“It turned out to be gunpowder,” said I, still thinking only of her.
“No—gold!”
“But it was gunpowder,” I insisted; for it was my incorrigible passion for accuracy which had led up to half our arguments on the voyage; but this time Eva let me off.
“It was also gold: twelve thousand ounces from the diggings. That was the real mystery. Do you mean to say you never guessed?”
“No, by Jove I didn't!” said I. She had diverted my interest at last. I asked her if she had known on board.
“Not until the last moment. I found out during the fire. Do you remember when we said good-by? I was nearly telling you then.”
Did I remember! The very letter of that last interview was cut deep in my heart; not a sleepless night had I passed without rehearsing it word for word and look for look; and sometimes, when sorrow had spent itself, and the heart could bleed no more, vain grief had given place to vainer speculation, and I had cudgelled my wakeful brains for the meaning of the new and subtle horror which I had read in my darling's eyes at the last. Now I understood; and the one explanation brought such a tribe in its train, that even the perilous ecstasy of the present moment was temporarily forgotten in the horrible past.
“Now I know why they wouldn't have me in the gig!” I cried softly.
“She carried four heavy men's weight in gold.”
“When on earth did they get it aboard?”