"You had better open it. There is probably something in it."
I never saw a more complete change in a man's face during a single
second than came over Isaacs' in that moment. He had not thought of
opening it, in his first disappointment at finding it returned. He
turned back the lid. Bound with a bit of narrow ribbon and pressed down
carefully, he found a heavy lock of gold-white hair, so fair that it
made everything around it seem dark--the grass, our clothes, and even
the white streamer that hung down from Isaacs' turban. It seemed to shed
a bright light, even in the broad noon-day, as it lay there in the
curiously wrought box--just as the body of some martyred saint found
jealously concealed in the dark corner of an ancient crypt, and broken
in upon by unsuspecting masons delving a king's grave, might throw up in
their dusky faces a dazzling halo of soft radiance--the glory of the
saint hovering lovingly by the body wherein the soul's sufferings were
perfected.
The moment Isaacs realised what it was, he turned away, his face all
gladness, and moved on a few steps with bent head, evidently
contemplating his new treasure. Then he snapped the spring, and putting
the casket in his vest turned round to me.
"Thank you, Griggs; how are they all?"
"It was worth a two-hundred mile ride to see your face when you opened
that box.
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