rede herefrom. Ye booty which my master whose name no manne did rightly know, but who was surnamed by some ye Black Master and by somme Blackface e Merciless, lyes hydden in divers places, but ye creame thereof is laid away in ye churchyard of St. Davides hard by Harrisons village. There, by daye and by nite do ye dedde stand guard over it for ye Master sealed its hydinge place both with cement and with a curse which he fondlie aware should be on them & on their children who violated ye sepulchre without his sanction. Yet if any there be who dare defye ye curse (as I should not) of hym who had neither pitie ne mencie ne lovingkindness at all, let hm go unto ye burrieing ground at dedde of nite at ye season of dies natalis invicti & obey ye direction. Further hint I dast not gyvve, for fear of him who lurks beyant ye portales of lyffe to hold to account such of hys servants as preceded him not in dethe. And of your charity, ye who rede this, I do charge and conjure ye that ye make goode and pieous use of ye Master hys treasure and that ye expend such part of ye same as may be fyttinge for masses for ye good estate of Richard Thompson, a synnfull man dieing in terror of his many iniquities & of ye tongueless one who waites himme across ye borderline
When ye star shines from ye tree
Be it as a sign to ye.
Draw ye fourteen cubit line
To ye entrance imto lyfe
Whence across ye graveyard sod
See spotte cursed by man & God.
"It looks like a lot of childish nonsense to me," I remarked with
an impatient shrug as I tossed the
parchment to de Grandin. "Those
old fellows who had keys to buried
treasure were everlastingly taking
such care to obscure their meaning in
a lot of senseless balderdash that no
one can tell when they're serious and
when they're perpetrating a hoax.
If"
"Cordieu," the little Frenchman whispered softly, examining the sheet of frayed vellum with wide eyes, holding it up to the lamplight, then crackling it softly between his fingers. "Is it possible? But yes, it must be—Jules de Grandin could not be mistaken."
"Whatever are you maundering about?" I interrupted impatiently. "The way you're looking at that parchment anyone would think"
"Whatever anyone would think, he would be far from the truth," de Grandin cut in, regarding us with the fixed, unwinking stare which meant deadly seriousness. "If this plat be a mauvaise plaisanterie—how do you call it? the practical joke?—it is a very grim one indeed, for the parchment on which it is engraved is human skin."
"What?" cried Eric and I in chorus.
"Nothing less," de Grandin responded. "Me, I have seen such parchments in the Paris musée; I have handled them, I have touched them. I could not be mistaken. Such things were done in the olden days, my friends. I think, perhaps, we should do well to investigate this business. Men do not set down confessions of a sinful life and implore the possible finders of treasure to buy masses for their souls on human hide when they would indulge in pleasantries. No, it is not so."
"But" I began, when he shut me off with a quick gesture.
"In the churchyard of Saint David's this repentant Monsieur Richard Thompson did say. May I inquire, Friend Trowbridge, if there be such a church in the neighborhood? Assuredly there was once, for does he not say, 'hard by Harrison's village,' and might that not have been the early designation of your present city of Harrisonville?"
"U'm—why, yes, by George!" I exclaimed. "You're right, de Grandin. There is a Saint David's church down in the old East End—a Colonial parish, too; one of the first English churches built after the British took Jersey over from the Dutch. Harrisonville was something of a seaport in those days, and there was a bad reef a few miles offshore. I've been told the church was built and endowed
