“My venture?” Nicholas stammered, the color rising in his cheeks. “My venture?”
“It is not worth much in money,” the troubadour said with a queer little laugh, “but it is something. Master Garland, I see you have not forgotten me,—Ranulph, called le Provençal. Here is a packet to be delivered to Tomaso the physician of Padua, whom you know. The money within is this young man’s share in your cargo, and Tomaso will pay you for your trouble.”
Master Garland grinned broadly in his big beard. “Surely, sure-ly,” he chuckled, and pocketed the parcel as if it had been an apple, but Nicholas noted that he kept his hand on his pouch as he went on to the wharf.
“And now,” Ranulph said, as there was a stir in the crowd by the church door,—evidently some one was coming out. “I must leave you, my lad. Some day we shall meet again.” Then he went hastily away to join a brilliant company of courtiers in traveling attire. Things were evidently going well with Ranulph.
Nicholas thought a great deal about that packet in the days that followed. He took to experimenting with various things to see what could account for the weight. Lead was heavy, but no one would send a lump of lead of that size over seas. The same could be said of iron. He bethought him finally of a goldsmith’s nephew with whom he had acquaintance. Guy Bouverel was older, but the two boys knew each other well.
“Guy,” he said one day, “what’s the heaviest metal you ever handled?”
“Gold,” said Guy promptly.
“A bag that was too heavy to have silver in it would have gold?”
“I should think so. Have you found treasure?”
“No,” said Nicholas, “I was wondering.”