"I look at them with my fingers—but it's all the same."
Such things to look at! They were deposited, one after the other, in Kirk's eager hands,—the intricate carving of Japanese ivory, entrancingly smooth—almost like something warm and living, after one had held it for a few adoring moments in careful hands. And there was a Burmese ebony elephant, with a ruby in his forehead.
"A ruby is red," Kirk murmured; "it is like the fire. And the elephant is black. I see him very well."
"Once upon a time," said the old gentleman, "a rajah rode on him—a rajah no bigger than your finger. And his turban was encrusted with the most precious of jewels, and his robe was stiff with gold. The elephant wore anklets of beaten silver, and they clinked as he walked."
Kirk's face was intent, listening. The little ebony elephant stood motionless on his palm, dim in the firelight.
"I hear them clinking," he said, "and the people shouting—oh, so far away!"
He put the treasure back into his host's hand, at last.
