Joshua, I knew, felt nothing of what we did, except, in a measure, physically; and, even there, the exultation in his soul was tonic to his body. Since our capping of his secret with our own, he had been a changed creature--a bent bow released and snapped upright. It is difficult to describe his transformation--his translation, rather, inspired as Bottom’s. Where had been sombreness, depression, some self-deprecation, was self-assurance, some rallying blitheness, boisterousness almost. He had been crushed, and was expanded; beaten, and was triumphant. That he should have run, when near broke with the chase, his shadow to earth, and through me, the son of the man whose memory he worshipped! It was stupendous. He could not contain his glee, or discipline his expectancy, now it had once burst those year-long bonds. He was convinced with, more utterly convinced than, us, that the body was Abel’s. He would tolerate no suggestion of error. And where the body was, would be the book, the clue--finally the treasure. I doubted if, in all these generations, it could still lie hidden there undiscovered and unravished. He laughed my scepticism to scorn. That Vining would never have concealed the evidences of his crime in a place easy or inviting to be come at, he declared. Probably, indeed, he had restored them to the original _oubliette_, which, I might make sure, would have been chosen by the monks with a cunning genius for its inaccessibility, either by smugglers or other casual squatters in their abandoned vaults. Moreover history, or at least gossip, might be trusted to have left us record of such costly treasure-trove thus unearthed, if unearthed it had been. Nevertheless, he questioned us closely as to our underground observations, which, indeed, had not been exhaustive. But they were enough, it appeared, to confirm his assurance. Desire is the most credulous of all enthusiasts.