# The Popular Magazine/Volume 72/Number 1/The Crusader's Casket/Chapter 1

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### CHAPTER I.

STUBBY, squat and insignificant, the steam schooner Adventure lay at anchor well up at the head of the Giudecco, and, resting quietly there in the moonlight, her character could have been no more certain to the seafaring mind if she boisterously had disturbed the night by bawling aloud, “I am a tramp of the seas.” So still were the waters that not the slightest sway or quiver moved her riding lights and the shadow she cast was as clearly defined as if there were two of her, each dark, one upright and afloat, the other slanting away like a silhouette of black paper, foreshortened until her single funnel appeared even more stubby than it was in reality, her masts slightly tilted, her deck housing and single bridge flattened down to meet the shadowy deck.
After a time a tiny shadow at the end of the bridge stirred vaguely, and then for a moment the picture was disturbed by the sharp glare of a match as the master and owner of the Adventure, Captain James Ware, lighted his pipe before again coming
​to lazy and contemplative rest with his elbows on the top of the weather sheets of the landward bridge wing.
The owner and master of any other laden tramp in Venetian waters that night would have chafed and perhaps thought, or audibly expressed, a vast annoyance with the harbor authorities, with the port facilities, or the general dilatoriness of the “Queen of the Adriatic” for not having found him a berth over there to port where the long line of docks, to one of which he must eventually moor to unload, was packed solidly with other craft. Other master owners might have made mental calculations as to the expense of every day's delay, inasmuch as it costs nearly as much to keep an idle ship afloat as it does to operate one that is extremely fortunate and busy. But not so the philosophic Mr. Ware, sometimes facetiously known as “Happy Jim” in other ports where he had dawdled; ports that girdled the globe to the north and south of the line; ports where there were great cities of men; ports that were scarcely ports at all but mere lagoons, palm fringed, seldom visited, and laved by lazy Southern seas.
Likewise, here and there over the globe, were men who did not refer to Mr. Ware as “Happy Jim,” but from far or near watched his cruises with grave concern, speculating as to whether some of the sources of his income might not be questionable; for master owners had been known to run liquor to prohibition countries, guns to revolutionary juntas, or, in milder theft, rare laces, perfumes, jewels and forbidden valuables where the high protective duties justified such risk for gain. Once an inquisitive and suspicious American revenue officer, satisfactorily disguised, had taken pains to become familiar, or at least momentarily intimate, with a member of the crew of the Adventure who after varied libations had confided somewhat of Mr. Ware's doings.
“Fair mystery, that's what he is, mate. Him and his ship, both of 'em. But I'm sayin' this—he's a sailorman, every inch of him. Most of these men in steam can't make sail, but the owner can. Proved it by bringing her to port in the Red Sea, when her engines went bad, with canvas all over her—even to jury rigs on the funnel. Got a picked crew aboard her, too. Mighty particular about who brings a ditty bag aboard. Investigates 'em first. Won't have any man that can't keep his mouth shut, drunk or sober. Makes funny cruises. I've known him to go a thousand miles in ballast just to have a look at some out-of-the-way, God-forsaken blotch of an island, where maybe he'd disappear for a week at a time hunting with a bunch of flea-ridden natives. One time down Sarawak way he went off with a bunch of greasy head hunters and was gone for nearly a month, and with us layin' at anchor all the time, too. What he went for nobody ever knowed. Crazy, I reckon.”
“But how does he make that sort of thing pay?” demanded the revenue man, and then said with a confidential and knowing wink: “Reckon that he must now and then run a cargo that's—um-m-mh—landed in the dark of the moon. Eh!”
For a long time the man off the Adventure stared at his inquisitor and then said: “Now you seem to be askin' questions. That's one of the fust rules of the ship Adventure's crew—never to answer questions. The owner does all the answerin' that's ever done. And I've got to shake a leg. Our Old Man's strong on discipline—almost like a man-of-war's man—and shore leave with us means that we got to go back when it's over. I've got just twenty-eight minutes in which to get aboard. So long!”
There were still other peculiarities in the equipment of the Adventure that caused some comment. For instance, she carried a first-class motor launch that would have done credit to a man-of-war, a luxury that is not customarily afforded by a tramp freighter of small size, and she was a trifle too well engined for a craft of her calling. Futhermore, her owner indulged in the luxury of two cabins, one immediately aft the chart house which he occupied when navigating dangerous waters or in heavy weather, and the other a suite below decks and astern, large, commodious, far too well fitted for anything but a private yacht.
