As the night set in it grew blustering5 and gusty7. Dark clouds came bundling up in the west; and now and then a growl8 of thunder or a flash of lightning told that a summer storm was at hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, and coasting along came to a snug10 nook, just under a steep beetling11 rock, where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree that shot out from a cleft12 and spread its broad branches like a canopy13 over the water. The gust6 came scouring14 along; the wind threw up the river in white surges; the rain rattled15 among the leaves, the thunder bellowed16 worse than that which is now bellowing18, the lightning seemed to lick up the surges of the stream; but Sam, snugly19 sheltered under rock and tree, lay crouched20 in his skiff, rocking upon the billows, until he fell asleep. When he awoke all was quiet. The gust had passed away, and only now and then a faint gleam of lightning in the east showed which way it had gone. The night was dark and moonless; and from the state of the tide Sam concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point of making loose his skiff to return homewards, when he saw a light gleaming along the water from a distance, which seemed rapidly approaching. As it drew near he perceived that it came from a lanthorn in the bow of a boat which was gliding21 along under shadow of the land. It pulled up in a small cove22, close to where he was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about with the lanthorn exclaimed, “This is the place—here’s the Iron ring.” The boat was then made fast, and the man returning on board, assisted his comrades in conveying something heavy on shore. As the light gleamed among them, Sam saw that they were five stout23, desperate-looking fellows, in red woollen caps, with a leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them were armed with dirks, or long knives, and pistols. They talked low to one another, and occasionally in some outlandish tongue which he could not understand.
On landing they made their way among the bushes, taking turns to relieve each other in lugging24 their burthen up the rocky bank. Sam’s curiosity was now fully26 aroused, so leaving his skiff he clambered silently up the ridge27 that overlooked their path. They had stopped to rest for a moment, and the leader was looking about among the bushes with his lanthorn. “Have you brought the spades?” said one. “They are here,” replied another, who had them on his shoulder. “We must dig deep, where there will be no risk of discovery,” said a third.
A cold chill ran through Sam’s veins30. He fancied he saw before him a gang of murderers, about to bury their victim. His knees smote32 together. In his agitation33 he shook the branch of a tree with which he was supporting himself as he looked over the edge of the cliff.
“What’s that?” cried one of the gang. “Some one stirs among the bushes!”
The lanthorn was held up in the direction of the noise. One of the red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed34 it towards the very lace where Sam was standing35. He stood motionless—breathless; expecting the next moment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy36 complexion37 was in his favor, and made no glare among the leaves.
“‘Tis no one,” said the man with the lanthorn. “What a plague! you would not fire off your pistol and alarm the country.”
The pistol was uncocked; the burthen was resumed, and the party slowly toiled38 up the bank. Sam watched them as they went; the light sending back fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was not till they were fairly out of sight that he ventured to draw breath freely. He now thought of getting back to his boat, and making his escape out of the reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity was all-powerful with poor Sam. He hesitated and lingered and listened. By and bye he heard the strokes of spades.
“They are digging the grave!” said he to himself; the cold sweat started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sounded through the silent groves40, went to his heart; it was evident there was as little noise made as possible; every thing had an air of mystery and secrecy41. Sam had a great relish42 for the horrible—a tale of murder was a treat for him; and he was a constant attendant at executions. He could not, therefore, resist an impulse, in spite of every danger, to steal nearer, and overlook the villains43 at their work. He crawled along cautiously, therefore, inch by inch; stepping with the utmost care among the dry leaves, lest their rustling44 should betray him. He came at length to where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang; he saw the light of their lanthorn shining up against the branches of the trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently clambered up the surface of the rock, and raising his head above its naked edge, beheld45 the villains immediately below him, and so near that though he dreaded46 discovery, he dared not withdraw lest the least movement should be heard. In this way he remained, with his round black face peering over the edge of the rock, like the sun just emerging above the edge of the horizon, or the round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock.
