finely adequate to its fulfilment.—Transcript, Boston.

A powerful story by a writer newly sprung to fame.... All the century we have been waiting for the deft hand that could put flesh upon the dry bones of our early heroes. Here is a recreation indeed.... One comes from the reading of the romance with a quickened interest in our early national history, and a profound admiration for the art that can so transport us to the dreamful realms where fancy is monarch of fact.—Press, Philadelphia.

“The Story of Tonty” is full of the atmosphere of its time. It betrays an intimate and sympathetic knowledge of the great age of explorers, and it is altogether a charming piece of work.—Christian Union, New York.

Original in treatment, in subject, and in all the details of mise en scene, it must stand unique among recent romances.—News, Chicago.

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers,
Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago.

THE LAUREL-CROWNED LETTERS.

The Best Letters of Lord Chesterfield. Edited, with an Introduction, by Edward Gilpin Johnson.

The Best Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Edited, with an Introduction, by Octave Thanet.

The Best Letters of Horace Walpole. Edited, with an Introduction, by Anna B. McMahan.

The Best Letters of Madame de SÉvignÉ. Edited, with an Introduction, by Edward Playfair Anderson.

Each volume is finely printed and bound; 16mo, cloth, gilt tops, price, $1.00.

In half calf or half morocco, per vol., $2.75.

Of Lord Chesterfield’s Letters, the Atlantic Monthly says:—

Of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s Letters, the New York Star says:—

Of Horace Walpole’s Letters, the Philadelphia Public Ledger says:—

Of Madame de SÉvignÉ’s Letters, the Boston Saturday Gazette says:—

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers,
Cor. Wabash Ave. and Madison St., Chicago.