Then, mastering his emotions, he reached in and lifted one of the bags from its long resting-place.
It weighed fully ten pounds, and when he set it down upon the sill of the opening, there was a confused rattling and clinking inside of the hair-covered bag, a sound that only one coined metal in the world will emit–gold.
There was no need of opening it to make sure that the contents were genuine. The sound told that; and old Batavsky's truth, proved up to the point, was a further guarantee for it.
Taking out another one, he started with one in each hand for his wagon, by which Ulrich was waiting, like the patient, honest soul he was.
Nothing that Barnwell did surprised him. He honestly believed him to be more than an ordinary man, and capable of doing anything short of raising the dead; and when he him approaching with those unique bags in his hand, his curiosity was not aroused sufficiently to make him ask any questions.
Barnwell understood and had faith in him of the strongest kind.
Setting down the bags by the side of the wagon, he wiped the perspiration from his brow, and then, taking a peculiar key from his pocket, he proceeded to throw back the wagon-seat and to unlock the iron chest beneath it.
Now, Ulrich had never known that such a contrivance existed in the wagon before, although understanding that it was a very heavy vehicle; but he evinced no surprise, asked no questions.
Getting up into the wagon, Barnwell told him to hand the bags up to him, and without a word he did so.
Barnwell stowed them carefully away in the large iron box. Then closing it and locking it again, he motioned Ulrich to follow him.