Captain Jimmy, having finished his pipe, strolled the length of his bridge as if considering some better form of entertainment, and then with a sudden resolution thought to himself, “Well, here I am in Venice for the first time, and so far it's all up to the advertisements, moonlight, still water, distant towers and—— Hang it all! I'm going ashore and get a nearer look at it.” Then, aloud, he called for the dinghy to be brought alongside from the stern where it floated idly, and when his command had been ​obeyed descended into it and told the oarsman to pull him around the building that was indicated on the charts as the custom-house and then into the head of the Grand Canal.
“If there's anything worth looking at, that ought to be the beginning of it,” he ruminated as he stared upward at the gilded God of Fortune that held shining sail aloft and waited for a breeze to swing it from apparent rigidity to weather-vane activity.
When the boat swung round the point the Grand Canal opened up its winding vista and evoked from Captain Jimmy a burst of admiration. Gondolas moved here and there with the gondoliers swaying their bodies in that rythmic stroke that is neither rowing nor sculling, and the lights of the Regina Palace Hotel and its brilliant palm-bordered terrace shone before him in splendor like a beacon of amusement. In front of it a big boat with swaying Japanese lanterns suspended from two stubby masts held a band of peregrinating troubadours who sang one of the old boat songs, that, though hackneyed, took on new fervor from surroundings.
“We'll stop at that landing over there where the lights are,” the captain said, gesturing with his hand, and the sailor made his way slowly across and into the stream until nearly abreast the hotel, when he suggested that perhaps they had better make the gondola landing alongside where a score of the Venetian craft awaited trade.
“You can come back here for me at—— No!—can't tell how long I'll be. You can go back to the ship and I'll take one of these gondolas when I come off,” said the captain and had turned away before the man's “Aye, aye, sir,” had reached his ears.
He hesitated for a moment, and under the landing light looked down at his clothing as if uncertain whether it were befitting a visit to the hotel terrace, mentally decided that inasmuch as it was not a uniform and was in fair condition it might do, peered around the corner to discover if any of the loungers were in negligee garb, saw that they were, and sauntered slowly toward the narrow terrace entrance that was railed off from the water with a marble balustrade. He made his way unobtrusively to a table somewhat in the rear, seated himself and ordered one of the long, iced drinks and found time to eye those around him. For the most part they appeared to be of the more fortunate class of travelers rather than of the “tourist” type, persons with sufficient means to move leisurely from place to place, with neither need nor desire for ostentation by which to attract attention to themselves, and neither too boisterous nor too silent. A well-bred, well-to-do crowd, the captain decided, and one of which it was pleasant to be a part. Behind him he heard the musical chattering of an Italian party and, having well mastered that tongue himself, was somewhat amused by their comments upon the song just concluded. An English clergyman was gravely discussing something, and at a near-by table, alone, sat an attractive young woman of the unmistakable American type, who now and then glanced at her tiny wrist watch and frowned as if impatient because some expected one was late.
Captain Jimmy's attention was distracted by the voice of one of the hotel concierges insisting upon the serenaders' boat pulling ahead to make room at the clean, white-marble landing for an arrival. The man was punctuating his remarks with certain Italian expressions that betokened much impatience. These evoked able, prompt, and vociferous retorts from the boatman, much to Captain Jimmy's amusement, and then he peered around one of the potted palms and could well understand why this arrival, at least, should command attention. Out in the canal an exquisite motor boat, perfectly fitted and electric lighted, was impatiently making its way inward. A girl, white clad, and as immaculate as her boat, stood swaying to the slight motion as if accustomed to progress by sea and almost before the boat had been caught by the waiting boat hooks leaped gracefully to the steps and tripped upward. The captain gasped with inward delight and felt that he was not alone in admiration. He mentally pictured a very modern sea nymph, alive and glowing with health coming to a beach; a nymph with hair that was of a striking auburn; blue-gray eyes with long lashes; a finely modeled face, and lips that, smiling, displayed even teeth, and with a figure that suggested the perfection attained only by the very modern young American girl who is given to athletic sports. She swept the terrace with a glance of perfect composure and seemed heedless of the looks of admiration which her presence had caused, quite as if she were entirely inured to being stared at; then moved forward to enter the hotel by ​the great doors leading from open terrace to lounge.
Suddenly Captain Jimmy heard the scraping of a chair over the marble tiles and saw that the girl who had been waiting for some one had sprung to her feet and was rushing forward.
