“There it is, then,” said Tom gruffly, “ketch hold.”
I eagerly took that which he had handed to me, and then with a shudder of disgust hurled it away, as the gravedigger scene in “Hamlet” flashed across my mind; and then we worked on in silence.
“Bones,” said Tom, “flint-knife things, and, hallo! what’s that you’ve got, Mas’r Harry?” he exclaimed in a sharp whisper.
In my turn I had uttered an exclamation as my hands came in contact with a flat heavy piece of metal, which, upon being balanced upon a finger and tapped, gave forth a sonorous ring.
“I don’t know, Tom,” I whispered huskily, “but—but it feels like what we are in search of.”
“Do you think it is gold, Mas’r Harry?” he hissed in a voice that told of his own excitement.
“Gold or silver, Tom,” I said in a choking voice.
Then I felt faint. Suspicions of a horrible nature seemed to float across my brain. “Suppose,” I thought, “Tom should murder me now to possess himself of the treasure, load the mules, and then bury me in the grave we had dug. The water would flow over it again in a few hours, and who would ever suspect the man who went away laden with wealth?”
The next moment, though, I had driven away the base thoughts, and was leaning against the rock above me.
“Tom,” I said, “I’m faint; go and fetch the spirits.”