The red-caps had nearly finished their work; the grave was filled up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. This done, they scattered47 dry leaves over the place. “And now,” said the leader, “I defy the devil himself to find it out.”
“The murderers!” exclaimed Sam involuntarily.
The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld the round black head of Sam just above them. His white eyes strained half out of their orbits; his white teeth chattering48, and his whole visage shining with cold perspiration50.
“We’re discovered!” cried one.
“Down with him!” cried another.
Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for the report. He scrambled51 over rock and stone, through bush and briar; rolled down banks like a hedgehog; scrambled up others like a catamount. In every direction he heard some one or other of the gang hemming53 him in. At length he reached the rocky ridge along the river; one of the red-caps was hard behind him. A steep rock like a wall rose directly in his way; it seemed to cut off all retreat, when he espied54 the strong cord-like branch of a grape-vine reaching half way down it. He sprang at it with the force of a desperate man, seized it with both hands, and being young and agile55, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of the cliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky, when the red-cap cocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by Sam’s head. With the lucky thought of a man in an emergency, he uttered a yell, fell to the ground, and detached at the same time a fragment of the rock, which tumbled with a loud splash into the river.
“I’ve done his business,” said the red-cap, to one or two of his comrades as they arrived panting. “He’ll tell no tales, except to the fishes in the river.”
His pursuers now turned off to meet their companions. Sam sliding silently down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly into his skiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself to the rapid current, which in that place runs like a mill-stream, and soon swept him off from the neighborhood. It was not, however, until he had drifted a great distance that he ventured to ply56 his oars57; when he made his skiff dart58 like an arrow through the strait of Hell Gate, never heeding59 the danger of Pot, Frying-pan, or Hog’s-back itself; nor did he feel himself thoroughly60 secure until safely nestled in bed in the cockloft of the ancient farm-house of the Suydams.
Here the worthy61 Peechy paused to take breath and to take a sip62 of the gossip tankard that stood at his elbow. His auditors63 remained with open mouths and outstretched necks, gaping64 like a nest of swallows for an additional mouthful.
“And is that all?” exclaimed the half-pay officer.
“That’s all that belongs to the story,” said Peechy Prauw.
“And did Sam never find out what was buried by the redcaps?” said Wolfert, eagerly; whose mind was haunted by nothing but ingots and doubloons.
“Not that I know of; he had no time to spare from his work; and to tell the truth, he did not like to run the risk of another race among the rocks. Besides, how should he recollect65 the spot where the grave had been digged? every thing would look different by daylight. And then, where was the use of looking for a dead body, when there was no chance of hanging the murderers?”
“Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they buried?” said Wolfert.
“To be sure,” cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly66. “Does it not haunt in the neighborhood to this very day?”
“Haunts!” exclaimed several of the party, opening their eyes still wider and edging their chairs still closer.
“Aye, haunts,” repeated Peechy; “has none of you heard of father red-cap that haunts the old burnt farm-house in the woods, on the border of the Sound, near Hell Gate?”
“Oh, to be sure, I’ve heard tell of something of the kind, but then I took it for some old wives’ fable67.”
“Old wives’ fable or not,” said Peechy Prauw, “that farmhouse68 stands hard by the very spot. It’s been unoccupied time out of mind, and stands in a wild, lonely part of the coast; but those who fish in the neighborhood have often heard strange noises there; and lights have been seen about the wood at night; and an old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the windows more than once, which people take to be the ghost of the body that was buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers took shelter in the building for the night, and rummaged69 it from top to bottom, when they found old father red-cap astride of a cider-barrel in the cellar, with a jug70 in one hand and a goblet71 in the other. He offered them a drink out of his goblet, but just as one of the soldiers was putting it to his mouth-Whew! a flash of fire blazed through the cellar, blinded every mother’s son of them for several minutes, and when they recovered their eye-sight, jug, goblet, and red-cap had vanished, and nothing but the empty cider-barrel remained.”
