As it happened, it was neither, or it was both; for, at low tide, when the neck was bare, the head was a promontory, and at high tide, when the waves rolled over the rocks, it was an island entirely surrounded by the sea. The ground arose gradually from the shore to the centre, upon the highest and safest part of which stood a large, square, heavy, gray stone building, in a yard inclosed by a high stone wall. Lower down on the shore was another wall, called the sea-wall. Beyond this, on the sand, were a few scattered fishing huts and boat-sheds. There was but little vegetation on the place, and the nearer the shore the sparser the growth. On the hill near the house, indeed, there were a few old oaks, said to have been planted more than two centuries before by the first owners of the soil and builders of the house. There were also a few gigantic horse-chestnuts and other fine forest trees; but all these had been transplanted from the mainland ages before. There was nothing of native growth on the promontory. Behind the house was an old garden, where “made soil” was so rich that the place had grown into a perfect thicket of shrubs, vines, creepers, bushes, and all sorts of hardy old plants, flowers, and fruit-trees. Behind this was a kitchen garden, where a few vegetables were with difficulty raised for the use of the family, and beyond were fields of thinly growing grass and grain, that barely afforded sustenance for the cattle and sheep on the premises. Altogether this half sterile promontory, with its square, massive gray stone mansion, its high stone yard-wall, its strong stone sea-wall, its iron gates, and its grim aspect, looked more like a fortress or a prison than the hereditary home of a private family. The locality had also a bad reputation, and a worse tradition, besides as many aliases as any professional burglar. It was called Pirates’ Point, Buccaneers’ Bridge, and La Compte’s Landing. The story, or the history, was that this place had been the frequent resort of the notorious freebooter, La Compte, whose _nom-de-guerre_ of “Blackbeard” had been, in the old colonial days, the terror of the Chesapeake and its tributaries. Vast treasure, it was said, had once been buried here, and might still be waiting its resurrection at the hands of some fortunate finder. However that might have been, whatever wealth of gold, silver, or precious stones might have lain hidden for ages in the depths of that sterile ground, it is certain that the last proprietor of the promontory was poor enough. He was Marcellus de Crespigney, a retired officer of the army, an impoverished gentleman. At the time our story opens, Colonel Crespigney was a young widower, without children and without family, if we except his maiden aunt, Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, and his youthful ward, Gloria de la Vera.