“How deep du it go?” said George at length.

Harold took his knife and loosed some of the top coins, which were very tightly packed, till he could move his hand in them freely.  Then he pulled out handful after handful of every sort of gold coin.  There were Rose Nobles of Edward IV.; Sovereigns and Angels of Henry VII. and VIII.; Sovereigns, Half-Sovereigns and gold Crowns of Edward VI.; Sovereigns, Rials, and Angels of Mary; Sovereigns, Double Crowns and Crowns of Elizabeth; Thirty-shilling pieces, Spur Rials, Angels, Unites and Laurels of James I.; Three-pound pieces, Broads, and Half Broads of Charles I.; some in greater quantity and some in less; all were represented.  Handful after handful did he pull out, and yet the bottom was not reached.  At last he came to it.  The layer of gold pieces was about twenty inches broad by three feet six long.

“We must get this into the house, George, before any one is about,” gasped the Colonel.

“Yes, sir, yes, for sure we must; but how be we a-going to carry it?”

Harold thought for a minute, and then acted thus.  Bidding George stay in the vault with the treasure, which he was with difficulty persuaded to do, he climbed the improvised rope ladder, and got in safety through the hole.  In his excitement he had forgotten about the summer-house having been carried away by the gale, which was still blowing, though not with so much fury as before.  The wind-swept desolation that met his view as he emerged into the dawning light broke upon him with a shock.  The summer-house was clean gone, nothing but a few uprights remained of it; and fifty yards away he thought he could make out the crumpled shape of the roof.  Nor was that all.  Quite a quarter of the great oaks which were the glory of the place were down, or splintered and ruined.

But what did he care for the summer-house or the oaks now?  Forgetting his exhaustion, he ran down the slope and reached the house, which he entered as softly as he could by the side door.  Nobody was about yet, or would be for another hour.  It was Christmas Day, and not a pleasant morning to get up on, so the servants would be sure to lie a-bed.  On his way to his bed-room he peeped into the dining-room, where he had fallen asleep on the previous evening.  When he had woke up, it may be remembered, he lit a candle.  This candle was now flaring itself to death, for he had forgotten to extinguish it, and by its side lay the paper from which he had made the great discovery.  There was nothing in it, of course, but somehow the sight impressed him very much.  It seemed months since he awoke to find the lamp gone out.  How much may happen between the lighting of a candle and its burning away!  Smiling at this trite reflection, he blew that light out, and, taking another, went to his room.  Here he found a stout hand-bag, with which he made haste to return to the Mount.

“Are you all right, George?” he shouted down the hole.