Here the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished eye, suddenly gleamed up like an expiring rushlight.
“That’s all humbug72!” said he, as Peechy finished his last story.
“Well, I don’t vouch73 for the truth of it myself,” said Peechy Prauw, “though all the world knows that there’s something strange about the house and grounds; but as to the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as if it had happened to myself.”
The deep interest taken in this conversation by the company, had made them unconscious of the uproar74 that prevailed abroad, among the elements, when suddenly they were all electrified75 by a tremendous clap of thunder. A lumbering76 crash followed instantaneously that made the building shake to its foundation. All started from their seats, imagining it the shock of an earthquake, or that old father red-cap was coming among them in all his terrors. They listened for a moment, but only heard the rain pelting77 against the windows, and the wind howling among the trees. The explosion was soon explained by the apparition78 of an old negro’s bald head thrust in at the door, his white goggle79 eyes contrasting with his jetty poll, which was wet with rain and shone like a bottle. In a jargon80 but half intelligible81 he announced that the kitchen chimney had been struck with lightning.
A sullen82 pause of the storm, which now rose and sunk in gusts83, produced a momentary84 stillness. In this interval85 the report of a musket86 was heard, and a long shout, almost like a yell, resounded87 from the shore. Every one crowded to the window; another musket shot was heard, and another long shout, that mingled89 wildly with a rising blast of wind. It seemed as if the cry came up from the bosom91 of the waters; for though incessant92 flashes of lightning spread a light about the shore, no one was to be seen.
Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, and a loud halloo uttered by the mysterious stranger. Several hailings passed from one party to the other, but in a language which none of the company in the bar-room could understand; and presently they heard the window closed, and a great noise overhead as if all the furniture were pulled and hauled about the room. The negro servant was summoned, and shortly after was seen assisting the veteran to lug25 the ponderous93 sea-chest down stairs.
The landlord was in amazement94. “What, you are not going on the water in such a storm?”
“Storm!” said the other, scornfully, “do you call such a sputter95 of weather a storm?”
“You’ll get drenched96 to the skin—You’ll catch your death!” said Peechy Prauw, affectionately.
“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the merman, “don’t preach about weather to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds and tornadoes97.”
The obsequious98 Peechy was again struck dumb. The voice from the water was again heard in a tone of impatience99; the bystanders stared with redoubled awe100 at this man of storms, which seemed to have come up out of the deep and to be called back to it again. As, with the assistance of the negro, he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chest towards the shore, they eyed it with a superstitious101 feeling; half doubting whether he were not really about to embark102 upon it, and launch forth103 upon the wild waves. They followed him at a distance with a lanthorn.
“Douse the light!” roared the hoarse104 voice from the water. “No one wants light here!”
“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the veteran; “back to the house with you!”
Wolfert and his companions shrunk back is dismay. Still their curiosity would not allow them entirely105 to withdraw. A long sheet of lightning now flickered106 across the waves, and discovered a boat, filled with men, just under a rocky point, rising and sinking with the heavy surges, and swashing the water at every heave. It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a boat hook, for the current rushed furiously round the point. The veteran hoisted107 one end of the lumbering sea-chest on the gunwale of the boat; he seized the handle at the other end to lift it in, when the motion propelled the boat from the shore; the chest slipped off from the gunwale, sunk into the waves, and pulled the veteran headlong after it. A loud shriek108 was uttered by all on shore, and a volley of execrations by those on board; but boat and man were hurried away by the rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded; Wolfert Webber indeed fancied that He distinguished109 a cry for help, and that he beheld the drowning man beckoning110 for assistance; but when the lightning again gleamed along the water all was drear and void. Neither man nor boat was to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering of the waves as they hurried past.
