“Aye,” said Spray, “they have heard some of our tales, and they have dug where we would not, for it spoils a house, and the wife’s temper also, to meddle with the good stone floor.”

Now it seemed to me that here was a likelihood that there was truth in the old tales, and that I had lit on the lost hiding place of which some memory yet remained even from the days when OElla’s men took the town from the iron workers five hundred years and more ago, when the might of Rome had passed.

“There is somewhat that I have found in this place,” I said.  “Come and see what it is.”

Wondering, Olaf and Wulfnoth climbed down the ladder after me, and Relf did but stay to find a torch before he followed us.  Then I showed them the stone and the hollow behind it, and the earl called for the crowbar that was left by the outlaws, and with a stroke or two easily broke out the rest of the stone, and the glare of the torch shone into the place that it had so long sealed.

It was a chamber in the wall, and maybe a yard square each way.  The stone had not filled all its width or depth of mouth, but was, as it were, a sealed door to be broken and replaced by another.  Then we could see that the canvas I had thought that I had felt was indeed the loose folds of the tied mouths of bags that were neatly arranged at the bottom of this stone-built chest.  And the canvas that I had reached and pulled at had easily parted, and through the rent showed the dull gleam of gold coin as the torchlight flared upon it.

The light shone too on letters scratched on the soft stone of the back of the chamber.  I could read them, but Wulfnoth pointed to them, saying: 

“Here may be a curse written on him who touches.  I will have our priest read that which is there if he can.”

Then I laughed, and said that it was no curse, but the name of some Roman who made the place, for all that was there was: 

CLAVD.  MARTINVS.  ARTIF.  FEC.

“Which means that a workman named Martin was proud of his work, and left his name there,” I said when I had read it.

“And was slain, doubtless, lest he should betray the secret,” said Wulfnoth.

And he put his hand out to take one of the bags from the place, feeling round the rotten canvas to get a fair grip of the mass of coin.

Then he drew back his hand with a cry that came strangely from his stern lips, for it sounded like alarm, and he stepped back.

“As I live,” he said, “somewhat cold moved beneath my fingers in there.”

Even as he spoke something crawled slowly on to the bag that was broken and sat on the red gold that was hidden no longer.  There it stayed, staring at the torchlight—­a great wizened toad, whose eyes were like the gold which it seemed to guard.  And we stared at it, for not one of us dared touch it, nor could we say aught.

It is ill to waste breath in wondering how the creature got into this long-closed place or how it lived.  But when I have told of this, many a time have I heard stories of toads that have been found in stranger places—­even in solid-seeming rock.  But however it came there—­and one may think of many ways—­it scared us.  It seemed a thing not natural.