“Tommie! Oh, Tommie! Wait! Is it really you?” she called and at the sound of her voice the sea nymph halted, looked around and hurriedly advanced to meet her. Jimmy could not help overhearing their words, for they came immediately to the table by his own and seated themselves.
“I can't see why on earth I didn't find out you were in Venice,” declared the waiting girl. “Just to think of it! You stopping at the Hotel Danieli all the time, and—I read all the hotel lists from day to day and so did Dick, but we didn't see your name. Isn't it a pity! And we are leaving to-morrow morning!”
The arrival glanced around, then bent for- ward and whispered something to her friend, who listened and then said, in a shocked voice: “Tommie! You don't mean that is the reason why I didn't see your name on the——”
“S-s-sh!” warned the girl called Tommie and again they discussed something in whispers until, glancing up, the first girl said, “Oh, there goes Dick now, and he's looking for me. Come on. Let's stop him.”
Captain Jimmy felt a distinct sense of loss when they arose and hastened away. He sat hoping they would return, and considering “Tommie.” The three things uppermost in his mind were that she was the most charming girl he had ever seen, that the conversation indicated that she and her friend had been schoolmates at some girls' college, and that she was from the South, as evidenced by her speech.
Presently the girl and her friend appeared, arm in arm, and, followed by the man, crossed the terrace and boarded Tommie's launch, which at once swung out from the landing, made a flashing sweep as if to display its power and grace and then, quickly gathering racing speed, tore away over the canal with two bow waves like jeweled fans, and disappeared.
Distinctly disappointed, Captain Jimmy lost all interest in the beautiful terrace, called the waiter, paid his bill and asked if it was necessary to take a gondola to reach St. Mark's Square, that being, he had read, the center of Venetian attractions. Having learned that the journey could be made on foot he retraced his steps to the gondola landing and traversed a lane so narrow that by stretching out his arms he could touch the walls on either side, and then reached a brilliantly lighted street where the shops were still open, and laughing, strolling crowds sometimes made his progress difficult. He paused on a canal bridge, admired what is declared to be the ugliest Byzantine church in Venezia, entered a still more crowded and narrower street and finally halted in a great archway and looked out entranced upon the square which is one of the most beautiful and famous and romantic in existence.
The moonlight magnified its six hundred feet of length and three hundred of width into long distances and glittered upon the superb façades and mosaics of the cathedral; made the Campanile majestic and austere like a gray needle piercing the sky; pricked out the great rows of columns and pillars bordering the entire square, and distracted attention from the blazing shops and cafés with their swarm of human idlers. For the moment Captain Jimmy was overwhelmed with the burden of traditions surrounding this moonlit space, and then, pulling himself together, strolled toward one of the most brilliantly lighted cafés, curiously read the historic name of “Florian,” and choosing a table which had just been vacated on the outer edge of the pavement, seated himself. Two men who occupied a small table almost at his elbow in the crowded space abruptly stopped speaking, and his eyes happening at the moment to be downcast to adjust his legs to the intricacies of the ornate table base, saw that one of the men's feet had quickly reached across and pressed the foot of his companion as if adjuring him to caution.
Captain Jimmy looked up at them and found their eyes fixed on his. Then, having nothing to conceal and but little interest in what they might think of him, he looked away and casually lighted his pipe.
“Will the signor favor me with a match from his box?” he heard one of the men say in Italian, but thinking that the request had not been addressed to him, made no response. He was made aware of its direction only when he heard one of the men say, “Pshaw! You are needlessly alarmed, Pietro. He doesn't understand our tongue ​and is merely one of the million or so tourists. You were saying that——”
He heard the two men settle themselves back into a less strained position but, smiling to himself, did not again look round and assumed an air of abstraction.
