“Come down here,” said Michael, peremptorily. “I have something to tell you.”
The priest obeyed, with the mien of a man descending to his execution.
“You old interloper,” cried Michael, with a mirthless laugh. “So you are here at last, are you? I have seen it working in your silly old head for weeks. I never looked up but I thought to see your bloody boots!”
This unexpected address only served to add to the old man’s confusion. He looked about him helplessly. Such unrestrained language seemed to call for a sharp rebuke. He was shocked and frightened; as much so as a woman insulted on the street; and yet the consciousness of his own position—that of the detected spy—froze the words of correction on his lips.
“Of course, you want to know what I have been doing here,” continued Michael, in his mocking tone. “If you’ll look into that cradle you will see quick enough. Why, man alive, don’t you know what it is?”
Amazed and ashamed, Father Studby touched the dirty sediment with his finger.
“That’s gold!” cried the lay brother.
The priest hastily withdrew his hand and stared at his companion in consternation.
Gold!
The priest’s head went round; his heart thumped in his breast, with that word everything was forgotten—his shame, his anger, his humiliation.