The Wealth-Bearers are heavily burdened. Their burden is more precious than gold gleaming under enamel. The Wealth-Bearers are strong. Their burden is finer than the seven precious sub-stances.

The faces of the Onon Muren are turned toward the mountains of Khantai Khan. The white faces of the Onon Muren are still. There is fear in the shadows of Khantai Khan. Yet the fear does not touch the Wealth-Bearers.

The five sons of Alan Goa have dried their blood in the earth. But the fear is still in the forests of Khantai Khan. Can another hand lift what One hand held? Nay, the fear is too great!

From the Book of Chakar Noyon, gylong of Uhoten Lamasery

Chakar Noyon was dead, long before the end of the sixteenth century, when Khlit, the Cossack called the Wolf, he of the Curved Saber, rode into Samarkand. Yet the book of Chakar Noyon, who was very wise, was owned by Mir Turek, the merchant; and in the bazaars of Samarkand Khlit met with Mir Turek.

Truly, there are many books that are not to be believed. Yet did Mir Turek believe the book of Chakar Noyon, and Mir Turek was not only a shrewd merchant, but a scholar. And he thirsted for gold. Likewise there was the tale of the Leo Tung astrologer. The astrologer did not see the Bearers of Wealth, but he saw the white faces of the Onon Muren and he told of the terror of Khantai Khan.

Khlit could not read, not even the gold inscription on his famous curved sword. He was sick of the hot sands of Persia and the ruined towns of Turkestan. His dress had changed since he

became an exile from the Cossack camps—he wore green leather pantaloons, topped by a wide purple sash, with a flowing cloak of crimson silk. He still had his sheepskin hat, and his burned pipe. As he rode through the sun-baked bazaars of Samarkand his eye fell on the booth of Mir Turek, and on the elephant in the booth.

It was a small elephant, or rather a pair of them, of ivory and gold. Khlit had never seen such a creature before, and the sight delighted him. He dismounted and sauntered slowly to the bazaar of the merchant, lest the latter suspect that he was anxious to buy.

Mir Turek was a stout man, with a broad nose and slant, bleared eyes. He was dressed in the white robe of a scholar, and he put down a parchment he was reading as the Cossack seated himself cross-legged on the rug before him. Mir Turek watched the stars with the astrologers, and the month was one when his star was ascendant. The ivory elephants, he said, in bastard Usbek which Khlit understood, were not to be sold. They were a talisman of good fortune.

Khlit took from his wallet the last of the gold coins left from the sack of Alamut and laid them on the rug before the merchant. Likewise he drew his sword from its sheath and laid it across his knees. The sun, gleaming on the bright blade with its curious lettering, threw a pallid glow over the yellow face of Mir Turek.

The merchant glanced curiously from the sword to Khlit. His eyes widened as he scanned the inscription on the weapon. Long and steadfastly he looked at its owner. Truly, thought Mir Turek, his star was ascendant.

“Offspring of the devil’s jackal!” growled Khlit. “Scouring of a beggar’s pot! Where is there a merchant who will not sell his goods? Sell me the images or I will slit your fat belly for you.”

Mir Turek turned a shade grayer and his eyes watered. Still, he could not tear his eyes from the inscription. He pointed to the sword.

“Is that, like the gold pieces, from Persia?” he asked.

“Nay, one without honor,” replied Khlit carelessly, “a Cossack does not buy or steal his sword. It was my father’s and his father’s. I will take the images.”

“Nay, lord,” hastily broke in the merchant, “they are a talisman. I dare not sell.” He glanced swiftly to each side down the bazaars. “But come to my house tonight—the house of Mir Turek, the merchant—in the alley at the south corner of the Registan, and we will talk concerning them, you and I.”

When Khlit had gone Mir Turek drew together the silk curtains in front of his booth. Yet he did not leave the stall. He sat motionless, in thought. He fingered the parchment as one caresses a treasure. Carefully he read over a portion of the book and drew in his breath with a grateful sigh. Without doubt, his star was watching over him, as the astrologer had said. And the elephants were truly a potent talisman.

In the mind of Mir Turek was a picture. The picture was of a host of fighting men following their banners over the steppe. Also, of the oak trees of Khantai Khan where few men ventured. In the back of Mir Turek’s mind, like the reflection in a pool of water, was a fear, an old fear, that had been his father’s and his father’s before him.

Khlit was weary of Samarkand and homesick for the wide plains of the steppe. Wherefore he drank much that night, many bowls of Esbek wine, that stirred his memories of the Ukraine and the Tatar land, but did not affect his head or the firmness of his step. He remembered that Mir Turek had invited him to come to his house. So Khlit sought and found the door of the merchant’s home on the Registan, and, although he could not read, he came to know somewhat of the book of Chakar Noyon.

The door of Mir Turek opened at his touch and the Cossack swaggered through the antechamber and walked uninvited to a room in the rear. It was a chamber hung with yellow silk of a strange kind, and filled with ivory images of elephants and small pagodas. A girl who had been sleeping curled up on some rugs

in one corner sprang to her feet and would have fled swiftly, but Khlit checked her.

She was a child of fourteen, slender and delicate of face with a mass of dark hair that descended over her shoulders. The small, olive face that turned up at the Cossack was frightened. So it was that Khlit met the girl Kerula, child of Mir Turek, whose mother, a Kallmark slave, was dead.

“Eh, little sparrow,” chuckled Khlit, patting the girl’s hair, “I will not hurt you. Tell your master, Mir Turek, the shrewd merchant, that Khlit, called the Wolf, is come to his house.”

He seated himself on the rugs the girl had left. No sooner had he done so than she approached shyly and began to tug at one of his heavy, boots.

“Truly, lord,” she said softly, “when a lord is drunk it is hard to take off his high shoes. Yet I would show honor to the one who comes to buy me. Such is the will of my master, Mir Turek, who can cheat better than any other merchant of Samarkand.”

“In the house of a stranger, little daughter, they must slay me before my boots can be taken off, or my sword from my side.” Khlit threw back his shaggy, white-haired head, with a roar of laughter that startled the girl. “So, I have come to buy you? Nay, devil take it, I have come for some ivory trinkets.”

“I did not know, lord,” the girl drew back and Khlit saw that she was trembling. “Mir Turek said that he would sell me, and that I should comb my hair, for men would come to look at me and feel my limbs. They have never seen my face in the streets of Samarkand, yet Mir Turek told Fogan Ultai, chief of the servants, that I would bring the price of two good horses. Fogan Ultai doubted, and for that Mir Turek beat me. Then Fogan Ultai struck me on the ears to ease his honor—”

A sound of shuffling steps caused the child to break off in alarm. Mir Turek stood before them, scowling.

“Chatterer! Slanderer of your master! Be off to the slaves’ quarters. This is a Cossack lord, not a buyer of slaves, Kerula. Leave us.”

The girl slipped from the room, and a smile replaced the scowl on the merchant’s face as he seated himself by Khlit. The Cossack considered him in silence. He had never seen a man who resembled Mir Turek. The man’s eyes slanted even more than those of a Turkoman; his black hair was straight, instead of curly, and his hands were long and carefully kept. The merchant proffered a cup of wine from an ebony stand, but Khlit shook his head.

“The Turkomans say,” said Khlit grimly, “that when a sword is drawn, no excuse is needed. I have come for the trinkets, not wine.”

“Yet I am no Turkoman,” smiled Mir Turek, and his voice purred. “See, it is written that he who drinks from the cup need have no care. Can you read the words on the cup? The language is like that on your sword.”

“Nay, it looks as if a dog had scratched it,” responded the Cos-sack idly.

He could not read in books, but he was wise in the language of men’s faces and he knew that Mir Turek had more in his mind than he spoke.

“Here is the money, I will take the trinkets.”

He nodded at where the elephants stood on an ebony cabinet, but Mir Turek held up one hand.

“The men of Samarkand are fools—Usbeks—and are fit only to be slaves. The chief of my slaves, Fogan Ultai, has told me that there is a story in the bazaars that you are Khlit, the Cossack who outwitted Tal Taulai Khan, leader of the Golden Horde, and that your sword is as much to be feared as that of Kaidu, the warrior of the Tatars. Truly, I see that you are a man of valor. I have need of such a man.”

“Aye, I am Khlit. Men call me the Wolf. Say what is on your mind, Mir Turek. The short word is best, if it is the truth.”

Mir Turek’s eyes half-closed. Through the narrowed lids they rested on Khlit’s sword.

“Before the star Ortu descends from its zenith,” he said slowly, “I am going from Samarkand to Karakorum, in the land of the

Tatars far to the north. The journey will be over the mountains that these fools call the Roof of the World, past Kashgar, to the Great Desert of Gobi. There is no one in Samarkand who will go with me, yet the journey is not difficult, for my grandfather’s father came over the route from Karakorum to Samarkand.”

“Aye,” said Khlit.

“I need a man who will lead the Turkomans who go with me, as guard,” pursued the other. “There are robbers in the Roof of the World and by the borders of the Great Desert the Tatar tribes fight among themselves, for Tal Taulai Khan is dead and the Jun-gar fight with the Kallmarks and the Boron-gar with both.

“The home of my family is in Altur Haiten, by the mountains of Khantai Khan. But the journey to the North is perilous, and I need a leader of fighting men. I am learned in the knowledge of books and trade, but I cannot wield a sword. The name of Khlit, the Wolf, will protect my caravan.”

“Aye,” said Khlit. Something in his tone caused Mir Turek to glance at him sharply.

“Will you come to Karakorum, lord?” he asked. “Name what price you ask. It will be paid. As a pledge, take, without payment the twin elephants.”

“I will come,” said Khlit, “when your tongue has learned to speak the truth, Mir Turek. Truly, I am not a fool, like these of Samarkand. An Usbek chief could lead your men, and for little pay. My name is not known north of the Roof of the World. Cease these lies, Mir Turek—I like them little.”

The slant eyes of the merchant closed, and he folded his arms into his long sleeves. He was silent for a space as if listening, and as he listened a change came over his face. Khlit heard the sound, too, a low murmur in an adjoining room. Mir Turek got to his feet without noise and vanished in the direction of the sound. Khlit waited watchfully, but in a moment the merchant reappeared, dragging Kerula by the arm. The girl’s brown eyes were filled with tears.

“Busybody! One without honor!” He flung the slender form of the slave girl on the rugs, and planted his slippered toes in her ribs. “Blessed is the day when I can sell you and be bothered no longer by tears. Did I not say the lord was not a buyer of women? Fogan Ultai shall reward you for listening.”

The girl sobbed quietly, rolling over to escape the assault of Mir Turek’s broad feet. Khlit watched in silence. She was the merchant’s property, and he was entitled to do with her as he chose. Still, the sight was not pleasant. Mir Turek continued his imprecations, mingled with promises that Kerula would be sold without fail, on the morrow. Khlit touched the girl’s hair as if admiring its fine texture.

“Harken, Kerula,” he said. “Is there no young Turkoman who looks upon you with favor and who would please you for a master?”