The company returned to the tavern111, for they could not leave it before the storm should subside112. They resumed their seats and gazed on each other with dismay. The whole transaction had not occupied five minutes and not a dozen words had been spoken. When they looked at the oaken chair they could scarcely realize the fact that the strange being who had so lately tenanted it, full of life and Herculean vigor113, should already be a corpse114. There was the very glass he had just drunk from; there lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked as it were with his last breath. As the worthy burghers pondered on these things, they felt a terrible conviction of the uncertainty115 of human existence, and each felt as if the ground on which he stood was rendered less stable by this awful example.
As, however, the most of the company were possessed116 of that valuable philosophy which enables a man to bear up with fortitude117 against the misfortunes of his neighbors, they soon managed to console themselves for the tragic118 end of the veteran. The landlord was happy that the poor dear man had paid his reckoning before he went.
“He came in a storm, and he went in a storm; he came in the night, and he went in the night; he came nobody knows from whence, and he has gone nobody knows where. For aught I know he has gone to sea once more on his chest and may land to bother some people on the other side of the world! Though it’s a thousand pities,” added the landlord, “if he has gone to Davy Jones that he had not left his sea-chest behind him.”
“The sea-chest! St. Nicholas preserve us!” said Peechy Prauw. “I’d not have had that sea-chest in the house for any money; I’ll warrant he’d come racketing after it at nights, and making a haunted house of the inn. And as to his going to sea on his chest, I recollect what happened to Skipper Onderdonk’s ship on his voyage from Amsterdam.
“The boatswain died during a storm, so they wrapped him up in a sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threw him overboard; but they neglected in their hurry-skurry to say prayers over him—and the storm raged and roared louder than ever, and they saw the dead man seated in his chest, with his shroud119 for a sail, coming hard after the ship; and the sea breaking before him in great sprays like fire, and there they kept scudding120 day after day and night after night, expecting every moment to go to wreck121; and every night they saw the dead boatswain in his sea-chest trying to get up with them, and they heard his whistle above the blasts of wind, and he seemed to send great seas mountain high after them, that would have swamped the ship if they had not put up the dead lights. And so it went on till they lost sight of him in the fogs of Newfoundland, and supposed he had veered122 ship and stood for Dead Man’s Isle123. So much for burying a man at sea without saying prayers over him.”
The thunder-gust which had hitherto detained the company was now at an end. The cuckoo clock in the hall struck midnight; every one pressed to depart, for seldom was such a late hour trespassed124 on by these quiet burghers. As they sallied forth they found the heavens once more serene125. The storm which had lately obscured them had rolled aways and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up by the bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds.
The dismal127 occurrence of the night, and the dismal narrations128 they had made, had left a superstitious feeling in every mind. They cast a fearful glance at the spot where the buccaneer had disappeared, almost expecting to see him sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine. The trembling rays glittered along the waters, but all was placid129; and the current dimpled over the spot where he had gone down. The party huddled130 together in a little crowd as they repaired homewards; particularly when they passed a lonely field where a man had been murdered; and he who had farthest to go and had to complete his journey alone, though a veteran sexton, and accustomed, one would think to ghosts and goblins, yet went a long way round, rather than pass by his own church-yard.
Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of stories and notions to ruminate131 upon. His mind was all of a whirl with these freebooting tales; and then these accounts of pots of money and Spanish treasures, buried here and there and every where about the rocks and bays of this wild shore, made him almost dizzy.
“Blessed St. Nicholas!” ejaculated he, half aloud, “is it not possible to come upon one of these golden hoards132, and so make one’s self rich in a twinkling. How hard that I must go on, delving133 and delving, day in and day out, merely to make a morsel135 of bread, when one lucky stroke of a spade might enable me to ride in my carriage for the rest of my life!”
As he turned over in his thoughts all that he had been told of the singular adventure of the black fisherman, his imagination gave a totally different complexion to the tale. He saw in the gang of redcaps nothing but a crew of pirates burying their spoils, and his cupidity136 was once more awakened137 by the possibility of at length getting on the traces of some of this lurking138 wealth. Indeed, his infected fancy tinged139 every thing with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Bagdad, when his eye had been greased with the magic ointment140 of the dervise, that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Caskets of buried jewels, chests of ingots, bags of outlandish coins, seemed to court him from their concealments, and supplicate142 him to relieve them from their untimely graves.
