“I beg your pardon, Tom,” I exclaimed, holding out my hand, “it was ungenerous.”
“All right, Mas’r Harry,” he said, taking my hand awkwardly, as if I had given him something to look at, and then he seemed to give it to me back again, when, once more turning to our task, we threw out the sand close under the rocky barrier, and it was well we did so, as will be seen in the end.
“There’s something here. I can feel it with my spade, Mas’r Harry,” exclaimed Tom suddenly.
And then, moved by the same tremulous nervous feeling as myself, he leapt out, and together we once more searched the vale with our eyes, to see nothing, though, but the same flagging leaves and the quivering motion of the bright transparent air. But as we descended once more, a snorting, whinnying noise from the mules came from within, and in our excitement and alarm we were about to thrust in the sand again to bury our treasure, only reason told us of the folly of the act.
Spade in hand we ran into the gloom, and followed the winding of the track to where the mules were tethered, to find them uneasy and straining at their halters, as if something had alarmed them.
Chapter Thirty Three.
Mica or Gold.
“Ah! there’s some one about, Mas’r Harry, I’m ’fear’d,” whispered Tom. “I wish we’d covered the stuff up again. What do you say to taking a light and going right in?”