my direction, and immediately preceded the return of Santos to his campstool.
“Yes, it is always better to bury treasure,” said he once more; but his tone was altered; it was more contemplative; and many smoke-rings came from the shrunk lips before another word; but through them all, his dark eyes, dull with age, were fixed upon me.
“You are a treasure!” he exclaimed at last, softly enough, but quickly and emphatically for him, and with a sudden and most diabolical smile.
“So you are going to bury me?”
the hall; for had not their poor little helpless captive described her as “about the worst of the gang?”
To think that my love lay helpless there in the hands of those wretches; and to think that her lover lay helpless here in the supervision of this vile virago!
It must have been one or two in the