On making private inquiries143 about the grounds said to be haunted by father red-cap, he was more and more confirmed in his surmise144. He learned that the place had several times been visited by experienced money-diggers, who had heard Mud Sam’s story, though none of them had met with success. On the contrary, they had always been dogged with ill luck of some kind or other, in consequence, as Wolfert concluded, of their not going to work at the proper time, and with the proper ceremonials. The last attempt had been made by Cobus Quackenbos, who dug for a whole night and met with incredible difficulty, for as fast as he threw one shovel145 full of earth out of the hole, two were thrown in by invisible hands. He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an iron chest, when there was a terrible roaring, and ramping146, and raging of uncouth147 figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows, dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belabored148 him off the forbidden ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his death-bed, so that there could not be any doubt of it. He was a man that had devoted150 many years of his life to money-digging, and it was thought would have ultimately succeeded, had he not died suddenly of a brain fever in the alms-house.
Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation151 and impatience; fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent126 of the buried gold. He determined152 privately153 to seek out the negro fisherman and get him to serve as guide to the place where he had witnessed the mysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily found; for he was one of those old habitual154 beings that live about a neighborhood until they wear themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a manner, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin155 about the town that did not know Mud Sam the fisherman, and think that he had a right to play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam was an amphibious kind of animal, something more of a fish than a man; he had led the life of an otter156 for more than half a century, about the shores of the bay, and the fishing grounds of the Sound. He passed the greater part of his time on and in the water, particularly about Hell Gate; and might have been taken, in bad weather, for one of the hobgoblins that used to haunt that strait. There would he be seen, at all times, and in all weathers; sometimes in his skiff, anchored among the eddies, or prowling, like a shark about some wreck, where the fish are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes seated on a rock from hour to hour, looming157 through mist and drizzle158, like a solitary159 heron watching for its prey160. He was well acquainted with every hole and corner of the Sound; from the Wallabout to Hell Gate, and from Hell Gate even unto the Devil’s Stepping Stones; and it was even affirmed that he knew all the fish in the river by their Christian161 names.
Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much larger than a tolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed of fragments of wrecks162 and drift-wood, and built on the rocky shore, at the foot of the old fort, just about what at present forms the point of the Battery. A “most ancient and fish-like smell” pervaded163 the place. Oars, paddles, and fishing-rods were leaning against the wall of the fort; a net was spread on the sands to dry; a skiff was drawn164 up on the beach, and at the door of his cabin lay Mud Sam himself, indulging in a true negro’s luxury—sleeping in the sunshine.
Many years had passed away since the time of Sam’s youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter had grizzled the knotty165 wool upon his head. He perfectly166 recollected167 the circumstances, however, for he had often been called upon to relate them, though in his version of the story he differed in many points from Peechy Prauw; as is not unfrequently the case with authentic168 historians. As to the subsequent researches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about them; they were matters quite out of his line; neither did the cautious Wolfert care to disturb his thoughts on that point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The long time that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effaced169 all Sam’s awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling170 reward roused him at once from his sleep and his sunshine.
The tide was adverse171 to making the expedition by water, and Wolfert was too impatient to get to the land of promise, to wait for its turning; they set off, therefore, by land. A walk of four or five miles brought them to the edge of a wood, which at that time covered the greater part of the eastern side of the island. It was just beyond the pleasant region of Bloomen-dael. Here they struck into a long lane, straggling among trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds and mullein stalks as if but seldom used, and so completely overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of twilight172. Wild vines entangled173 the trees and flaunted174 in their faces; brambles and briars caught their clothes as they passed; the garter-snake glided175 across their path; the spotted176 toad177 hopped178 and waddled179 before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed at them from every thicket180. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read in romantic legend he might have fancied himself entering upon forbidden, enchanted181 ground; or that these were some of the guardians182 set to keep a watch upon buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place, and the wild stories connected with it, had their effect upon his mind.
