“Teeth,” said Hume, throwing off his moody air—“teeth of what?”
“Why, of this serpent. Have you not been through the coils?—and this place is the head. The temple above was reared on the coils of a serpent, and the simple people of the valley have kept alive the old worship in some of its forms. These two points of light at the narrow end are the nostrils. But you knew of this.”
“Nothing. We came in search of the Golden Rock.”
“Yes; I have seen that wondrous thing, but it was not to be carried away bodily, while these treasures may.”
And with a strong tug he wrenched one of the curved teeth from its socket, and as it lay in the broad palm, the three heads bent over to examine it—a finely-wrought piece of pure metal, two inches in length, and about a quarter of a pound in weight. There were altogether forty-eight of these teeth, and in an hour they had all been wrenched from the sockets which had retained them in glittering rows for many centuries.
“My knowledge of values is rather musty. What would you judge the worth of these?”
“About a thousand,” said Hume, after a mental calculation.
“Is that all? Then my share will not purchase a month’s enjoyment. You gave me half for the life of that girl, yet I had you all at my mercy, and spared you. Come, comrade, what say you to my taking the whole? Remember, you offered me all.”
Hume divided the yellow pile into two parts, and emptied one half into Sirayo’s skin bag.
“There! that is your share,” he said sternly, and Ferrara, muttering to himself, stored the precious burden about his person.