“Nay, lord,” sobbed the girl, withdrawing beyond the merchant’s reach, “why should I like a Turkoman? Without doubt, they are shaggy as mountain sheep.”

“She cannot come to Karakorum,” put in Mir Turek. “The journey through the mountains is too hard, and she would die, without profit to me.”

Khlit regarded his black pipe thoughtfully. It was long since he had seen the fresh face and clear eyes of a child. He reached into his wallet and drew out the coins he had offered for the elephants. These he laid before Mir Turek.

“You have named a price for the girl, Mir Turek,” he said, “the price of two horses. Here it is. I will buy the child.”

The merchant’s slant eyes gleamed at sight of the gold, but he shook his head dubiously.

“I could get a better price in the bazaars. What do you want with the girl, Cossack? She cannot come on the journey.” Khlit’s beard wrinkled in a snarl.

“Take the money for the girl, Mir Turek. I will take Kerula. Nay, she will not come with us, one-without-understanding!” Turning to the slave, Khlit’s tone softened. “Tomorrow, Kerula,

you can beat the back of Fogan Ultai with a stick, for I will watch. Go where you will in Samarkand, for you are free. I have bought you of Mir Turek. And I say to go where you will.”

The girl gazed at him wide-eyed. As if to convince herself she had heard aright she put out her hand and touched the Cossack’s coat. The latter, however, took no more notice of her.

II

Khlit had said that Mir Turek lied. It was then that the merchant told Khlit the true cause of his journey to Karakorum. And this tale was strange, strange beyond belief. It was the fruit of Mir Turek’s reading, and the tale of the Leo Tung astrologer who had gone, with Mir Turek’s grandfather’s father, to the mountains of Khantai Khan, to the tomb of Genghis Khan.

Yet in spite of the strangeness of the tale, Khlit did not say this time that Mir Turek lied. In Khlit’s veins was the blood of the Cossack Tartar folk who had ruled the empire of the steppe and taken treasure from their enemies. He wondered, but did not speak his thoughts.

It was a tale that began with the death of Genghis Khan, called the Master of the Earth, and ended with the death of Mir Turek’s ancestor and the Leo Tung man from the vapor that lay among the trees of Khantai Khan. It was about a treasure such as Khlit had not thought existed in the world, the treasure of Genghis Khan.

There came a time, said Mir Turek, when the Mighty Man-slayer paused in his conquest of the world. The beast Kotwan appeared to Genghis Khan in a vision, and the ruler of the Tatar horde which had subjugated the world from Khorassan to Zipangu, and from Lake Baikal to the furthest city of Persia, re-turned home to die. Genghis Khan was wiser than all other rulers. Knowing that he was dying, he gave orders that peace be made with his worthiest foes, the Chinese of Tangut and Sung, and that his death should not be disclosed. When his body was carried to the tomb in the mountains of Khantai, twenty thousand persons

were slain to keep him company to the shades of the Teneri, among them those who built the tomb. So said the astrologer of Leo Tung. Thus none could say they had seen the spot where the Master of the Earth lay in the grip of the Angel of Death.

Twenty thousand souls accompanied Genghis Khan on his journey to the Teneri, and the treasure, spoils of a thousand cities, was placed in his tomb. This tomb was unmolested by the Tatars, until the coming of Leo Tung, who was a Chinaman and dared to look on the dead face of the leader of the Horde. Leo Tung had found the spot in the forests of Khantai Khan with Mir Turek’s ancestor. They had passed the gate of the Kukukon River; they had passed the Onon Muren; they had seen the starlight gleam on the Bearers of Wealth.

They had seen the treasure of Genghis Khan, said Mir Turek, his eyes gleaming as with fever, but the mists of Khantai Khan had closed around them. Mir Turek did not know just why they had left the tomb. He knew that a great fear came on them and they fled. The Leo Tung man had died very quickly, and the other went from the Khantai Khan region to Samarkand.

Before he died he had told his son the way to the tomb of Genghis Khan. And so the tale had come to Mir Turek. The merchant of Samarkand knew that a change had taken place in the Tatar people. Their power had been broken by the Chinese shortly after the death of Genghis Khan. With the assistance of Khlit, he might enter the tomb and find the treasure of Genghis Khan, Master of the Earth and leader of the Golden Horde.

Aye, said Mir Turek softly, he was a scholar, but he had searched in books for the wealth of Genghis Khan. There was the tale of Chakar Noyon, gylong, which told of the tomb. Chakar Noyon, being a priest, had said that the Onon Muren or spirits of the slain twenty thousand guarded the tomb; that was an idle story. Mir Turek did not believe it.

Nevertheless, when the other had finished, Khlit asked him-self why the fathers of Mir Turek had not sought for the tomb of Genghis Khan. He found the answer in the fever that burned in

the other’s eyes and the restless movements of the white hands. Mir Turek felt in his heart a great fear of what he was to do, and this fear had been his fathers’.

Khlit was not the man to shrink from seizing gold. Even the gold of the tomb of Genghis Khan. Yet, with his desire for gold was mingled delight at the thought of returning to the steppe that had been his home, even in another part of the world.

III

Thus it happened that Khlit began the journey which was to take him over the mountains called the Roof of the World, above Ladak, or Tibet, north of Kashgar, past Issyuk Kul and Son Kul, the twin lakes of the clouds, to the desert of Gobi.

Concerning this journey and its ending there are few who believe the story of Khlit. Yet the Cossack was not the man to say what was not so for love of the telling. And there is the book of Chakar Noyon, to be found in one of the Samarkand mosques, and the annals of the chronicler of Hang-Hi, the great general of the Son of Heaven. Truly, belief is, after all, the fancy of the hearer and only the fool is proud of his ignorance.

When the sun gilded the top of the ruins of Bibi Khanum, the followers of Mir Turek had pitched their felt tents on the slope of Chupan Ata, on the way to the Syr River. Already the heat of the Samarkand valley had been replaced by the cool winds of the mountains and Khlit was glad to don his old sheepskin coat. He looked around with some satisfaction at the camp.

Mir Turek’s following consisted of a dozen Turkomans and Fogan Ultai, master of the slaves. These had placed their tents in a circle beside the donkeys, the pack animals of the expedition.

Khlit’s leadership had already instilled discipline into the sturdy but independent followers. Two stood as sentries near the caravan path. The Turkomans had tried rebellion against the Cossack, and had learned why he was called the Wolf. Fogan Ultai, however, as the servant of Mir Turek, was not under Khlit’s

orders. Twice during the day the leader of the slaves had refused obedience and Mir Turek had upheld him.

Fogan Ultai was a small man, pale in face, with dark hair like his master’s, and the same slant eyes. Khlit did not like the man, who was watchful and silent, speaking occasionally to Mir Turek in a tongue the Cossack did not understand. As long as Fogan Ultai did not interfere with his authority over the Turkomans, Khlit was willing to leave the other in peace.

It was after the evening meal, and Khlit was smoking his pipe in front of the tent he had pitched for himself. He sat with his back to the tent, his sword over his knees, watchful of what went on. In the twilight gloom he could make out the figures of the men throwing dice by a fire.

Suddenly Khlit took his pipe from his mouth. He made no other movement, but his tall figure stiffened to alertness and his keen eyes searched the gloom. A shadow had appeared, slipping from tent to tent, making no sound. And the sentries had not given warning.

The shadow paused in front of him, and Khlit’s hand went to his sword. The form approached him, and a small figure cast itself at his feet. A pair of white hands clasped his boots.

“Lord, you are my master—be merciful,” the voice of Kerula came out of the darkness. “Lord, do not kick me, because I followed after you on a donkey that was lame, so it was not taken with the others, and slipped past the men who are watching. I followed because you would have sent me back if I had come sooner. But my hunger is very great now, and I am cold.”

Khlit reached out his rough hand and took the girl by the shoulder. Kerula’s white face looked up into his. He could feel the girl’s warm breath against his cheek.

“I said you could not come, Kerula,” he replied gruffly. “Why do you seek the hardship of the journey? It is no path for a girl. There are gallants in Samarkand who would buy you flowers and slaves—”

“Nay, lord. I am afraid of the men of Samarkand. I have no master but you, Khlit, lord. The others would bring shame on me, the women say. I will follow after the caravan, truly, on the lame donkey, and you will not know I am there. Perhaps I can prepare your food, or clean the mud from your boots. Do not let them send me to Samarkand.”

Khlit shook his head, and the child gave a soft wail of distress. “The way is too hard,” he said. “The men will give you food, but tomorrow—”

The girl rose from her knees, with bowed head.

“You are my lord, and you send me to the bazaars of Samarkand. I have no home. If you would let me follow, I would sleep with your horse, and bring your wine cups, until we reach the land where Genghis Khan rules. My mother, before she died, told me of the land.”

Khlit raised his head in surprise at the girl’s speech. Before he could answer a shadow appeared beside Kerula, and Fogan Ultai’s soft voice spoke.

“Get back where you came from, Kerula, or your palms will be well whipped! You have heard the word of the Cossack lord. Our master, Mir Turek, would let you off less easily if he knew you were here.”

The master of the slaves caught the child roughly and shook her. She clasped his hand and sank her teeth into it viciously. Fogan Ultai gave a cry of pain. As he lifted his free hand to strike the girl she sprang free defiantly.

“Mir Turek shall know of this, offspring of the low-born,” hissed the servant. “You say you have had no food for a day. Good! You will pray to me for food before you shall leave the camp.”

“Who gave you authority, Fogan Ultai,” said Khlit, “to give orders in the camp? If I say the child shall eat, you will bring her food.”

“I?” Fogan Ultai shivered as if with cold. “I am no slave, and my caste—” he broke off—“nay, I heard you say she was to go, Khlit.”

“I said that the men would give her food. You have keen ears, Fogan Ultai. Since you have come, like a dog at the scent of a carcass, you may bring the food to Kerula. She is hungry.”

“Mir Turek would not allow that to come to pass, Khlit,” the other’s voice was smooth and sibilant. “He knows it is not for such as I to bring food, or for a Cossack to give me orders—”

Fogan Ultai’s speech ended in a strangling gasp. Khlit had risen from his sitting posture, and as he rose his heavy fist crashed into the other’s face. Fogan Ultai lay on the ground, his arms moving slowly, half-stunned. Slowly he got to his feet, staggering. The girl drew in her breath sharply and shrank back.

“Cossack,” Fogan Ultai mumbled, for blood was in his mouth, “the girl is yours and if it is your wish—she shall eat. But a man is a fool who seeks an enemy. Let another bring the food.”

“I said you, Fogan Ultai, not another.”

The attendant was silent for a moment. He felt his injured face tenderly. Khlit waited for the flash of a dagger or the hiss of an imprecation but Fogan Ultai was silent. Surely, Khlit thought, he was a strange man.

“The food shall be brought, Cossack, if it is still your wish. Yet it would be well to say otherwise.”

Receiving no response from Khlit, the man turned and disappeared into the darkness. Khlit turned to the girl roughly, for he knew that he had earned an enemy.

“Sit in my tent, Kerula,” he said shortly. “The wind is cold. After you have eaten, roll yourself in my woolen robe. I shall sleep with my horse.”