“Well, you not being a Venetian, probably never heard of the Dandolo box, or, as it's commonly known, the Crusader's Casket. It is supposed to be a holy relic from Constantinople brought back by its conqueror, the Doge Enrico Dandolo, in the thirteenth century. The Doge Marino Faliero, who was beheaded in 1355 was, according to tradition, the first man to desecrate it by opening it, and the superstitious attributed his greed for power and his downfall to whatever it contained. The method of opening it is secret, but he is supposed to have discovered this and—he lost his head. It was sufficiently reverenced, however, so that from then on until the time of Napoleon it was never disturbed, and was carefully guarded. Napoleon, you may know, was in his way a great collector. When he looted Venice in 1797 he heard the story of the casket, was attracted by its history, and carried it away with him to France. There is a story that he was annoyed because of his inability to find the method of opening it and that he was known to have passed hours inspecting it, but. would not permit any forceful means for breaking it, although it had no enormous intrinsic value. That is, to an emperor. It is merely a small, roughly beaten but intricately worked casket of gold studded with crudely cut gems. Tradition says that at last he found the way to open it and—that was the end of his power. He died an exile. When in 1815 France returned to the Venetian republic the four bronze horses and other treasures carried away by Napoleon, she sent also the historic casket and it remained in the treasury until 1849 when, after her heroic resistance, Venice, conquered by famine, fell to the Austrian besiegers.
“Now, it so happened that in the ranks of those who so long fought in her defense was a certain American named Yancey Powell, originally from one of their barbaric States, territories, or whatever they are called, known as Kentucky. A red-headed man who was a fighter, this American. They still tell stories of his steadfast valor and reckless determination. When all was over this Colonel Powell—for he had become a colonel of Venetian artillery—escaped. No one knows how. There are a hundred stories about it. Some said that he swam miles and boarded an American merchantman laying off the island of Murano. Others say that, being an accomplished adventurer, he so ably disguised himself and so well spoke the hated Austrian tongue that he actually succeeded in passing through their lines and eventually made his way back to America. But this is certain—that when he went the Crusader's Casket went with him. No one knows why he chose it when there were jewels rare and priceless at his command—things easier to carry. He could have filled his pockets with jewels, for he had access to the treasury. He could have burdened himself with priceless relics of great value; but this is known, that all he took was the Crusader's Casket, the box brought from Constantinople by the Doge Dandolo in that historic year of 1204. It is enough to make one believe in this theory of reincarnations, is that well-authenticated story; enough to make one question whether he was not—well—two men in one!
“My grandfather fought in that great and stubborn defense and, starved and wounded, was lying there on the flags of the old treasury house when this stubborn, red-headed man, knowing that all was lost, entered to make his farewell. It was this grandfather of mine who told me the story. He told me that the American, a scarecrow in rags, tall, bony, scarred, entered and stood dejectedly in the center of the treasure vaults which he had helped to defend until that ultimate moment of defeat. Everybody knew him. There could be no mistake of identity. He stood for a moment as if thinking in great despair of all that was lost to the accursed Austrian, then slowly, very slowly, he took his sword from its scabbard held it in his hands for a moment as if considering whether he should brook its inevitable relinquishment, lifted it to his lips, kissed it as if in farewell and—swiftly broke it across his knee. He tossed the hilt one way and the broken blade the other. My grandfather was nearly struck by the thrown point, and rolled to one side and into the deeper shadows. He saved that point of blade and was clinging to it when the Austrians came and jerked it from his hands. My grandfather was a man who understood many things, although why he should have cherished that piece of broken sword has always baffled me.
​“But—coming back to this red-headed colonel of America—my grandfather saw him walk across to the great store of wealth that was kept in cases, pause in front of them, seem to deliberate and then—he proved that he must have been addled by the long fight! For he selected but one thing, that valueless box of thin gold and crudely cut stones, the Crusader's Casket! There were diamonds there like pigeon's eggs. Rubies worth a king's forfeit. Emeralds one of which would have made a man wealthy for life. Pearls of value to buy power, and pleasure and wine. But he chose none of these. He threw such aside, seeming to seek but one bauble and then, when he found the Crusader's Casket, clutched it in his hands—quite reverently—as if he did not wish it to fall into the grasp of those who were to come—and tucked it into his ragged shirt and without another glance at all that he had left behind ran out and through the door that swung open, unguarded for the first time in centuries, and was never again seen by that grandfather of mine.”
Captain Jimmy heard a sigh and suddenly found that he too had been mightily interested in this story. He was tempted to turn, apologize for eavesdropping, and ask a question; but was spared the effort by the companion of the fervid narrator who said: “Well? Well? What then? Where is it now, Pietro?”
“That, my friend, is the point! After all its travels, after all its vicissitudes, that strange casket has returned. It is here again! Here in Venezia. But it comes not with a Powell. Colonel Yancey Powell must be long dead. It comes back in the hands of one strange American; one who has much money; for does he not buy a palace that once belonged to a prince of the house of Mascarelli, for which he paid much gold? And I who have seen drawings of the Crusader's Casket made by my grandfather, whose painter hand of youth was inimitable, and whose hand of age had not lost its dexterity, have seen it. So, I ask you, what does it mean? Why should this priceless casket—priceless, yet of no more value than a song—why should it have been returned here to the city whither it came in that far-off day of 1204, seven centuries ago?”
