GWOOD.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE STORY OF THE BURIED TREASURE.

Those of my readers who happen to be well acquainted with Weymouth, will
also be assuredly acquainted with a certain lane, known as Buxton's
Lane, branching off to the right from the high-road at Rodwell, and
connecting that suburb with the picturesque little village of Wyke. I
make this assertion with the most perfect confidence, because Buxton's
Lane happens to afford one of the most charming walks in that charming
neighbourhood; and no one can well be a sojourner for any length of time
in Weymouth without discovering this fact for him or herself, either
through inquiry or by means of personal exploration.

And of those who have enjoyed a saunter through this lane, some there
will doubtless be who can remember a substantial stone-built house,
standing back a distance of about a hundred yards or so from the
roadway, and environed by a quaint old-fashioned garden, the entire
demesne being situate on the crest of the rise just before Wyke is
reached, and commanding an unparalleled view of the roadstead of
Portland, with the open channel as far as Saint Alban's Head to the
left, while on the right the West Bay (notorious for its shipwrecks)
stretches from the Bill of Portland, far away westward, into the misty
distance toward Lyme, and Beer, and Seaton; ay, and even beyond that,
down to Berry Head, past Torquay, the headland itself having been
distinctly seen from Wyke Nap on a clear day, so it is said, though I
cannot remember that I ever saw it myself from that standpoint.

The house to which I refer is (or was, for I believe it no longer
exists) known as "The Spaniards," and was built by my ancestor, Hubert
Saint Leger, with a portion of the proceeds of the Spanish prize that--
having so harried and worried her that she at length became separated
from the main body of the Great Armada--he drove into Weymouth Bay, and
there, under the eyes of his admiring fellow-townsmen, fought her in his
good ship _Golden Rose_, until she was fain to strike her colours and
surrender to a craft of considerably less than half her size.

"The Spaniards" had continued in possession of the Saint Leger family
from the time of its building down to the date of my story; and under
its roof I was born. And to its roof I had returned from an Australian
voyage, a day or two previous to the events about to be related, to find
my dear mother in the direst of trouble. My father, l