The next day saw Kerula mounted on her lame donkey riding behind Khlit and Mir Turek. The latter said nothing concerning the appearance of the girl, and Khlit thought that he had spoken with Fogan Ultai. The difficulty of the way grew, and cold gripped the riders. The Turkoman horses, wrapped in their felt layers, with their high-peaked wooden saddles, seemed indifferent to the change in climate, but the donkeys shivered, and Mir Turek

wrapped himself in a costly fur robe. Khlit saw to it that the girl had a sheepskin cloak that had been carried in the baggage.

The moon which had been bright at the start of the journey had vanished to a circlet of silver, when the riders, under guidance of one of the Turkomans, passed the blue waters of the mountain lakes, Issyuk Kul and Son Kul, and reached the passes of the Thian Shan Hills. Here the Turkoman guide gave up the leadership, but Fogan Ultai declared that he could find his way among the passes with the aid of the merchantman’s maps and the stars.

Khlit, who saw everything as he rode, noted that Mir Turek had fallen silent, and that the merchant spent much time in talk with Fogan Ultai in the yurtas in the evenings. So far, however, the master of the slaves had been content to keep out of Khlit’s way. The Cossack paid no further attention to Fogan Ultai, other than to see to the loading and priming of the brace of Turkish pistols he carried in his belt. These were the only firearms of the expedition.

Mir Turek broke his silence, one day when the sunlight lay on the rock slopes of the mountains without warming the faces of the riders, to speak of Genghis Khan. It was through these passes, said the merchant, that the slaves of the Mighty Manslayer carried the wealth that had been taken from the cities of Damascus and Herat to Karakorum.

The Fever burned in the man’s eyes as he spoke. The wealth of Genghis Khan had been so great that his minister had never counted it. From the four corners of Asia slaves brought it to the Master of the Earth. Genghis Khan had kept a hoard of gold, the book Of Chakar Noyon said, at his palace. One minister had given away jewels to his wives, until Genghis Khan had learned of it, when the minister had cut his own throat to avoid the wrath of the conqueror.

Khlit listened while Mir Turek told of the campaigns of Genghis Khan, and how victories had come to the standard of the Horde, the standard of yaks’ tails that had traveled from Karakorum to Herat.

The merchant halted his words as the advance rider of the party came to them. The Turkoman, who had been some hundred paces in front of Khlit and Mir Turek, brought with him a slender man in a long robe who carried a pack. The man, Khlit saw, was clean-shaven, with the hair of his forehead cut to the skin.

The stranger spoke with Mir Turek, who shook his head to show that he did not understand. At the merchant’s gesture Fogan Ultai rode up and addressed the newcomer. The two fell back among the attendants where Kerula was. But Mir Turek did not resume his conversation. He seemed impatient to halt, when be-fore he had been eager to push on. As his reason, he gave the rising wind which seemed to promise snow. The star Ortu, said Mir Turek, was no longer above them, and they could not count on its protection.

Khlit accordingly called a halt. The felt tents were pitched, the yurta formed. Kerula was accustomed to see to the erecting of the Cossack’s shelter, which was beside her own, and Khlit rode into the twilight to see to the posting of the sentries. Before he returned he saw a strange sight. For the Turkomans on watch had kneeled to the ground and laid their ears against the path.

Khlit brought the men to their feet with a hearty imprecation. The Turkomans were sullen, saying that they listened for signs of approaching danger. What this danger was, they would not say. But one, the less sullen of the two, muttered that danger might be met along the path that could be heard, and could not be seen.

Impatient of the men’s superstition, Khlit returned to his tent where Kerula sat with his evening meal. Around the fire which blazed very brightly, the others of the party were gathered. And Khlit frowned as he watched. The stranger they had met that day stood in front of the fire, throwing grease from a pot upon it.

As the man with the shaven head did this, he read aloud from a small book he held. The words meant nothing to Khlit, but Mir Turek and Fogan Ultai listened intently. Truly, Khlit thought, Mir Turek was a man of double meanings. For the merchant had declared that the newcomer was a beggar. Khlit had never known

a beggar who could read. As he turned this over in his mind, Kerula, who had crept near him spoke.

“Khlit, lord,” she whispered, her eyes bright in the firelight, and all save her eyes covered by the fur cloak for the cold, “last night I dreamed a strange dream. It was that a falcon flew down on my wrist, and it held the sun and a star in its talons. The falcon had flown far, and was weary, but it held the sun. And I was glad.”

“You have many dreams, little sparrow,” smiled Khlit.

When he smiled, the bitterness faded from his hard face. Kerula loved to see him smile. More often of late she had coaxed him to do so.

“Am I a conjuror, to tell you what they mean?”

“Nay, Khlit, lord,” she chattered, “you are too tall and big for a conjuror. See, the man who is reading prayers by the fire is such a one. I heard Fogan Ultai say he was a gylong, servant of the great lamas, and a man of wisdom.”

Fogan Ultai had called the stranger a man of wisdom. Mir Turek had said he was a beggar. One had lied, and Khlit suspected it was Mir Turek.

“Did Fogan Ultai say more than that, Kerula?” he asked carelessly, watching the group by the fire.

“Aye, Khlit, lord. I heard him say to Mir Turek the man was a conjuror. Then he said to the man with the long robe that he was clever, he could conjure the two pistols away from you, and he—Fogan Ultai—would give him a donkey and some gold.”

“Hey, little Kerula, he would have to be a very wise man to do that,” chuckled Khlit. “Are you sure you did not dream that, too?”

“Nay, Khlit, lord,” the girl looked at him strangely, “but I dreamed that we met an evil, two-headed snake, and that you buried it. After that, the snake was no longer evil.”

Khlit said no more, but long after Kerula had crept into her tent, and the group around the fire had scattered, he sat in thought, his curved sword across his knees. What had prompted

the Turkomans to turn sullen and lay their ears to the ground? Why had Mir Turek, who trusted him, lied that evening about the gylong? And why did Fogan Ultai desire his pistols?

IV

In a dream the beast Kotwan, with the head of a horse and a

horn in its forehead, that speaks all languages, came to Genghis

Khan, the Mighty Manslayer. The beast Kotwan spoke as follows:

“It is time for the Master to return to his own land.” Whereupon

Genghis Khan turned homeward. And when he reached his home

he died. From the Book of Chakar Noyon

Concerning the events that came to pass when the party of Mir Turek crossed the desert of Gobi, Khlit is the only one who will tell. It is true that the narrative of the Hang-Hi chronicler mentions the sights and sounds which Khlit and Kerula heard in the night. But the Chinese historian ascribes the sounds to wind in the sand and the imagination of the Tatar travelers whose minds were filled with stories of Genghis Khan. Fools, said the Chinaman, walk unreflecting. Yet Khlit was not the man to be led astray by sounds that he imagined.

As for Kerula, Khlit found that the girl’s tongue was eager to repeat stories of Genghis Khan that she heard from Mir Turek. The child had listened while the scholar read from his books. The books were all she knew, and so she supposed that Genghis Khan and his Tatar Horde were still alive, and might be met with on the sands of the Great Desert.

Khlit humored her in her fancies, and smiled at the dreams she repeated. He knew that the “dreams” of Kerula were her way of telling things that she thought he might not believe. The Cossack did not laugh at the girl for her fancies, because he was always ready to hear more of Genghis Khan, a conqueror more powerful than any Khlit had known. Even Tal Taulai Khan seemed a mirza beside the figure of the man who was called the Mighty Manslayer.

Mir Turek had ceased to talk with Khlit concerning their journey and the tomb in the forest of Khantai Khan. The merchant and Fogan Ultai rode with the gylong. Neither interfered with his leadership, which was all Khlit asked. He was aware that since the coming of the gylong, a change had taken place in the party. The Turkomans became more sullen and had to be driven forward. And Mir Turek grew silent, seemingly waiting for some-thing. Khlit took care to keep Kerula with him as much as possible. He had heard the Turkomans talking about her.

“Fogan Ultai says,” he had heard them say, “that the girl Kerula has the ears of a skunk and the eyes of an ermine.”

When the party descended the slope of the Thian Shan Hills and entered the desert, the Turkomans murmured further. This was natural, however, in face of the difficulties in front of them.

The desert, the first that Khlit had seen, was an ocean of sand, with wind ridges and gullies. In order to keep to a straight course by the sun, it was necessary to cut across the ridges, which varied from eight to some twenty feet in height. There were few springs to be met with, and the party was forced to keep an outlook for the coming of wind, which meant a halt and hurried preparation against sandstorms.

Although the country was new to Khlit, he did not give up his leadership of the party. On the advice of the gylong, Khlit exchanged their donkeys at a village on the edge of the desert for a smaller number of camels. He kept his own horse, but the others gave up theirs. Thus the gylong gained a camel for his donkey.

After a rest at the village, Khlit ordered an advance into the desert, when the moon was again full. Mir Turek was content, as the star he regarded as his protection was now high in the heavens. Khlit rode at the rear of the little caravan where he could watch the Turkomans and where there was no one at his back.

The party had gone far into the desert and the Thian Shan summits had vanished on the horizon when the first of the strange events came to pass.

Khlit had been sleeping soundly in his felt tent when he was awakened by Kerula crawling through the flap in early daylight. The girl’s hair hung loose around her face, and Khlit saw that her eyes were wide and fixed. He had grasped his sword when the flaps of the tent moved, but now he released it, and sat up, wide awake on the instant. The girl crept close to him, shivering, yet it was not from cold of the night.

“I am frightened, Khlit, lord,” she whispered. “For I have had a dream in the night. It was that an animal crawled around my tent, crying my name. I heard it sniffing, and clawing at the tent. How could an animal call my name? I am afraid.”

“A dream will not hurt you, little sparrow,” answered Khlit cheerfully. “And the sun has come up to chase it away.” The girl however, did not smile.

“When I came from my tent,” she said softly, “I saw the marks of the beast. It had gone away. But how could it speak? I heard it calling, calling ‘Kerula.’ Animals cannot speak, can they, unless—”

Khlit, to distract her, bade her gruffly prepare his morning meal. Later, however, when he left his shelter he took care to look at the ground around Kerula’s tent, which was beside his. He saw that there were actually marks on the ground.

Carefully, Khlit scanned them. They were marks of hoofs, and ran completely around the tent, clearly visible in the sand. When he tried to follow them away from the place he lost them in the tracks of the party. The hoof-marks, he saw, were smaller than those of a horse. He had heard that there were antelopes in the desert. Yet the tracks were larger than antelope hoofs. He said nothing of what he had seen to the girl.

The day’s journey was short, and Mir Turek halted early, fearing a sandstorm, for the sun had gone behind clouds. The Turkomans gathered about the fire at dusk, and Khlit was obliged to

drive one from the yurta to watch from a sand ridge. For his own satisfaction he placed a pointed stake firmly in the ground by his tent, indicating the direction they were to take in the morning. He had learned by experience that the ridges were often changed in appearance overnight.

As he sat over his evening meal with Kerula pensive beside him, the figure of Fogan Ultai detached itself from the group by the fire and approached him.