Again there was a long silence and Captain Jimmy waited impatiently for an answer. When it came it was distinctly disappointing.
“Pietro Sordillo, you are what the English call a crank! You are a Venetian. Once you were a consulting expert of the college of historical antiquities. Now you are but a registered guide; a man who escorts from the offices of hotels the tourists. You take them through the cathedral, pointing out its beauties; you take them through the Palace of the Doges, calling attention to its frescoes; you conduct them across the Bridge of Sighs and display the dark chambers where men passed their final hours and then—then!—you take them to the glassworks and bazaars, knowing that if they buy you receive a commission for bringing them there! You write poems that will never be printed. You give money to your friends in misfortune. You strive to keep sober and—yield to temptation, after which you fall. Wait a moment—just a moment! The apricot must bloom before it bears fruit! And now, because in your official and menial capacity as guide you have taken an auburn-haired American girl through a palace when its owner was absent—doubtless because you bribed the caretaker—and therein find a thin, gold box, you rave as to whys and wherefores. What concern is it of yours? Did she not pay you?”
“Pay? She paid well! She paid even that bribe which I gave to the caretaker. And I liked her, for in her I saw a soul of flame. And—I have started a poem to her which goes thus:
“Lady of that Western land,
Fair of face and fair of hand,
With hair that's like a crown of gold
And eyes that many secrets hold,
Your slave I am,
Respectfully I kneel.
“No yoke of servitude is mine
Save that to serve is joy divine;
No suppliant I for love's caress
Although——”
“It sounds pretty bad to me,” the other man interrupted. “What are you going to do with it? Mail it to her?”
“No, some day I shall give it to her; place it in her hands.”
“Nonsense! You may never see her again.”
“But I shall. My fortune is made. She has engaged me by the week, indefinitely, and she may be here all summer, she says. She stops at the Danieli. Each morning at nine thirty I am to await her orders.”
“What is her name?” inquired the other ​man, and Captain Jimmy listened attentively but was disappointed.
“Per Bacco! I do not know yet; but that I shall learn, for I am to be not only guide but courier for her, and she says she may ask me to do many strange things but that she will pay liberally. I am to be at her command night and day.”
“Sounds interesting,” said the other man, plainly stifling a yawn. “But I can't see what all this has to do with the golden box.”
“Why, it's this way! I did not know it was there and it was she who told me that at no matter what cost the bribe I must get her into the palace of this American, Harnway, and that while there we must try to discover if the box was in his possession. I did not then know that it was the Crusader's relic—not until I saw it, and then——”
“What did this young woman do when it was shown to you?”
“It was in a locked cabinet along with other curios of more or less value and she—she stared at it as calmly as if this were the last thing on earth she had been seeking and then suggested that perhaps we had best be going. She thanked the major-domo very politely, telling him that now she could rest content having seen the inside of a real Venetian palace home, and added to the already liberal bribe I had given him. Then we went to our gondola and were rowed away to see a fast motor boat that she wished to rent and use during her stay here. That also looks as if her visit would be prolonged, does it not? I am very glad of employment, for the season is dull and men with wealth and liberality seem to come not.”
After a moment more they got up and sauntered away; but Captain Jimmy sat for a long time staring abstractedly out over the square, and then arose and turned down past the Palace of the Doges, that miracle palace that is declared to be the finest kingly house on earth but which he did not appear to see. He walked down to the great gondola landing at the foot and chose a grizzled old gondolier whose craft he boarded, and straightway fell into fluent conversation, leading the veteran to boast of his knowledge of Venice and its inhabitants.
“I suppose you know the Mascarelli Palace?” inquired Captain Jimmy.
“Si, signor. Well. Most well. I also know its new owner, the rich American.”
“What's his name?” Jimmy asked, with a casual air that concealed his acute interest.
“Harnway. His first name is—a strange name—let me think.”
“Is it by any chance Lemuel?” was the apparently innocent inquiry.
“Si, si, signor. That is it. Lemuel Harnway.”
Captain Jimmy successfully concealed a start of surprise and made no reply. But to himself he said: “Well I'll be hanged! So it's Lemuel, eh? Over here for keeps, too. The old scoundrel!”