Then he passed on to the great stone, which, not without difficulty, he rolled from its place. That done, he descended into the vault below, where he struck a match, lighting a candle he had brought with him from the junk.
Frank, looking down, beheld a subterranean chamber, about five yards by six in area, and not more than six feet deep--for Ling's head and shoulders protruded above the level of the ground. And in this vault were sacks, to the number of twenty, each of which was filled with a thousand Mexican dollars.
Now a thousand silver dollars are no mean weight; and yet Ling unaided, and in spite of his fast-failing strength, lifted the sacks one after another and placed them upon the ground above.
Then he himself came forth from the vault, and stood for a moment holding his left side, with the pale moonlight full upon his face. It was the face of death itself.
The man's features were more drawn and haggard-looking even than before. It may have been the moonlight that caused his countenance to appear snow-white. He breathed like one who is spent from running; his great chest heaved, and Frank perceived that his wound had opened again, and the red blood was even then staining his clothes. Towards this man--of whom, throughout all the adventures through which he had passed, he had stood in the greatest dread--the boy now experienced feelings of infinite commiseration.
"Let me help you?" he asked.
And Ling laughed aloud--a laugh that sounded forced and hollow, in which there was more of irony than mirth. He pointed to one of the bags.
"Lift that up," said he.
Frank attempted to do so, but found that he had not the strength.
"You must go back to the junk," said he. "I give you my word of honour I will be true to you. I will attend to your wound. I will do all I can to help you."