Turning his back upon the water, and holding up the candle, he examined the interior. The damp black rocks rose on every side, and from the roof hung spongy weeds and funguses like those which are to be seen in sunless vaults of wine, but piled against the inner wall was a hoard of treasures enough to make a smuggler’s mouth water or turn a wrecker’s brain. Puncheons of rum and other spirits, bales of wool, planks of mahogany and pine, oars, broken masts, coils of rope, tangles of running rigging, flags of all nations, and other articles such as are used on ship-board; swinging tables, brass swinging lamps, masthead lanterns, and hammocks; enough and to spare, in short, to fit out a small fleet of vessels. Lost in amazement, Brinkley examined this extraordinary hoard, the accumulation doubtless of many years. All at once his eye fell upon a large canvas bag, rotten with age, and gaping open. It was as full as it could hold with pieces of gold, bearing the superscription of the mint of Spain. Oh, William Jones! William Jones! And all this was yours, at least by right of plunder, upon the Queen’s sea-way; all this which, turned into cash, would have made a man rich beyond the dreams of avarice, was the possession of one who lived like a miserly beggar, grudged himself and his flesh and blood the common necessaries of life, and had never been known, from boyhood upward, to give a starving fellow-creature so much as a crust of bread, or to drop a penny into the poor-box. Oh, William Jones! William Jones! The above reflections belong, not to the present writer, but to my adventurous discoverer, the captain of the caravan. As Brinkley proceeded on his tour of inspection, he became more and more struck with wonder. Nothing seemed too insignificant or too preposterously useless for secretion in that extraordinary ship’s cavern. There were mops and brooms, there were holy-stones, there were “squeegees,” there were canisters of tinned provisions, there were bags of adamantine ship-biscuits, there were sacks of potatoes (which esculents, long neglected, had actually sprouted, and put forth leaves), there were ringbolts, there were tin mugs, and, lastly, _mirabile dictu_, there were books--said books lay piled on the top of a heap of sacks, and were in the last stage of mildew and decay. For what purpose had they been carried there? Certainly not to form a library, for William Jones could not read. As curiosity deepened, Brinkley opened some of the forlorn volumes, covered with mildew, and full of hideous crawling things. Most were in foreign tongues, but there were several English novels half a century old, and a book of famous “Voyages,” also in English. Near to them were several large paper rolls--ship’s charts, evidently, and almost falling to pieces. And on the top of the charts was a tiny Prayer-book, slime-covered, and dripping wet!