“Health to you, Khlit,” said the master of the slaves with a bow. “The Turkomans have asked that I come as spokesman. It is not well to force a man to do what his habits forbid. They are murmuring against standing sentry during the night. The Turkomans have heard stories of the desert in the village we left. They think evil things may come to the sentries. You and I are wise— we know they are fools. Still, it is best to let a man do as he is accustomed.”

“Does a sheep hide his head when the tiger hunts, Fogan Ultai?” said Khlit. “Shall the camp be blind during the night when there may be danger? Nay, a beast came last night and passed around Kerula’s shelter.”

Fogan Ultai shook his head, smiling.

“There are no beasts in the desert, Khlit. The evils the Turkomans fear are not to be seen. Let them sleep in their tents. It is not well,” the man’s voice dropped, “to tie the knot of hatred.”

“Then, Fogan Ultai, you and I are wise. We do not fear the stories of evil. We two will watch, each taking half the night.”

For a long moment Fogan Ultai’s slant eyes gleamed into Khlit’s. Then he turned away indifferently.

“Let the Turkomans stand watch. They are low-born.”

Yet the Turkomans could not have watched well that night. Before dawn Kerula burst into Khlit’s shelter and clung to him sobbing. The same animal, she said, had come close to her tent. She had not been asleep this time, and she had heard its claws on the felt. Its breath had smelled of musk, so strong that it sickened her.

When the beast had been on the other side of the tent, the girl had slipped out on the side nearest Khlit and had dashed into his shelter. She was shaken with sobs, pressing her hands against her face.

“It is the beast, Kotwan,” she sobbed. “He has come to take me with him. Oh, do not let him take me, Khlit, lord. I am afraid of Kotwan, who smells of musk. He called my name and he wants me to follow him to the shades of the Teneri, up into the air over the desert.”

Khlit tried to quiet the girl, saying that he heard nothing, but when he made a move to leave the shelter, she clung to him tearfully. It was long before she dropped off to sleep, wrapped in some of his furs. Khlit listened, without moving for fear of disturbing her, and heard nothing more. Yet he fancied that an odor of musk filled the shelter.

V

The next day the girl had recovered somewhat from her fright. She refused to leave Khlit’s side during the march over the shifting sands. Sleep overtook her at times on the camel, and she swayed in cords that kept her in place. Each time this happened, she awoke with a start, and cried out for Khlit.

The Cossack did not like the look in the girl’s face. She was pale and the lack of sleep added to the fatigue of the journey was beginning to tell on her. Khlit did not mention her experience of the night, for he found that she believed the strange beast Kotwan had come to her tent. The girl’s brain was filled with idle fancies. His heart was heavy, however, at the look of dread in her eyes, for Kerula had endeared herself to him, as much as another person could win the affection of a man who counted his enemies by the thousand, and thirsted for fighting.

That night Kerula begged to be allowed to sleep in his tent, but the Cossack sternly ordered her to her own, and she went reluctantly. Contrary to his custom, he did not post a sentry, but

retired early to his shelter, and his snores soon kept accompaniment to the monotonous reading of the gylong by the fire.

Before midnight, however, when the camp was quiet, Khlit’s snores ceased. The flap of his tent was lifted cautiously and the Cossack crawled out on all fours. Noiselessly he made his way from his tent to the edge of the camp.

The yurta had been placed in a gully. Khlit, surveying his surroundings in the starlight, saw that the camels and the Turkoman shelters were some paces distant from the tents of the leaders.

Crawling down the gully, Khlit sought a depression where he could see the tent of Kerula against the skyline, within bow-shot. He scooped out a seat for himself in the sand, with his back against the wind. Drawing his sheepskin svitza close about him, for the night was cold, he settled himself to watch, denying him-self the comfort of a pipe. If an animal visited the tents between then and dawn, he was determined to have a look at it.

Khlit did not attach significance to the fears of the girl about the mythical animal she called Kotwan. He had seen, however, the tracks around the tent which were too large for an antelope, and he had caught the scent of musk, which Kerula declared came from the visitant of the night. No animal that Khlit knew smelled of musk, and had sharp hoofs. As far as he knew Fogan Ultai was right when he said there were no beasts in the desert, for the party had not met any since leaving the foothills of the Thian Shan. Wherefore Khlit was curious.

The Cossack was accustomed to watching, and he did not nod as he sat in the sand depression, with his scrutiny fixed on the horizon near the tents. The stars gleamed at him, and an occasional puff of wind stirred the sand about him. He must have watched for some hours, and the stars were not paler when he sat erect, gazing closely at the tents.

Something had moved near Kerula’s shelter. The light was in-distinct and Khlit could not make it out. He had heard nothing. Presently he felt that the thing was moving away from the tent and nearer him.

Khlit softly removed one of the pistols from his belt and got to his knees. Crouching low over the sand he could make out a dark object passing across the stars moving down the gully toward him. For the first time he heard a sound, a low hiss that he could not place. Then Khlit stiffened alertly. The wind had brought him the odor of musk. The scent clung to his nostrils and ascended to his brain. He felt the hair at the back of his neck stir, and a chill puff of wind sent tingles down his spine.

The black object was within a few paces, and he saw that it was something moving on all fours. Carefully he leveled the pistol, taking the best aim he could in the dark.

And then Khlit let the pistol fall to his side. The odor of musk that came to him so strongly was surely from the windward side. Yet the dark object came toward him from the yurta which was away from the wind. Khlit drew a deep breath and his eyes strained toward the moving form. His heart gave a leap as he recognized it. It was Kerula, moving over the sand on her hands and knees.

The child had crept from her tent out into the night that she feared. He could hear her labored breathing as she passed him slowly. The scent of musk could not have come from the girl. It had come from the windward side. Khlit turned quickly and searched the darkness with anxious glance.

On the further side of the gully, some distance in front of the girl, was a larger object, defined against the sand. It moved in the same direction, away from the camp. Khlit heard a hissing sound come from it, and understood why he had smelled the musk. Watching the girl, he had not seen the other thing pass him. He made it out as an animal of powerful build, with horns, that seemed to drag its hind legs.

Quickly Khlit raised his pistol. Sighting it at the beast’s head he pulled the trigger. The weapon clicked dully and he thrust it into his belt with a curse. The sand must have choked its flint and powder.

With a hasty glance at the moving forms, Khlit rose to his feet. Bending low, he trotted over the sand ridge at his side into the gully that ran beside the one he had been in. For some distance he ran, following the winding of the gully.

Fearful of losing trace of the girl and the animal, he turned back to the ridge, to find that he was running through an opening into the other gully. His heavy boots made no sound in the sand, and Khlit did not see that he was heading straight for the creeping animal until he heard a sharp hiss, and saw the object rise up before him.

He caught a brief glimpse of horns and long ears outlined against the sky, and felt a hot breath on his face. His hand leaped to his sword, and the curved blade was pulled from its sheath.

As Khlit’s arm swept upward with the sword, it moved out-ward.

The blade struck the beast where it was aimed, under the head. Khlit saw it stagger back and slashed it twice across the head as it fell to the sand. Moving back from the struggling object he called to the girl.

“Kerula! Here is Khlit, do not be afraid.”

A moment more and Kerula was beside him, clinging to his coat, her head buried in his sleeve.

“It was the beast Kotwan,” she cried, “calling me outside my tent. I heard it calling me and I came. Oh, it smelled of musk, and it kept calling. My legs would not hold me up and I crawled— where is the beast Kotwan?”

“Nay, little Kerula,” laughed Khlit, “the beast Kotwan is a strange beast. But it will not come for you again. See!”

Drawing the girl after him, the Cossack stepped to the side of the dark object on the sand. He felt of it cautiously. It did not move. And when Khlit drew up his hand it held a beast’s hide and horns. The hide seemed to be that of an antelope. The girl had bent over the figure that lay at their feet, fearfully. She tugged at Khlit’s arm excitedly.

“Khlit, lord,” she whispered, “it is the gylong. You have slain the gylong.”

“Aye,” said Khlit shortly. “The conjuror will conjure no more. I thought it was a strange animal that stood up on two legs when it saw you.”

He felt in the sand and lifted two objects. One was a pony’s hoof, cut off above the fetlock and dried. The other was a long dagger. He showed them to the girl.

“There is Kotwan’s hoof, little Kerula. And the hide stinks of musk.”

Khlit said nothing to Kerula, but he remembered the words of Fogan Ultai, and he guessed it was not wantonness, but the promise of a reward that had led the conjuror to terrify the girl and lure her into the desert. Also he began to understand why Fogan Ultai had coveted his pistols. Yet much was not clear to Khlit. He knew that Fogan Ultai hated Kerula, because Khlit had made him demean himself in bringing her food. Still, this did not seem a sufficient reason for the girl’s death.

Khlit’s detour into the other gullies had confused him as to the direction of the camp. Unwilling to run the risk of going further from the yurta trying to find it, he took the girl a short distance from the dead man and sat down to wait for dawn, sheltering her with his svitza. Kerula, relieved of her fear, soon became sleepy

“How is it, Kerula,” he asked thoughtfully, “that this fellow Fogan Ultai is so trusted by Mir Turek? Hey, your father fears him—as he feared the gylong.”

“I do not know, Khlit, lord,” Kerula responded sleepily. “Mir Turek will not give orders to Fogan Ultai. When the master of the slaves came to Samarkand he showed Mir Turek a gold disk he wore. They thought I was sleeping but I looked out at them, and the gold disk was made like a sun, with rays, with writing in the center. That was not long ago—and soon Mir Turek began to speak of the tomb of Genghis Khan to himself when he read the books.”

The voice of the girl trailed off and she was soon sleeping. Khlit waited patiently for dawn. The stars had begun to fade and the fresh wind sprang up.

Khlit’s thoughts were busy and he was not aware that he slept. Surely, he felt the wind on his face and heard the girl’s calm breathing. They were sitting near the top of one of the ridges, and he could make out the nearest waves of sand.

The moon was high above him, and there was a faint line of scarlet to the east. No, Khlit could not have been asleep. He did not remember dozing, nor did he waken. And yet, as a mist comes from the mountains, the mystery of the desert of Gobi came from the dark wastes of sand and gathered around the Cossack, the girl, and the still figure that had been the gylong.

It came without warning, and gradually. Khlit thought at first that the camels were stirring. He listened and he heard the wave of sound come from the east and close around him. This time he did not feel the fear that had gripped him for a space when he saw the strange beast in the dark.

Awe came upon Khlit as he listened. He strained his eyes, yet he could see nothing. With the wind the sounds swelled, and swept over him. Khlit marveled, as he listened, not moving. And something deep in him stirred at the sounds. He felt a swift exultation that rose with the sounds and left him when they had gone.

Out of the desert came the murmur of many horses’ feet in the sand—the feet of thousands of horses that galloped with a clashing of harness. Surely, there were riders on the horses, for a chant rose from the sands, from thousands of throats, a low, wild chant that gripped Khlit’s heart.

