Pressing his hand through it, between the lining and the cloth, he presently came into contact with something.

Bonaparte drew it forth--a small, square parcel, sewed up in sail-cloth.

He gazed at it, squeezed it; it cracked, as though full of bank-notes.

He put it quickly into his own waistcoat pocket, and peeped over the half-door to see if there was any one coming.

There was nothing to be seen but the last rays of yellow sunset light, painting the karoo bushes in the plain, and shining on the ash-heap, where the fowls were pecking.