Down beneath them, somewhere in the courtyards of the great castle, a dog--a deep-voiced wolf-hound--was baying persistently and nervously, listening for the echo of its own voice amid the pines of the desert forest.
Steinmetz watched Paul's motionless back with a sort of fascination.

He moved uneasily, as if to break a spell of silence almost unbearable in its intensity.

He went to the table and sat down.

From mere habit he took up a quill pen.

He looked at the point of it and at the inkstand.
But he had nothing to write.