Came the creak of laden carts from the darkness. Carts that were drawn by oxen laboring under the kang. With them sounded the pad-pad of camels’ feet. The chant of the riders died and swelled. When it swelled, it drowned the other sounds.

With it echoed the clash of arms, myriad of scabbards beating against the sides of horses. Another sound that Khlit knew was

the flapping of standards came to his ears. In the darkness beside him a cavalcade was passing. No cavalcade, a host of mounted warriors. The chant was the song of the warriors and Khlit’s throat trembled to answer it.

Mingling with the chant came a heavy tread that was strange to Khlit. The sands trembled under the tread. The sound neared Khlit and passed, not by him but over him. This was no tread of horses.

Khlit peered into the darkness, but the sand ridges were desolate. The stars were not obscured, and the line of crimson grew in the east. Louder swelled the chant of the horsemen, and the heavy tread of giant feet.

The clash of cymbals echoed faintly and with it the sound of distant trumpets. Then came the sound of a mighty trumpeting, not of horns, but of animals. The trumpeting drowned the chant of the riders. It ceased and silence descended suddenly on the desert.

Kerula stirred in his arms, and Khlit stood up to look ever the sand ocean.

“Nay, Khlit, lord,” the girl whispered, “you will not see them. I am not asleep. I am awake, and I heard it also. The passing of the tumans, with their standards of yaks’ tails. I heard the wagons, and their oxen. And the creaking of the leather castles and the Bearers of Wealth. It was just as Mir Turek told me it would be. The chant of the mounted men was loudest of all, until the Bearers of Wealth gave the greeting of Dawn to the Master of the Earth.”

Khlit rubbed his hand across his forehead and gazed at the dead

gylong.

“I heard some sounds as of horsemen passing. . .” he began doubtfully.

“Aye, Khlit, lord. It was the army of Genghis Khan crossing the desert.”

Then Khlit wondered if he had truly slept. The chant of the riders was still in his ears. But the rising sun showed the sands empty, and the camp at a little distance.

“Nay, little Kerula,” he said finally, “you have dreamed an-other dream.”

Yet when Khlit and Kerula returned to the yurta, they found only Mir Turek and Fogan Ultai with three camels. The Turkomans had gone, late in the night with the greater number of camels and most of the food. Fogan Ultai said that he had not been able to stop them, for they had heard sounds in the desert, and they were afraid.

VI

If a man despoils the tomb of a wise and just ruler he loses his

virtue. Evil follows him and his sons. He is like a sal tree with a

creeper o’ergrown. Yen Lui Kiang, chronicler of Hang-Hi

It was the beginning of Winter when Mir Turek and his companions left the desert of Gobi and reached a small village of mud huts to the north in the Tatar country of Karakorum, near the mountains of Khantai Khan.

The desert had taken its toll from the travelers. The Turkomans had not been seen after their departure. The gylong lay where he had fallen, covered by the shifting sands. Mir Turek believed the conjuror had gone with the attendants. Fogan Ultai said nothing, and Khlit wondered what the master of the slaves knew of the death of the gylong. Fogan Ultai had an uncanny way of getting information for himself. Before the party reached the village, the master of the slaves joined them with the tidings that all the surrounding country had been vacated by the Tatars.

From a herdsman, he said, he had learned that the Tatars were gathered within the walls of Altur Haiten where they had been besieged by the Chinese for a year. Altur Haiten was one of the strongholds of Tatary, to which the retreating hordes had been driven by Hang-Hi, the general of Wan Li, Emperor of China.

Thus Mir Turek’s prophecy that they would find the way to the mountains of Khantai Khan clear, was verified. Yet Khlit, wearied by the months of hardship in the desert, saw that if the way was clear, it was also barren of food and the supplies they needed.

They had come from the desert on the two surviving camels. Kerula and the remaining stock of grain and dates had been placed on the stronger of the beasts, and the three men took turns in riding the other. Khlit saw to it that Mir Turek and Fogan Ultai never rode on the other camel together. Since the affair of the gylong he had been wary of the two. Yet he had noticed two things.

One—Mir Turek feared Fogan Ultai more than at the start of the expedition. Two—Mir Turek was unwilling to part with Khlit, owing for some reason to his ownership of the curved sword. This, Kerula had told him, and Khlit had asked the girl if she could read the lettering on the sword. She could not do so, as the inscription was neither Chinese nor Usbek Tatar.

The girl had borne the journey bravely, yet she was very weak when they came to the village of mud huts. She was disappointed, too, because she had imagined that when they neared Karakorum they would find the Tatar country alive and flourishing as it had been in the days of Genghis Khan. Truly, thought Khlit, this was strange; for Kerula had learned of the old Tatars from Mir Turek, and she believed she lived in the land of the Master of the Earth. Khlit placed her in one of the mud huts of the empty village, and gave her fruit and water that he found near by.

He would not have left the girl if it had not been for Mir Turek. The merchant had been in a fever of excitement since he saw the summits of Khantai Khan. His fat figure was wasted by hardships, and his frame was hot with fever. He would not rest until he had left the girl with Fogan Ultai and set out with Khlit and the two camels for the mountains.

“The girl will be safe, Khlit,” he declared, “for Fogan Ultai cannot leave the village without the camels. Come, we will go to the Kukulon gate, and the tomb of Genghis Khan while the way is open.”

Khlit went reluctantly. He did not like to leave the girl with Fogan Ultai in the village. He liked even less the deserted appearance of the country. He knew what Mir Turek chose to forget, that they were at the end of their supplies, and must have food.

Yet he was not less eager than Mir Turek to go to the tomb of Genghis Khan. They were near a treasure which Mir Turek said was without equal in the world. Khlit had seen the treasure of the Turks, but he knew this would be greater, for the Tatars had despoiled the cities of the Turks. Lust of the gold gripped him.

The two set out at daybreak in the absence of Fogan Ultai and rode toward the mountains at the best pace of the camels. And as the slopes of Khantai Khan rose above them, Mir Turek’s fever grew on him. He fastened his slant eyes greedily on the hills, and when they came in sight of a blue sheet of water, he gave a hoarse cry of triumph.

“The Lake Kukulon,” he whispered. “The books told the truth. A river runs to the lake from the mountains. Aye, here we will find the Kukulon gate where my ancestor saw the Onon Muren.”

But Khlit looked beyond the lake, and saw that where a river made its way down the slopes, the earth was a yellow and grayish color. He saw for the first time the forest of Khantai Khan. The trees, instead of the green verdure of pine and the brown foliage of oak, were bare of leaves. The forest of Khantai Khan was a dead forest. And Khlit’s forebodings grew on him as he urged his camel after Mir Turek.

VII

Mir Turek skirted the edge of the lake, which was small, and followed an invisible path through the foothills, evidently finding his way by the instructions he had received from the man who had been there before. He headed toward a ravine that formed the valley between two crests of Khantai Khan. In this valley he could catch glimpses of the River Kukulon.

The merchant was gripped by the fever of gold. But Khlit kept his presence of mind, and watched carefully where they went. The Cossack was not superstitious; still, what he saw gave him

misgivings. The ground they passed over was a dull gray in color, and the trees seemed withered as if by flames. The camels went ahead unwillingly. If he had been alone, Khlit might have gone no further. It was not fear of the mythical Onon Muren that op-pressed him, or the fate of the others who had preceded them. A warning instinct, bred of the dead forests, held him back.

At the edge of the River Kukulon they dismounted from the camels, fastening the beasts to a blasted tree trunk, and went for-ward on foot, Mir Turek keeping to the bank of the stream which now descended from the gorge in the valley. Mir Turek went more slowly, scanning his surroundings, especially the river. The din of the waters drowned conversation, but the merchant signified by a gesture that he was sure of the way. Above them the gorge changed to a rocky ravine, down which the Kukulon boiled, a succession of waterfalls and pools.

The sun was at its highest point when Khlit saw the first sign of what had struck the attention of their predecessors. He halted above a large pool and caught Mir Turek’s shoulder, pointing down into the blue water. The sun struck through to the bottom of the pool.

Among the rocks which formed the bottom Khlit had made out a series of white objects. Round, and white, polished by the water and gravel, he saw dozens of human skulls, and the tracework of skeletons.

“Hey, Mir Turek,” he shouted grimly, “here are the Onon Muren come to greet us. Did your ancestor say we would see them?”

The merchant gazed down into the pool, and stared at the skulls with watery eyes.

“Aye, Khlit,” he cried, “these are the Onon Muren. Did not the books say that twenty thousand had been slain at the tomb? It is proof we are on the right path.”

“That may be, Mir Turek,” replied Khlit without stirring, “yet the books said the Onon Muren guarded the tomb. Are they not a warning to go back?”

Mir Turek laughed eagerly, but his hand was shaking as he pointed up the gorge.

“There is the Kukulon gate,” he cried. “You and I are wise, Khlit. We do not fear the bones of dead men. The star Ortu is again high in its orbit, and you, Cossack, have the curved sword of—”

He broke off, and stumbled forward, raising a gray cloud of dust that choked Khlit. The latter followed, muttering. The curved sword, he grumbled, would not cut the throats of spirits. Why did Mir Turek remind him so often of his sword? Khlit wondered why there were no bones visible on the ground. He thought that they had been covered by the gray dust. In that, Khlit was right. Yet with all his wise knowledge, he did not guess the name of the gray dust. If he had done so, he would not have followed Mir Turek further.

Khlit saw no gate, yet when they reached a pool larger than the others, at the bottom of a waterfall that fell between two pinnacles of rock, Mir Turek declared that they had come to the Kukulon gate.

Here Khlit made his last protest, as Mir Turek informed him that the gate was not to be seen. It lay, the merchant said, behind the waterfall, under the column of water. Khlit pointed to the skulls which gleamed at them again from the pool.

“In Samarkand,” he said, “I swore that I would go with you, Mir Turek, to the tomb of Genghis Khan. If you go, I will go also. Yet I heard strange things in the desert of Gobi. The forest of Khantai Khan is not to my liking. I have a foreboding, Mir Turek. Men call me Wolf not because I have the courage of a fool. It would be well to turn back here.”

Mir Turek thrust his lined face close to Khlit, and his smooth lips curled in a snarl, as of an animal that finds itself at bay.

“Do men truly call you Wolf, Khlit, or are you a jackal that whimpers at danger?”

“Nay, Mir Turek,” said Khlit angrily, “you are a fool not to know fear from wisdom. Come!”

With this the Cossack jumped waist-deep into the pool. His heavy boots slipping and sliding over the skulls on the rocks, he crouched low and made his way along the rock at the rear of the waterfall. The force of the current carried the stream a yard out from the rock and Khlit was able to advance under the fall. Keeping his footing, with difficulty he pressed forward in the semidarkness of the place.

He was wet through with the spray which rose from the rocks. Feeling the rock’s surface carefully, he found that at a point it gave way. He could see a dark fissure where the rocks divided to the height of a man. Planting his feet cautiously he turned into the opening. For several yards he made his way forward until free of the spray from the waterfall.

“We are in the caverns now,” the voice of Mir Turek echoed in his ear excitedly. “The books said that those who built the tomb changed the course of the Kukulon to cover the gate.”

