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He slowly rubbed his hands up and down his knees, took another sip of rum, and went on:

“I brought the ship close up to the shore, and we go to anchor. All that night I see the light of a fire on the shore. So I slide down and swim to the shore. Under a little arch of rocks something was going on. I could not tell, but I know from the sound that they are to bury something. Then, all at once, it come to me–this is a pirate ship! I come closer and closer to the light, and then I see a dreadful thing. There was the captain and the mate, and another. They turn quick upon two other men–two sailors–and kill them. Then they take the bodies and wound them round some casks in a great hole, and cover it all up. I understan’. It is the old legend that a dead body will keep gold all to itself, so that no one shall find it. Mon Dieu!”–his voice dropped low and shook in his throat–“I give one little cry at the sight, and then they see me. There were three. They were armed; they sprang upon me and tied me. Then they fling me beside the fire, and they cover up the hole with the gold and the bodies.

“When that was done they take me back to the ship, then with pistols at my head they make me pilot the ship out into the bay again. As we went they make a chart of the place. We travel along the coast for one day; and then a great storm of snow come, and the captain say to me: ‘Steer us into harbour.’ When we are at anchor, they take me and my wife, and little child and put us ashore alone, with a storm and the bare rocks and the dreadful night, and leave us there, that we shall never tell the secret of the gold. That night my wife and my child die in the snow.”

Here his voice became strained and slow. “After a long time I work my way to an Injin camp. For months I was a child in strength, all my flesh gone. When the spring come I went and dug a deeper grave for my wife, and p’tite Babette, and leave them there, where they had died. But I come to the bay of Belle Amour, because I knew some day the man with the devil’s heart would come back for his gold, and then would arrive my time–the hour of God!”

He paused. “The hour of God,” he repeated slowly. “I have waited twenty years, but he has not come; yet I know that he will come. I feel it here”–he touched his forehead; “I know it here”–he tapped his heart. “Once where my heart was, there is only one thing, and it is hate, and I know–I know–that he will come. And when he comes–” He raised his arm high above his head, laughed wildly, paused, let the hand drop, and then fell to staring into the fire.

Pierre again placed the flask of rum between his fingers. But Gaspard put it down, caught his arms together across his breast, and never turned his face from the fire. Midnight came, and still they sat there silent. No man had a greater gift in waiting than Pierre. Many a time his life had been a swivel, upon which the comedies and tragedies of others had turned. He neither loved nor feared men: sometimes he pitied them. He pitied Gaspard. He knew what it is to have the heartstrings stretched out, one by one, by the hand of a Gorgon, while the feet are chained to the rocking world.

Not till the darkest hour of the morning did the two leave their silent watch and go to bed. The sun had crept stealthily to the door of the but before they rose again. Pierre laid his hand upon Gaspard’s shoulder as they travelled out into the morning, and said: “My friend, I understand. Your secret is safe with me; you shall take me to the place where the gold is buried, but it shall wait there until the time is ripe. What is gold to me? Nothing. To find gold–that is the trick of any fool. To win it or to earn it is the only game. Let the bodies rot about the gold. You and I will wait. I have many friends in the northland, but there is no face in any tent door looking for me. You are alone: well, I will stay with you. Who can tell–perhaps it is near at hand–the hour of God!”