"My friend, you are rich; you need not fear. It is the
possession men value the least of all they have. Choose your soul and
drive your bargain. I leave that to you with one word of counsel
only: you will find the young readier than the old--the young, to
whom the world promises all things for gold. Choose you a fine, fair,
fresh, young soul, Nicholas Snyders; and choose it quickly. Your hair
is somewhat grey, my friend. Taste, before you die, the joy of
living."
The strange pedlar laughed and, rising, closed his pack. Nicholas
Snyders neither moved nor spoke, until with the soft clanging of the
massive door his senses returned to him. Then, seizing the flask the
stranger had left behind him, he sprang from his chair, meaning to
fling it after him into the street. But the flashing of the firelight
on its burnished surface stayed his hand.
"After all, the case is of value," Nicholas chuckled, and put the
flask aside and, lighting the two tall candles, buried himself again
in his green-bound ledger. Yet still from time to time Nicholas
Snyders' eye would wander to where the silver flask remained half
hidden among dusty papers. And later there came again a knocking at
the door, and this time it really was young Jan who entered.
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