The gate of Kukulon! Beyond it lay the treasure of Genghis Khan. Mir Turek had spoken truly, Khlit thought as he sniffed the damp air of the cavern. And as he did so Khlit smelled danger as a hound smells a fox. A thin, strong odor came to him, not from the river but from the cavern. Was it dust from the gray earth?

“See,” repeated Mir Turek, “there is the place where the sun comes in. The cavern leads to there. Come.”

As Mir Turek ran stumbling ahead Khlit saw for the first time a circle of gray light, at some distance. Toward this the other headed, as fast as his weakened legs could carry him. The footing seemed smooth, as though prepared by men. As the gray light grew stronger Khlit saw that the cavern was littered with rusted arms and Tatar helmets. Here and there the skulls of the Onon Muren lay. Strange, thought Khlit, that the Tatars had been slain at the threshold of the tomb of Genghis Khan.

When he caught up with Mir Turek the other was standing at the end of the cavern, looking down into a chasm. Khlit glanced up and saw that the illumination was daylight, coming from an

opening in the roof of the chasm. The opening was round, and as far as he could see, the chasm was round, descending straight into the heart of the mountain.

They stood at the entrance of the tunnel. The path, however, did not end here. A bridge of rock stretched across to the further side of the chasm. It was narrow and rose slightly, like a bent bow. Surely, thought Khlit, the hands of men had made this. He smelled the strange odor more strongly.

He saw also why the light was dimmed. Up from the chasm thin streams of vapor rose, twining around the rock bridge. These streams of vapor did not eddy, as there was no wind. They wound upward in dense columns through which the further side of the gorge could be seen.

Mir Turek caught his arm and pointed to the further side.

“The Bearers of Wealth!” he screamed. “See, the Bearers of Wealth, and their burden. The tomb of Genghis Khan. We have found the tomb of Genghis Khan!”

The shout echoed wildly up the cavern, and Khlit thought that he heard a rumbling in the depths of the cavern in answer. He looked where Mir Turek pointed. At first he saw only the veil of smoke. Then he made out a plateau of rock jutting out from the further side. On this plateau, abreast of them, and at the other end of the rock bridge gigantic shapes loomed through the vapor. Twin forms of mammoth size reared themselves, and Khlit thought that they moved, with the movement of the vapor. These forms were not men but beasts that stood side by side. Between them they supported a square object which hung as if suspended in the air.

As he looked he saw that the twin shapes did not move— that it was the smoke which had deceived him. They faced him, tranquil and monstrous, and Khlit’s heart quivered at the sight. He had seen similar beasts once before. His mind leaped back to the bazaars of Samarkand. Of giant size, the twin forms across the chasm were like the two elephants he had sought to buy from Mir Turek.

“The Bearers of Wealth!” chanted the merchant, stretching out both hands. “The golden elephants. All the treasure of Genghis Khan is melted into the Bearers of Wealth. So the books said and they did not lie. Akh, the star Ortu is truly a blessed omen. The followers of the dead Genghis Khan brought the treasure into the caverns of Khantai Khan. There they molded it into the elephant-forms and hung the casket of Genghis Khan between them. Yet none left the mountain alive.”

Khlit stared across the chasm in wonder. If the forms of the Bearers of Wealth were gold, there must be tons of it. Even if jewels were not melted in the gold, the wealth was beyond measure. Lust of the gold surged over him, and at the same time another feeling.

Far below him the rumbling sounded in the mountain, and brought a fleeting thought of the rumbling he had heard on the desert of Gobi—the tread of the Bearers of Wealth. For the second time a sense of coming danger gripped him. Nothing moved in the chasm, and the rumbling might well be stones dropping in the depths. Khlit peered down and could not see the bottom.

“Aye,” he said grimly, “it is the tomb of a hero.”

As he spoke he caught the scent of the vapors and staggered back. “The wealth of Genghis Khan,” screamed Mir Turek, trembling. “I have found it and it is mine. Blessings to the Teneri and the great Buddha!”

With that he started across the rock bridge. Khlit ran after him.

The rumblings echoed in the depths below them, and the vapors twined around the form of Mir Turek. Khlit felt them close around him, with a warm touch. Mir Turek stumbled and threw up his arms with a choking cry.

“Akh! Akh! The Onon Muren—at my throat—”

Khlit leaped forward, dizzy with the stifling vapors. He caught Mir Turek as the merchant was falling to the rock bridge. For an instant both were poised over the side of the bridge, halfway across to the tomb of Genghis Khan.

With all the force of his powerful muscles, Khlit dragged Mir Turek back, and hauled the senseless form of the other to safety in the cavern where they had stood a moment before. His head was swimming and his throat burned with the touch of the vapors. He sat down on a rock near the suffering Mir Turek and tore open the fastenings of his coat, at the throat. It was many moments before his head cleared and he was able to see the gray forms of the Wealth Bearers across the chasm.

Truly, thought Khlit, the Onon Muren watched over the tomb of Genghis Khan. And those who invaded the tomb must have earned the wrath of the Onon Muren.

As soon as his strength had returned, Khlit lifted the form of the merchant to his shoulder and made his way back to the Kukulon gate, under the waterfall, to the hills of Khantai Khan.

VIII

Mir Turek had partly recovered when the two reached the village that night, but he was weak, and badly shaken by the experience in the chasm of the Wealth-Bearers. They found however, that food was running low, and Khlit was anxious that Kerula should have medicines, for the girl was still suffering from her trip across the desert. She greeted Khlit joyfully, however, as he descended stiffly from his camel.

“Fogan Ultai has returned, Khlit, lord,” she said, “and he has a plan. He has been to the edge of the Chinese camp around Altur Haiten, and he says that we can get to the city at night. The Tatars come through the Chinese lines. Then we can see the great Tatar warriors who are fighting there, and we can get plenty of food in the city.”

Khlit considered this.

“Aye,” he said, “it might be done. Yet you had better stay here with Mir Turek, Kerula.”

“Nay, I would be frightened!” she exclaimed quickly. “Fogan Ultai says we can all go. And I do not want to be away from you, my lord, with the curved sword that every one fears. I dreamed

last night that the two-headed snake you met and buried was not really buried, but it pursued me.”

So it happened that when Mir Turek had recovered strength sufficiently, the four went with the camels to the outskirts of the Chinese camp, waiting there until darkness permitted a passage to the city. Khlit had agreed to this, after talking with Fogan Ultai. He did not trust the master of the slaves, who was sullen because Khlit and Mir Turek had gone to the mountains of Khantai Khan without him, yet he calculated that where his own safety was at stake, Fogan Ultai would act with them. The country around was stripped of provisions by the cavalry of the Chinese, and Fogan Ultai had promised that he knew a way to the city.

Mir Turek was eager to gain Altur Haiten, being shaken by his trip to the tomb of Genghis Khan. The merchant remained feverish, talking to himself often and startled by the slightest sound. While the party were waiting for darkness at the edge of a wood within sight of the tents and pavilions of the Chinese camp and the brown walls of the besieged city, Mir Turek laid a cloth on the ground and prayed earnestly. Kerula was in high spirits.

“Now we shall see the men of Genghis Khan,” she sang, “the men of the Golden Horde. They will welcome us because Mir Turek is a man of wisdom and Khlit, lord, is a chieftain.”

So Khlit went to the Chinese camp, not suspecting. With Kerula’s hand in his he followed Fogan Ultai. In the darkness they followed ravines, keeping clear of the campfires. Seldom had Khlit, the Wolf, been trapped. Yet how should he suspect?

He heard Mir Turek murmuring prayers behind him, and turned to curse the merchant, with Kerula’s hand still in his. For an instant the strange words of the other caused him suspicion. What language was the merchant speaking? Why had Mir Turek been so curious about his sword? And why had he given up thought of the treasure of Genghis Khan? The suspicion came too late.

They were threading a ravine within bowshot of the Chinese sentinels. Suddenly Khlit heard a quick cry from Kerula. His hand

went to his sword. But the same instant a heavy blow fell across the back of his neck.

Khlit sank to his knees. Before he could rise, hands closed on him. The darkness seemed to give birth to forms that sprang at him. His arms were pinned, and bound to his sides. A cloth was thrown over his head, and he was picked up bodily by many men and borne off.

IX

One evening, early in the Winter which marked the first year of the siege of Altur Haiten, as related by Yen Kui Kiang, chronicler of Hang-Hi, the general of the imperial forces sat in the Hall of Judgment in his pavilion. The pavilion was distant from the walls of Altur Haiten, but the sound of the cannon and the roar of flame could be heard distinctly.

Hang-Hi, mandarin of a high order, master of literature and favorite general of Wan Li, Son of Heaven, had been listening to Yen Kui Kiang, in company with his councilors and mandarins of the tribunal of ceremonies, as the chronicler read from the books of Confucius. Always, said Yen Kui Kiang, in his chronicles, Hang-Hi listened to words of the great Confucius before undertaking to judge cases that came to him for trial, in order that his mind might be open and just.

The man who commanded a Chinese army to the number of two hundred thousand was tall, with a portly figure, imposing in his robe of blue and gold silk embroidered with a miniature dragon and the likeness of Kwan-Ti, god of war. His eyes were dark and brilliant, and his arms crossed on his breast were the arms of a wrestler.

The ebony and lacquer Hall of Judgment was occupied only by Hang-Hi’s advisors and lieutenants, seated in order of rank on each side of the carpet that ran up the center of the hall to the dais on which the viceroy of the Son of Heaven sat.

At Hang-Hi’s side sat Chan Kieh Shi, old and wizened, a veteran of a hundred battles, who had no equal at chess play. It was Chan Kieh Shi who had brought the heavy cannon from Persia

that were battering down the walls of Altur Haiten, and who had sworn an oath on his ancestral tablets to bury the last of the Khans of Tatary, the hereditary enemies of the Son of Heaven, before he died.

This evening, Yen Kui Kiang relates, only one case was brought to judgment. That was the case of a stranger, Khlit, called the Wolf, and Mir Turek, a resident of Samarkand whose great-grandfather had been a mandarin.

When the attendant of the Hall of Judgment brought in the two prisoners, the eyes of the Chinese council surveyed them impassively. Behind the slant eyes lurked the cruelty of a conquering race and the craft of the wisest men in Asia. Not once during the startling events of the evening did the slant eyes open wide or the breath come faster in the thin lips.

They noted silently that while one prisoner, the man called Mir Turek, prostrated himself before the dais, the other, called Khlit, stood erect with folded arms, although heavily chained. Especially did Chan Kieh Shi watch Khlit, while the Chinaman’s fan moved slowly before his face. The fan was inscribed with the battles he had won.

When the attendant had brought a curved sword to the dais and laid it at Hang-Hi’s feet, Yen Kui Kiang bowed before Hang-Hi.

“Gracious Excellency,” the secretary said softly, “the man at your feet is one called Mir Turek, although he has a Chinese name. He was found in Samarkand by one of our agents. Many times he has sworn that he would aid the cause of the Son of Heaven and remain true to the faith of his ancestors. The man called Mir Turek says that he has news for you, such news as will earn him absolution from his neglect. He swears that he has been working for Wan Li, and that he is ready to show the fruits of his work.”

