He sat down upon the stool, spread a towel across his knees, and opened the pouch.

He drew out a roll of cotton wool, which he unrolled across the towel.

Flames! Blue flames, red, yellow, violet, and green--precious stones, many of them with histories that reached back into the dim centuries, histories of murder and loot and envy.

The young man had imagination--perhaps too much of it.

He saw the stones palpitating upon lovely white and brown bosoms; he saw bloody and greedy hands, the red sack of towns; he heard the screams of women and the raucous laughter of drunken men.