At twelve o'clock of a dark moonless night, Cecil Mitford, still weak and ill, but trembling only from the remains4 of his fever, set out stealthily from the dead man's low bungalow5 in the outskirts6 of Spanish Town, and walked on alone through the unlighted, unpaved streets of the sleeping city to the Cathedral precinct. Not a soul met or passed him on the way through the lonely alleys7; not a solitary8 candle burned anywhere in a single window. He carried only a little dark lantern in his hand, and a very small pick that he had borrowed that same afternoon from the negro sexton. Stumbling along through the unfamiliar9 lanes, he saw at last the great black mass of the gaunt ungainly Cathedral, standing10 out dimly against the hardly less black abyss of night that formed the solemn background. But Cecil Mitford was not awed11 by place or season; he could think only of one subject, John Cann's treasure. He groped his way easily through scrub and monuments to the far corner of the churchyard; and there, close by a fresh and open grave he saw the well-remembered, half-effaced letters that marked the mouldering12 upright slab13 as John Cann's gravestone. Without a moment's delay, without a touch of hesitation14, without a single tinge15 of womanish weakness, he jumped down boldly into the open grave and turned the light[Pg 212] side of his little lantern in the direction of John Cann's undesecrated coffin.
A few strokes of the pick soon loosened the intervening earth sufficiently16 to let him get at a wooden plank17 on the nearer side of the coffin. It had mouldered18 away with damp and age till it was all quite soft and pliable19; and he broke through it with his hand alone, and saw lying within a heap of huddled20 bones, which he knew at once for John Cann's skeleton. Under any other circumstances, such a sight, seen in the dead of night, with all the awesome21 accessories of time and place, would have chilled and appalled22 Cecil Mitford's nervous blood; but he thought nothing of it all now; his whole soul was entirely23 concentrated on a single idea—the search for the missing paper. Leaning over toward the breach24 he had made into John Cann's grave, he began groping about with his right hand on the floor of the coffin. After a moment's search his fingers came across a small rusty25 metal object, clasped, apparently26, in the bony hand of the skeleton. He drew it eagerly out; it was a steel snuff-box. Prising open the corroded27 hinge with his pocket-knife, he found inside a small scrap28 of dry paper. His fingers trembled as he held it to the dark lantern; oh heavens, success! success! it was, it was—the missing document!
He knew it in a moment by the handwriting and the cypher! He couldn't wait to read it till he went home to the dead man's house; so he curled himself up cautiously in Charles Barclay's open grave, and proceeded to decipher the crabbed29 manuscript as well as he was able by the lurid30 light of the lantern. Yes, yes, it was all right: it told him with minute and unmistakable detail the exact spot in the valley of the Bovey where John Cann's treasure lay securely hidden. Not at John Cann's rocks on the hilltop, as the local legend untruly affirmed—John Cann had not been such an unguarded fool as to whisper[Pg 213] to the idle gossips of Bovey the spot where he had really buried his precious doubloons—but down in the valley by a bend of the river, at a point that Cecil Mitford had known well from his childhood upward. Hurrah31! hurrah! the secret was unearthed32 at last, and he had nothing more to do than to go home to England and proceed to dig up John Cann's treasure!
So he cautiously replaced the loose earth on the side of the grave, and walked back, this time bold and erect33, with his dark lantern openly displayed (for it mattered little now who watched or followed him), to dead Charles Barclay's lonely bungalow. The black servants were crooning and wailing34 over their master's body, and nobody took much notice of the white visitor. If they had, Cecil Mitford would have cared but little, so long as he carried John Cann's last dying directions safely folded in his leather pocket-book.
Next day, Cecil Mitford stood once more as a chief mourner beside the grave he had sat in that night so strangely by himself: and before the week was over, he had taken his passage for England in the Royal Mail Steamer Tagus, and was leaving the cocoa-nut groves35 of Port Royal well behind him on the port side. Before him lay the open sea, and beyond it, England, Ethel, and John Cann's treasure.
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1 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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2 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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3 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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4 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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5 bungalow | |
n.平房,周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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6 outskirts | |
n.郊外,郊区 | |
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7 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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8 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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9 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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10 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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11 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12 mouldering | |
v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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13 slab | |
n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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14 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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15 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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16 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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17 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
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18 mouldered | |
v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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19 pliable | |
adj.易受影响的;易弯的;柔顺的,易驾驭的 | |
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20 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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21 awesome | |
adj.令人惊叹的,难得吓人的,很好的 | |
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22 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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23 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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24 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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25 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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26 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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27 corroded | |
已被腐蚀的 | |
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28 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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29 crabbed | |
adj.脾气坏的;易怒的;(指字迹)难辨认的;(字迹等)难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30 lurid | |
adj.可怕的;血红的;苍白的 | |
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31 hurrah | |
int.好哇,万岁,乌拉 | |
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32 unearthed | |
出土的(考古) | |
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33 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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34 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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35 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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