“Throw open the tent door, my boy, and let’s have some fresh air. I want to have a look, too,” he cried, “at our treasures.”
Saxe obeyed; and he was in the act of looping back the canvas, when Dale uttered an angry cry.
“Gone!—stolen!” he cried. “That man must have gone off with them on the mule.”
“Did the herr call?” said Melchior, hurrying up.
“You here, Melchior?” stammered Dale in his surprise. “But yes. Look! The crystals! We laid them there. Do you know where they are gone?”
“No, herr. But are you sure?”
“Sure, man! Yes, and—ah! Look at that!” he continued, pointing at the tent wall. “A slit has been cut in it with a knife.”
Melchior rushed outside and examined the slit.
“Yes,” he said, shaking his head; “cut with a sharp knife. It must have been whilst we slept.”
“And by some one who must have been watching our movements.”