“And the other, Yen Kui Kiang,” put in Chan Kieh Shi abruptly, “who is he?”

“I do not know, Excellency,” the secretary said, “he was taken a few nights ago with Mir Turek, and he has twice tried to break free.”

“Oh, gracious Excellency,” said Mir Turek, eagerly, “give your servant leave to speak his news, and you shall know of this man.”

Receiving a nod of assent from the general, the merchant hurried on, his voice trembling.

“This man, called Khlit, the Wolf, a Russian Cossack, came to my house in Samarkand. I was curious, for he speaks as one having high authority, yet he had no rank or wealth. When he showed me his sword I saw the answer. Knowing how valuable the man’s secret would be to your Excellency, I hastened to bring him, unknowing, to the army before Altur Haiten. Truly, Khlit’s secret is written on his sword. He cannot read. And he cannot understand what we are saying.”

As one, the eyes of the council turned to Khlit. The Cossack stood erect without noticing them, gazing moodily at his curved sword which lay at the feet of Hang-Hi. It had been taken from him the night of his capture, and for the first time since he had received it from his father other hands had held the blade. And, Kerula, in spite of her prayers to be allowed to share his prison tent had been taken away, he knew not where.

Khlit had made two efforts to escape, without result other than the heavy chains he wore on wrists and ankles. He had shared his tent with Mir Turek. Fogan Ultai had disappeared. Khlit had not been slow to lay his seizure on Fogan Ultai and he had sworn an oath that the other should repent it. Now he waited proudly for what was to come.

“Gracious Excellency,” Mir Turek went on, bowing, “I saw that the man’s face resembled a Russian Tatar, and the message of the sword showed that I was right. Lo, I am a student of learned books, a humble follower in the path of Hang-Hi and his men of wisdom. The sword, Khlit said, had been handed down from

father to son for many generations, and in truth the inscription is ancient.

“It says on the sword,” Mir Turek pointed to the blade, “that it was the sword of Kaidu, great khan of the Kallmark Tatars and descendant of Genghis Khan. Khlit, although he does not know it, is one of the few who are of the royal blood of the grand khans of Tatary.”

The fan of Chan Kieh Shi paused for a second and resumed its sweep. Hang-Hi glanced impassively from Khlit to Mir Turek and bent over the sword, studying the inscription. It was the first time he had had a sword of the grand khans at his feet.

“Wherefore, Excellency,” hastened Mir Turek, “I brought Khlit, called the Wolf, to the mountains of Khantai Khan on a pretense of finding treasure, hoping to yield him prisoner to your Graciousness, and atone for my absence from the empire, and perhaps earn a place among your men of wisdom.”

Mir Turek bowed anxiously and stepped back at a sign from the attendant His face was bathed in sweat but his eyes were gleaming with a feverish hope.

“Is this all you have to tell?” asked Hang-Hi.

“That is all, Excellency,” responded Mir Turek.

But his eyes fell. For he thought of the mountains of Khantai Khan and the tomb of untold riches.

“Call the agent from Samarkand, who has taken the name of Fogan Ultai,” said Hang-Hi.

Mir Turek’s eyes swept the assembly, in sudden fear. He had known of the mission of Fogan Ultai, but he had hoped he would not be confronted with the secret agent of all-powerful Wan Li. Fogan Ultai was very crafty.

Khlit stirred for the first time when he saw Fogan Ultai en-ter the tribunal. The erstwhile master of the slaves was dressed in the silken robe of a mandarin of caste. Around his neck was suspended a gold disk wrought in the likeness of a sun. The councilors who were of lesser rank than Fogan Ultai rose and bowed. The agent advanced to the dais, bowing low three times, and

touched his forehead. Khlit’s arms strained at the chains, then dropped to his side. The attendant was beside him with drawn sword, and he waited.

“Tell the one called Khlit,” suggested Chan Kieh Shi softly, “the truth of his descent. Then he will suffer more greatly under our punishment.”

Thus it was that Khlit, the Cossack named the Wolf, came to know in the tribunal of Hang-Hi that he was descended from the grand khans, hereditary rulers of Tatary and enemies of China. No name was hated by the Chinese like the name of Tatar.

He listened to Fogan Ultai’s words without change of countenance. His people had been of the same race as the Tatars. And he had won the respect of Tal Taulai Khan, his brother in blood, and of the Kallmarks. Khlit’s only allegiance in life had been to his sword. He exulted in the knowledge that he had come of a royal line. It did not surprise him that the fact had not been known before. In the bloody warfare of Cossack and Tatar the man was lucky who could name his race beyond his grandfather. At the same time he was aware of the danger he stood from the Chinese.

“Ask him,” said Hang-Hi curiously, “what he would say to us, now that he is our prisoner?”

Fogan Ultai spoke with Khlit and turned to the general thoughtfully.

“Excellency,” he said slowly, “this man is no common man. He has the wisdom of a fox and the courage of a wounded wolf. He asks which should be honored, a royal prisoner or the man who betrayed him?”

X

Khlit’s next act was to ask for Kerula. He had sought for information of the girl, but no one had told him where she was. Fogan Ultai bared his teeth as he answered, for he remembered how Khlit had made him, a mandarin of high caste, bring food to the girl.

Kerula, he told Khlit, had been offered the choice of two things, when she had come before him. She had been taken to the Chi?

nese camp with the two others. And Fogan Ultai had given her the choice of becoming a slave with the captives who labored at the siege work, or of joining the household of Hang-Hi. The child, he said, was fair of face and body. She had chosen to become one of the women of the household when she was told that Khlit was a captive and his sword taken from him.

Khlit became silent at this, and moody. He could not blame the girl for her choice. She had chosen life instead of hardships and death. And she was young. Fogan Ultai turned to Hang-Hi with a low bow.

“Excellency, Almighty Commander of the Ming host, the man, Mir Turek, lied when he said he had told you all he knew. He knows a secret of great importance. This secret is what first took me to Samarkand, for I had heard that a scholar of that city had said that he knew the hiding place of the treasure of Genghis Khan.”

Mir Turek started and would have thrown himself prostrate before Hang-Hi, but the attendant restrained him.

“In Samarkand,” went on Fogan Ultai, “I joined the household of Mir Turek, showing him, in order to avoid menial service, the gold-rayed sun which he recognized. I was not able to learn his secret, for Mir Turek was crafty and he suspected me. When he joined company with the Tatar, Khlit, descendant of Kaidu, I came with them across the desert to the mountains of Khantai Khan. From what I overheard and the words of the girl of Mir Turek, Kerula, I knew that they had come to find the tomb of Genghis Khan.

“One day Mir Turek and his companion visited the mountains in my absence, and it is certain they went to the place of the treasure. Knowing that Mir Turek planned to deliver Khlit a prisoner to you, I waited until they had come within our lines, when I took them with some men I had posted for that purpose. Thus Mir Turek lied, for he kept from you the secret of the treasure which is very great.”

Fogan Ultai folded his arms into his silken sleeves and waited with bent head. Mir Turek’s agonized gaze went from face to face that was turned to him and he tried to speak but could not.

“Your plan was excellent, Fogan Ultai,” said Hang-Hi at length. Turning to his favorite general the commander asked: “What is your word concerning Mir Turek, Chan Kieh Shi?”

Chan Kieh Shi shrugged his bent shoulders slightly. He was the advisor of Hang-Hi. Sometimes he thought that the latter asked too often for his advice. He wondered what the famous commander would do without him.

“Pour molten silver into the ears of Mir Turek until he tells us the place of the treasure. Then we shall have the Tatar hoard of wealth at the same time that we slay the Jun-gar khans in Altur Haiten, and your Excellency’s wars will be over.”

Mir Turek stretched out his arm imploringly.

“Oh, Gracious One—Viceroy of the Son of Heaven, harken. Truly I planned to take you to the place of the treasure of Genghis Khan. Yet is the place perilous. The Onon Muren watch over it— the gods allow no one to come there—”

“Even the gods,” said Hang-Hi ominously, “pay homage to the victor in the conflict. So it says in the sacred book.”

He lifted his hand to the attendant who stood beside the merchant with bared sword.

“Strike once,” he said, “and sever the sinews of the traitor behind the knees. Thus will he learn to kneel to me. Strike again and slit his mouth wide into both cheeks. Thus he may learn to speak the truth.”

A shriek from the unhappy Mir Turek was silenced as the attendant swung his short sword, without hesitation, against the back of the man’s legs. Mir Turek fell to his knees. Khlit, looking around in surprise, saw the man in armor take the face of Mir Turek in the hollow of his arm. In spite of the merchant’s struggles, the other twice drew the sharp edge of his weapon against Mir Turek’s mouth. A choking form, prostate on the floor, hands

pressed against his bleeding mouth, was all that remained of Mir Turek,

Khlit took a deep breath and his eyes sought Hang-Hi’s. The commander bent over Mir Turek.

“You will not die until you have shown us the way to the tomb of Genghis Khan, Mir Turek,” he said softly. “How am I to trust a man without honor?”

At a sign from him Khlit and the moaning Mir Turek were conducted to their tent. By signs the guard indicated that the crippled man was to remain in the tent, while Khlit must take his turn at labor with the other captives.

For several days while the merchant lay tossing on the floor of the tent, Khlit went out at night under guard to the siege works of the Chinese engineers. With other Tatar captives he hauled heavy stones for the Persian cannon and dug earthworks opposite the walls of Altur Haiten under the arrows of the Tatar defenders.

Never had Khlit seen a battle like this, and his interest grew each night that he worked. The Chinese had pushed a network of earthen mounds, backed by leather and timbers to within a few feet of the crumbling walls where they planned to deliver their final assault. Beyond bowshot of the walls the giant Persian cannon were ranged which steadily enlarged the breaches in the brick ramparts to the east.

The Chinese were not content to demolish the walls which were breached at several points. A fire from a few muskets was kept up at the Tatars who sought to man the ramparts. Mangonels, formed of giant beams, cast buckets of unquenchable fire, prepared by the special fire-makers of Hang-Hi, over the walls. Into the city beyond, iron chests were dropped by the mangonels. These chests held powder, lighted by a fuse which exploded after they had fallen in the houses.

Against the Chinese the Tatars made only feeble efforts. Being naturally mounted fighters, accustomed to warfare on the plains, the defenders were at a disadvantage which was heightened by

their lack of firearms. Arrows did little damage against the earth-works of the besiegers which lined the eastern side.

The Tatars, numbering about seventy thousand fighting men, Khlit discovered from the captives, had given up assaults against the Chinese. They still had their horses which subsisted on the fields between the walls and the city proper, but each sortie from the gates had been greeted by heavy musketry fire, and the terrible flames of the fire-makers.

Khlit saw that the plight of the defenders was near desperate. They awaited the day, with the fortitude of their race, when Hang-Hi should storm the walls. The Jun-gar khans, he heard, quarreled and drank their time away.

