A feeling of awe was upon the party as they entered the gloomy crack which constituted the portal of the now historic markhôr cave. Upon the Baluchis the superstitious associations which clustered round the place had their effect. The Syyed Aïn Asrâf was muttering copious exorcisms and adjurations from the sacred book, and the wild desert warriors were overawed at the thought that here was about to be unfolded that which had been placed there by the hands of those long since dead. Upon the European, however, the associations were multifold. That first exploration of the cave, the chance arrival of Vivien Wymer, and their long, quiet talk as they investigated it together all came back to him. Then the tragedy, his escape, and the hours he had spent hanging in the very mouth of that hideous gulf—here again the hidden hoard of the dead chief had been instrumental in preserving the life of his rescuer’s son, for what would the latter have done but for the resting place afforded by the chain and that which it supported, whit time Umar Khan, with his bloodthirsty brigands had run him literally to earth?
Taking a torch from one of the bystanders, and holding it out at arm’s length over the gulf, he said:
“Look down there, my brother, yonder is the Ruby Sword.”
“I see nothing,” replied Yar Hussain, who, lying flat on the brink, was peering over. “Stay—yes. Something is hanging. It is of iron. It is a chain. You—three of you—hold your lights out over yon black opening of hell.” Then as they obeyed he went on—“Yes. There it is. There is a chest—bound with brass. Of a truth the secret is at length revealed.”
Even the impassive reticence of the Oriental seemed to relax. There was a note of strong excitement in the deep tones of the chief, and his eyes dilated as he beheld at last that which contained his long buried heirloom. He gave orders that the chest should be at once drawn up.
This was not difficult. By Campian’s advice they had come well provided with strong camel-hide ropes. These were noosed, and the loops being swung round the chest on either side of the chain—a very simple process in the strong light of many torches—were drawn tight. Then, at the word from Campian, who superintended the operation, and whose interest and excitement were hardly less than that of the chief, they hauled away. The chest proved of less weight than they expected, and lo!—in a trice—it lay safe upon the floor of the cave.
Many and pious were the ejaculations of those who beheld. The massive chain, somewhat indented in the wood through the weight it had so long sustained, was at length filed through, and the chest borne to the entrance of the cave to be opened in full daylight.
Seen there it was indeed black and venerable with age, and the lettering on the cover so blurred that the old eyes of Aïn Asrâf were hardly equal to the task of deciphering it. But the impatience of those around was deepening every moment, and Yar Hussain with his own hands began to open the chest.
It was secured by cunning locks, the device of which was known to him. The hinges, stiff and rusty with age and damp, at first would not turn, then yielded to a couple of hearty tugs. The while every head was craned forward, every spectator was breathless with expectation. As an instance of how one can persuade oneself into a belief in any theory, even now no misgiving came to Campian lest the chest should contain nothing of any value.
An aromatic and pungent odour filled the air on the opening of the box. At first a layer of sheepskin vellum, then parchments. At these Yar Hussain merely glanced hurriedly and continued his investigations. One bag—then another—five bags of the same soft sheepskin and carefully tied, each about the size of an orange. On opening these—lo! three of them contained precious stones, cut, and some of splendid size and water. The other two were filled with uncut stones. This was beginning to look promising.