Just before eight bells struck, the company on the deck of the _Massachusetts_ was startled by an unexpected incident. The first box of gold had been placed on the platform at the mouth of the chute, and by the admiral’s direction the ship’s carpenter had removed the screws and taken off the cover. A shining yellow mass was exposed to the view of the four hundred men assembled. There was a moment’s silence. Then, before the admiral could step forward, there came an inarticulate cry from the ranks of the sailors. A veteran seaman sprang forward and ran to the open box. His face was distorted with a kind of rage. He cried out brokenly but incoherently. Before anybody could check him he reached the gold and plunged his hands into the bright treasure. He lifted it up and watched it drip through his fingers. The moment’s paralysis of the spectators was quickly over. The sergeants of marines seized the madman on either side and without unnecessary violence led him away. There were others among those who watched the incident who shared the feelings which had been strong enough to unhinge the intellect of the poor maniac. To most of the man-of-war’s company, in fact, it seemed little less than a crime thus to destroy gold, which to them was the symbol of comfort and happiness. To Brent alone of all in those mustered ranks was the condemned treasure the representative of evil. He alone awaited its burial in bottomless depths with unmixed satisfaction. The United States admiral, when the ship’s bell signaled the meridian, stepped to the side of the platform. He invited the British commander to cast the first handful of gold into the sea. There was an instinctive reluctance in the bearing of the veteran sailor as he complied with the request. Slowly he dipped his hand into the shining metal. It seemed to resist and resent the profanation. He attempted to lift a heaping palm of nuggets and yellow dust into the track of the chute. The great weight held it back. It clung to its kind. A few nuggets from the surface of the yellow heap were all that remained in the admiral’s fingers as he raised them from the box and held them above the chute. He dropped the heavy particles slowly, regretfully upon the inclined plane of iron. They rattled noisily but musically down the smooth track. A moment later, a few tiny, hissing splashes caused the solemn face of the British admiral to assume an expression almost of guilt as he watched the vanishing bright specks in the water below. The box of gold was raised to a sharp angle directly over the mouth of the chute. The American commander with a quick motion tipped the rest of its contents upon the iron slide. A swift yellow stream sped down the sharp incline, and the waves swallowed it with a thirsty suction that was intolerable in the covetous ears of those who listened.