And the boatswain, cap in hand, further defended the dead.
"Ye can't blame him much. It's the curse o' that devil's gold."
And the Frenchman, when he came to the camp, knew that he had made no mistake in his judgment. These simple-hearted seafaring folk, even allowing for their superstitious fears, were far more troubled over the death of their mate, than over the loss of the treasure that would have made them rich for the rest of their lives. And on the seas he had sailed and in the ports he knew, hearts like those were as rare as the treasure itself.
The simple burial service was performed by the Captain who remembered much of the short rite, having seen in his forty-five years at sea many weighted forms sink into the grey bosom of the ocean. A rough cross was raised above the mound, and around it the grasses murmured their own soft requiem, rippling in gentle waves like those of the sailor's home.
That the girl was almost heartbroken, the man could see. She blamed herself for the death of the old ship's carpenter. She had had warnings enough of all sorts. Why hadn't she heeded them—oh, why hadn't she stopped the search and sailed away!
Even after the last prayer was over, her head dropped like a flower, a lovely dark flower of the woods, and he in turn longed to comfort her, just as she had tried to comfort him because of that other rough cross back on the mountain side.
