Throwing this slab back, the gipsy fell upon his knees, and, groping downward, brought up a bronze box or coffer, from which he brushed the soil with reverential slowness.
“Loose the key hung around your neck by that chain of hair,” he said, holding the box up in the moonlight and searching for the lock.
I started. This was proof undoubted that the gipsy had never lost a clue to my identity, for no human being, except Maria, was aware that a key of antique gold and platina had always hung around my neck.
I drew it forth with a feeling of awe, and watched in silence while Chaleco fitted it in the lock. It turned with difficulty, grating in the rust, and when the lid gave way, it was with a noise that sounded upon my ear like a moan of suppressed pain.
“What is it?” I said, looking into the open box as one gazes into a coffin after it has been long closed, curious, but yet afraid.
“It is all that you will ever know of her—of your mother!” he answered with a touch of bitter sadness in his voice.
I received the box reverentially in both my hands.
“Take it,” said Chaleco, closing the lid; “read them before you sleep!”
“It seems to me that I should never sleep again.”
I said this to Chaleco, but he answered me sharply, and thrusting the spade and pick-axe aside with his foot, strode away telling me to follow. The sight of the box I held seemed to irritate him, as the scent of blood excites a wild animal. I folded it to my bosom with both arms, and though it sent a chill through every vein of my body, and made me stagger beneath its weight, I tightened my hold each moment with a painful feeling that I held the very soul of my mother close to mine.