In Old Ceylon #231037

Then the procession of jewels continues. Sapphire has not yet shown you all it can do. From little brown canvas bags, such as those in which we Westerners some times carry mere contemptible sovereigns when we are so fortunate as to possess them, comes bounding forth, upon beds of snow-white paper, the moony refulgence of the star-stones. Of a soft dove — grey is the typical star sapphire, of a tender, clouded, milky blue, of pearly tones like a mountain mist, or softly cerulean as the bluebell; and, grey or white or blue, always there nestles at its heart a floating six-rayed star of pure light, that shifts and wavers across the surface of the stone as you move it to and fro. In the Old days, the cutters who roped the Kings of Lanka in Chains Of ruby and cat's-eye had the art Of so cutting these star-stones that ripple after ripple of radiance followed hard upon each other's heels as the jewel turned this way and that. But the secret lies long buried in the heart of dead Ceylon, and nowadays we must be contented with the hexagonal prism across that lovely clouded surface.