"Twenty?"
"Twenty? O Eagle!"
"Ten."
"Months? That's too long!"
"No, ten years, sire."
"Not ten years, Eagle. Say eight."
"No, nine."
"Seven. If the book falls into my hands at the end of seven years, may I open it?"
"I may safely promise you that," she laughed. "The book will never fall into your hands."
I took from my pocket the gold snuffbox with the portraits on the lid, and placed my key carefully therein. Eagle leaned forward to look at them. She took the box in her hand, and gazed with long reverence, drooping her head.