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