"Do you mind telling me what that is?" asked St. George.
Old Malakh's eyes, liquid and brown and very peaceful, met his own without rebuke.
"Do you mean the gem?" he asked gently. "It is a very beautiful ruby."
Then St. George saw upon the hand that held the sealed tube a ring of matchless workmanship, set with a great ruby that smouldered in the shadow where they stood. Olivia looked at St. George with startled eyes.
"He was not wearing this when we first saw him," she said. "I haven't seen him wearing it at all."
St. George confronted the old man then and spoke with some determination.
"Will you please tell us," he said, "what there is in this tube, and how you came by this ring?"
Old Malakh looked down reflectively at his hand, and back to St. George's face. It was wonderful, the air of courtliness and urbanity and delicate breeding which persisted through age and infirmity and the fallow mind.
"I wish that I might tell you," he said humbly, "but I have only little lights in my head, instead of words. And when I say them, they do not mean—what they shine. Do you not see? That is why every one laughs. But I know what the lights say."
St. George looked at Olivia helplessly.