It was filled to its
brass-bound lid with romance, if not with gold.
A little more and it lay clear to our view, a convex surface of
dark smoky brown, crossed by three massive strips of tarnished
brass. Dugald dug down until the chest stood free to half its
height; then by its handles--I recognized the "great hand-wrought
loops of metal," of the diary--we dragged it from its bed, and drew
it forth into the cockpit.
For a little while we sat before it in happy contemplation. It was
indeed for its own sake quite well worth having, that sturdy old
chest. Even in an antique shop I should have succumbed to it at
once; how much more when we had dug it up ourselves from a wrecked
sloop on a desert island, and knew all its bloody and delightful
history.
At length, kneeling before it, I raised with an effort the heavy
lid.
"Empty, of course--no more brown bags. But oh, Dugald, had ever a
girl such a wonderful bride's chest as this? O--oh!"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, only there is a crack in the bottom, running all the way
along where it joins the side."
"Warped a bit, I suppose. No matter, it can be easily
repaired--crack? I say, lassie, look here!"
Under the pressure of Dugald's fingers the floor of the chest was
swinging upward on an invisible hinge. Between it and the true
bottom was a space of about three inches in depth.
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