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 coin.
Then he drew back his hand with a cry that came strangely from his stern lips, for it sounded like alarm, and he stepped back.
"As I live," he said, "somewhat cold moved beneath my fingers in there." Even as he spoke something crawled slowly on to the bag that was broken and sat on the red gold that was hidden no longer.

There it stayed, staring at the torchlight--a great wizened toad, whose eyes were like the gold which it seemed to guard.