On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near the shore of the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded by forest tree. The area had once been a grass-plot, but was now shagged with briars and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the river bank, was a ruined building, little better than a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys rising like a solitary tower out of the centre. The current of the Sound rushed along just below it, with wildly-grown trees drooping183 their branches into its waves.
Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of father red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy Prauw. The evening was approaching, and the light falling dubiously185 among these places, gave a melancholy186 tone to the scene, well calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition187. The night-hawk, wheeling about in the highest regions of the air, emitted his peevish188, boding189 cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow tree, and the firebird,[3] as he streamed by them with his deep-red plumage, seemed like some genius flitting about this region of mystery.
[3] Orchard190 Oreole.
They now came to an enclosure that had once been a garden. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better than a wilderness191 of weeds, with here and there a matted rose-bush, or a peach or plum tree grown wild and ragged192, and covered with moss193. At the lower end of the garden they passed a kind of vault194 in the side of the bank, facing the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, though decayed, was still strong, and appeared to have been recently patched up. Wolfert pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating upon its hinges, and striking against something like a box, a rattling195 sound ensued, and a skull196 rolled on the floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering197, but was reassured198 on being informed by Sam that this was a family vault belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this estate; an assertion which was corroborated199 by the sight of coffins200 of various sizes piled within. Sam had been familiar with all these scenes when a boy, and now knew that he could not be far from the place of which they were in quest.
They now made their way to the water’s edge, scrambling201 along ledges203 of rocks, and having often to hold by shrubs204 and grape-vines to avoid slipping into the deep and hurried stream. At length they came to a small cove, or rather indent205 of the shore. It was protected by steep rocks and overshadowed by a thick copse of oaks and chestnuts206, so as to be sheltered and almost concealed207. The beach sloped gradually within the cove, but the current swept deep and black and rapid along its jutting208 points. Sam paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and scratched his grizzled poll for a moment, as he regarded this nook: then suddenly clapping his hands, he stepped exultingly forward, and pointing to a large iron ring, stapled209 firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelve of stone furnished a commodious210 landing-place. It was the very spot where the red-caps had landed. Years had changed the more perishable211 features of the scene; but rock and iron yield slowly to the influence of time. On looking more narrowly, Wolfert remarked three crosses cut in the rock just above the ring, which had no doubt some mysterious signification. Old Sam now readily recognized the overhanging rock under which his skiff had been sheltered during the thunder-gust. To follow up the course which the midnight gang had taken, however, was a harder task. His mind had been so much taken up on that eventful occasion by the persons of the drama, as to pay but little attention to the scenes; and places looked different by night and day. After wandering about for some time, however, they came to an opening among the trees which Sam thought resembled the place. There was a ledge202 of rock of moderate height like a wall on one side, which Sam thought might be the very ridge from which he overlooked the diggers. Wolfert examined it narrowly, and at length described three crosses similar to those above the iron ring, cut deeply into the face of the rock, but nearly obliterated212 by the moss that had grown on them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not but they were the private marks of the buccaneers, to denote the places where their treasure lay buried. All now that remained was to ascertain213 the precise spot; for otherwise he might dig at random214 without coming upon the spoil, and he has already had enough of such profitless labor149. Here, however, Sam was perfectly at a loss, and, indeed, perplexed215 him by a variety of opinions; for his recollections were all confused. Sometimes he declared it must have been at the foot of a mulberry tree hard by; then it was just beside a great white stone; then it must have been under a small green knoll216, a short distance from the ledge of rock: until at length Wolfert became as bewildered as himself.
The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves over the woods, and rock and tree began to
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