The Pathan city lay under their gaze with a likeness to one of those magic cities one reads about in the chronicles of Sindbad the Sailor.

But they spoke no word of love.

When alone with this remarkable young woman, Bruce found himself invariably tongue-tied.
At the same hour, less than fifty miles away, Umballa stood before the opening of his elaborate tent, erected at sundown by the river's brink, and scowled at the moon.

He saw no beauty in the translucent sky, in the silvery paleness of the world below.

He wanted revenge, and the word hissed in his brain as a viper hisses in the dark of its cave.
Dung fires twinkled and soldiers lounged about them, smoking and gossiping.