A few feet farther on was a ledge fairly covered with curious objects; strange shaped dishes; bits of ivory, black as coal; pieces of copper, dulled with age. Such were the treasures of the past that lay before them.
“Someone’s pantry of long ago,” mused Marian.
“Very, very old,” said Attatak, holding up a bit of black ivory. “Mebby two hundred, mebby five hundred years. Ivory turn black slow; very, very slow. By and by, after long, long time, look like that.”
As Attatak uttered these words Marian could have hugged her for sheer joy. She knew now that they had made a very rare find. The objects had not been left there by a white man, but by some native. Broken bits of ancient Eskimo pottery had been found in mounds on the Arctic coast. Those had been treasured. But here were perfect specimens, such as any museum in the world would covet.
And yet, had she but known it, the rareness and value of some of these were to exceed her fondest dreams. But this discovery was to come later.
Drawing off her calico parka, Marian tied it at the top, and using it as a sack, carefully packed all the articles.
“Let’s go back,” she said in an awed whisper.
“Eh-eh,” Attatak answered.
There was a strange spookiness about the place that made them half afraid to remain any longer.
They had turned to go, when Marian, chancing to glance down, saw the bit of ivory they had found by the outer camp-fire. At first she was tempted to let it remain where it lay. It seemed an insignificant thing after the discovery of these rarer treasures. But finally she picked it up and thrust it into her bag.