Head down, hands thrust deep in pockets, he paced like a captured animal in bars.

The bitterness of his spirit was wormwood.

What meant, to him, the interests and pleasures of other men?
Profit and loss, alcohol, tobacco, women--all alike bore him no message.

Clubs, athletics, gambling--he grumbled something savage as his thoughts turned to such trivialities.

And into his aquiline face came something the look of an eagle, trapped, there in that eagle's nest of his.
Suddenly the Master of _Niss'rosh_ came to a decision.