Werper sprawled in his rickety chair to enjoy a final cigaret before
retiring. His thumbs, tucked in his belt in lazy support of the
weight of his arms, touched the belt which held the jewel pouch
about his waist. He tingled with excitement as he let his mind
dwell upon the value of the treasure, which, unknown to all save
himself, lay hidden beneath his clothing.

What would Achmet Zek say, if he knew? Werper grinned. How the
old rascal's eyes would pop could he but have a glimpse of those
scintillating beauties! Werper had never yet had an opportunity
to feast his eyes for any great length of time upon them. He had
not even counted them--only roughly had he guessed at their value.

He unfastened the belt and drew the pouch from its hiding place.
He was alone. The balance of the camp, save the sentries, had
retired--none would enter the Belgian's tent. He fingered the
pouch, feeling out the shapes and sizes of the precious, little
nodules within. He hefted the bag, first in one palm, then in the
other, and at last he wheeled his chair slowly around before the
table, and in the rays of his small lamp let the glittering gems
roll out upon the rough wood.

The refulgent rays transformed the interior of the soiled and squalid
canvas to the splendor of a palace in the eyes of the dreaming man.
He saw the gilded halls of pleasure that would open their portals
to the possessor of the wealth which lay scattered upon this stained
and dented table top. He dreamed of joys and luxuries and power
which always had been beyond his grasp, and as he dreamed his gaze
lifted from the table, as the gaze of a dreamer will, to a far
distant goal above the mean horizon of terrestrial commonplaceness.