had never returned to finish their nefarious expedition. Or—it might even be full of rocks left by some Gargantuan practical joker, some whimsical bygone lord of the island, some mischievous genie of the place.
An hour—an age, it seemed,—of suspense—of struggling shoulders, prying and twisting and forcing; of grunts, masculine exclamations, and feminine sighs.
But in the end something snapped—gave way. At last it had yielded to the persuasion of muscle and iron.
Slowly, grudgingly, with creaks of protests—while it seemed as if the four watchers above had turned into illustrations of suspended animation at some surgeon's clinic—the lid rose.
From under the dark shutter, as if a dark cloak had been suddenly lifted from a field of dandelions, or a thundercloud removed from the sun, leaped a shining, a dancing of many lights such as they had never seen before, such as only Pizzaro and his rugged warriors had gazed upon when they stood transfixed and speechless in the shrines of the palaces of Peru.
So at last that part of the fairy tale came true.
"It is, it is, the gold!" breathed Sally in an awed whisper, her eyes expanding with both terror and delight, as they stared at the shining things. There they lay, rivalling the fabulous fortunes of the Old Incas she used to read about in the histories, and yet as carelessly strewn as the cheap bone buttons in Aunt Abigail's work box.
An old slang phrase, used half-jestingly before, but in very truth now, sprang unconsciously to her lips:
