"Mein friend," answered the adept, foreed by circumstances to speak something nearer the truth than he generally used to do, "I believed it no more than you and no man at all, till I did hear them hone and moan and groan myself on de oder night, and till I did this day see de cause, which was an great chest all full of de pure silver from Mexico—and what would you ave nae think den?" "And what wad ye gie to ony ane," said Edie, "that wad help ye to sic another kistfu' o' silver!" "Give?—mein himmel!—one great big quarter of it." "Now if the secret were mine," said the mendicant, "I wad stand out for a half; for you see, though I am but a puir ragged body, and couldna carry silver or gowd to sell for fear o' being taen up, yet I could find mony folk would pass it awa for me at unco muckle easier profit than ye're thinking on." "Ach, himmel!—Mein goot friend, what was it I said?—I did mean to say you should have de tree quarter for your half, and de one quarter to be my fair half." "No, no, Mr. Dusterdeevil, we will divide equally what we find, like brother and brother. Now, look at this board that I just flung into the dark aisle out o' the way, while Monkbarns was glowering ower a' the silver yonder. He's a sharp chiel Monkbarns—I was glad to keep the like o' this out o' his sight. Ye'll maybe can read the character better than me—I am nae that book learned, at least I'm no that muckle in practice." With this modest declaration of ignorance, Ochiltree brought forth from behind a pillar the cover of the box or chest of treasure, which, when forced from its hinges, had been carelessly flung aside during the ardour of curiosity to ascertain the contents which it concealed, and had been afterwards, as it seems, secreted by the mendicant. There was a word and a number upon the plank, and the beggar made them more distinct by spitting upon his ragged blue handkerchief, and rubbing off the clay by which the inscription was obscured. It was in the ordinary black letter. "Can ye mak ought o't?" said Edie to the adept. "S," said the philosopher, like a child getting his lesson in the primer—"S, T, A, R, C, H,—Starch!—dat is what de woman-washers put into de neckerchers, and de shirt collar." "Search!" echoed Ochiltree; "na, na, Mr. Dusterdeevil, ye are mair of a conjuror than a clerk—it's search, man, search—See, there's the Ye clear and distinct." "Aha! I see it now—it is search—number one. Mein himmel! then there must be a number two, mein goot friend: for search is what you call to seek and dig, and this is but number one! Mine wort, there is one great big prize in de wheel for us, goot Maister Ochiltree."