Khlit helped feed the cannon, toiling half-naked at the giant stones. He became silent and made no effort to resent the whips of the Chinese overseers that scorched his back when he rested. Much he thought over the words of Fogan Ultai. His identity as a descendant of the grand khans, he knew, would earn him death with the fall of the city, or later at the court of Wan Li. The thought of dying a captive was bitter.

Kerula had gone from his existence. Khlit had not had many companions, but the girl had touched his heart—perhaps with her tales of the Tatar warriors. He took a grim satisfaction in the sufferings of Mir Turek. He had no hope of escape, chained and under guard. Yet Khlit counted the blows of the Chinese overseers and remembered them.

XI

It was one night when he was stumbling with fatigue and had lost thought of everything except the stones he was hauling and the count of the blows he received that Khlit heard from Kerula. That night hope came to him again, and all his old craft.

One of his guards halted him abruptly by the cannon, and urged him back toward the tent. The guards habitually vented their fear of the followers of Genghis Khan on the prisoners.

“Come, Tatar,” he said in broken Usbek, “there is a woman of the royal household that asks for you among the prisoners. Why

does she want to see a dog? We must do her bidding, for she wears the clothes of a favorite.”

The tent of the two prisoners was lighted by the glow from the fire cauldrons near by. Khlit’s heart leaped as he saw a cloaked, slender form standing beside the couch of Mir Turek. He had guessed who it was, before the girl had pushed the guards from the tent and closed the flap.

The cloak fell back from her face and Khlit stared. It was Kerula, but her cheeks were red with henna, and her eyebrows blackened and arched. Her long hair was tied in a close knot, and its scent came to his nostrils.

She gave a low cry as she saw the half-naked figure of Khlit, his body blackened with powder and dirt. She pointed inquiringly to where Mir Turek gazed at them helplessly from his couch.

“Tell me, Khlit, lord,” Kerula whispered, her face close to his, tinged with the red of the flames outside, “will Mir Turek live? He told me how grievously he suffered. What have they done to you? I searched for two days and nights before I found you. Did you think I would forget you, Khlit, lord?”

Khlit crossed his powerful arms on his chest.

“The thought was mine, Kerula,” he said quietly. “Yet I believed that you were the one to feel pain, not I. As for Mir Turek, he is dying of his hurts.”

The girl raised her head proudly, although her cheeks flamed.

“Aye,” she said, “I have suffered. I am your slave. It was my will to serve you. So I chose to go to the pavilion of Hang-Hi instead of the siege works.”

“I do not understand,” Khlit shook his head. “The household of the Chinese general will give you comforts and you will have honor—of a kind.”

“Nay, Khlit, lord, it was for you.”

The girl smiled at him eagerly. With a glance at Mir Turek she stepped closer.

“I saw them take your sword from you. Your curved sword. And my heart was heavy. Tell me, will not the noble Tatar khans

come from Altur Haiten and break the power of Hang-Hi? I told them so at the pavilion, but they laughed, saying that Genghis Khan was dead.”

“The noble khans,” said Khlit bitterly, “will not attack.”

“They will, they must. And you must join them, Khlit, lord, when they do so. See, this is why I went to the household of Hang-Hi. They watched it carefully, but I was too clever for them. I took it from them to give to you. See—”

The girl felt under her silk cloak and drew out a weapon which she pressed into Khlit’s hand. He stared at it dumbly.

“It is your curved sword, Khlit, the sword that makes men afraid of you. As soon as I had taken it I came to find you.”

Khlit took his sword in his hand and touched it lovingly. He eyed the inscription curiously. Surely, Kerula had been faithful to him.

“If no one suspects you, Kerula,” he said gruffly, for he was moved, “go whence you have come. The tent is dangerous, for Fogan Ultai is coming at dawn and he must not find you.”

“I have made you glad,” said the girl softly, “and my heart is light. I do not want to leave you, but if they found me they would suspect. Now that you have your curved sword, they will not keep you prisoner, will they? Harken, Khlit, lord.” She drew off a slender silken girdle that confined her cloak. “When one Tatar and another are true friends they become andas. Each helps and protects the other. Give me your girdle.”

Puzzled, Khlit lifted his sash from the pile of his discarded clothing. At a sign from the girl he bound it around her slim waist under the cloak. She touched his hand shyly as he did so. Then she tied her own girdle around him.

“Now we are comrades, Khlit, lord, although I am still a slave. Truly the honor is great and I am happy. When two persons be-come andas both have one life; neither abandons the other, and each guards the life of his anda. Thus we strengthen our anda anew and refresh it.”

“Aye,” said Khlit gruffly, “I will protect you, little sparrow.”

At a warning sound from the guards outside the tent Kerula slipped away, with a glance at Mir Turek, who turned his mutilated face away. No one else entered and Khlit seated himself in a corner of the tent. He took his sheepskin coat and tied the sword deftly in the lining. The coat he placed over his shoulders. Until the gray light of dawn lightened the tent he remained motionless. He did not sleep, nor did Mir Turek who lay moaning and gasping for breath. The fire that stood in a cauldron by Mir Turek’s bed was smoldering to embers when Khlit arose, casting aside his coat and came to the bed of the other.

“Mir Turek,” he said softly, “Hang-Hi has made you a cripple. Fogan Ultai is coming to get you to show the way to the tomb of Genghis Khan. Yet you will not do it. Do you fear greatly? I have no fear.”

The merchant raised himself on his elbow and his ghastly face peered at Khlit.

“Mir Turek, Fogan Ultai would throw you down the chasm to the Muren, when you have shown him the path. You have bled much, and your heart is weakening until death stands near tonight. We two, Mir Turek, know of the tomb of Genghis Khan. You will not live to take him there at dawn.”

A hoarse sound came from the throat of Mir Turek and his eyes sought Khlit’s feverishly.

“Man born to life is deathless, Mir Turek,” resumed Khlit slowly. “He must go hence without home, without resting place. So said the great Genghis Khan. A few days ago I saved your life. But now you are dying and I can not save you.”

Mir Turek sank back upon his couch, shuddering. Khlit looked at him not angrily, but sadly, as at one who was no longer a man. Death, he thought, would be a good friend to Mir Turek. And he would watch until it had come, freeing him from his pain.

XII

The sentries were dozing on their spears outside the door of the tent in the early dawn when they were awakened by the crackle

of flames. There was a crash as of the lacquer sides of the tent falling in and a burst of flames swirled up behind their backs.

The door of the tent was thrust open and Khlit staggered out, his garments smoking. Inside the door they could see a wall of flame that caught at the woodwork and hangings of the structure. The sentry who spoke Usbek shook Khlit by the shoulder.

“Where is the other?” he shouted, stepping back from the heat of the fire.

Khlit drew his long coat closer about him, so that the hid-den sword could not be seen. “Go and bring him forth, dog!” he snarled. “How can a man in chains carry another?”

But he knew that no man could go into the flames. He had waited until the last moment before coming out, so that the flames might get to the remains of Mir Turek. Thus he had seen to it that the body was not dishonored. And now no one but Khlit knew the way to the tomb of Genghis Khan.

An angry shout caused them to turn. Several men had ridden up on camels, and Fogan Ultai dismounted. The agent of Wan Li caught the chief sentry by the throat furiously.

The unhappy man pointed to the burning tent and Fogan Ultai released him with a curse. He scanned the flames for a moment. Then he faced Khlit and the Cossack saw that his slant eyes were cold and hard as those of a snake.

“This is your doing, Khlit,” he snarled. “Once before, in the desert, you slew a man of mine. You have taken the life of Mir Turek. Your turn will not wait. The torture will be finer, and longer, for this.”

“Aye, Khlit,” said the voice of Chan Kieh Shi behind him, “you will see if the blood of Kaidu is truly in you. We will take your life slowly, so you will not die for three days.”

Khlit threw back his head and laughed, and the sentries wondered.

“When you are dead,” resumed Fogan Ultai with relish, “your head will be cast over the ramparts of Altur Haiten, and the Tatar dogs will know we have slain one of their breed.”

“Nay,” said Khlit grimly, “it is not I that am a dog! Was it I that made Mir Turek a beast that crawled to death? Did I send the gylong to murder a child in the desert? Men have not named me Dog but Wolf. And the wolf knows well the ways of the dog.”

“When Hang-Hi rides into the city of Altur Haiten,” growled Chan Kieh Shi, pointing a withered finger at Khlit, “you shall bear him company, tied to his horse’s tail. Thus will the Tatars know their kind.”

“Truly, Fogan Ultai,” said Khlit, “a man who is feared is greatly honored. You do me honor in spite of yourselves.”

“Is this honor?” The agent struck him viciously across the face with his whip. “Or this?”

“Aye,” laughed Khlit, “for the overseer has done me greater homage. He had struck me twenty-eight times.”

Fogan Ultai fingered his sword longingly, but Chan Kieh Shi made a warning gesture.

“Then you can count the days until your death, which will be when Altur Haiten is sacked.”

“Nay,” replied Khlit, “I shall not die.”

“Dog!” Fogan Ultai spat in his direction. “Hang-Hi has promised it me.”

Khlit stepped to the camel’s side.

“Fool!” he snarled, “blind jackal! If you kill me there will be no one to show you the way to the tomb of Genghis Khan. Mir Turek knew the secret, but he is dead.”

Fogan Ultai’s expression did not change but his eyes consulted Chan Kieh Shi. The old general stared long at Khlit. He spoke quickly to Fogan Ultai, and then turned to Khlit.

“We shall find the way to the tomb,” he said. “The torture will make you take us there.”

Khlit appeared to consider this.

“Will Hang-Hi give me my freedom if I take you to the tomb?” “If you show us the treasure of Genghis Khan—” Fogan Ultai’s

slant eyes closed cunningly—“Hang-Hi may give you freedom.” “Aye,” added Chan Kieh Shi, “he may do so.”

Again, Khlit seemed to ponder their words. He raised several objections which Fogan Ultai met shortly. Finally he raised his manacled hands.

“How can I climb the mountains of Khantai Khan in chains?” he asked.

At a sign from Chan Kieh Shi the sentries unlocked Khlit’s chains around his arms, and at his request from his feet. He was led to a camel and mounted, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his coat and wrapping it about him. He hugged his sword fastened to the inside of his coat, over his chest, close to him as they started. Khlit rode in the center, with Fogan Ultai and Chan Kieh Shi one on either side and two spearmen to the rear. Khlit smiled grimly as he noted that they had given him the clumsiest camel.

He did not put trust in the promise of Fogan Ultai. More than once he caught the agent looking at him contemptuously, side-long. But he said nothing.

They passed out of the Chinese encampment and gained the plain. Khlit headed toward the Kukulon Lake. The group rode without speaking, Khlit busied with his thoughts. There was no hope of breaking free from his guards, he saw, and he did not intend to try.

Khlit had been playmate with death for many years. He had never, however, planned to come so close to death as at the cavern of Khantai Khan, by the Onon Muren. He circled the lake in the path Mir Turek had taken. He thought of the dead merchant, and it occurred to him that he was the only survivor of the four who had ventured into the tomb of Genghis Khan. Verily, he marveled, the Onon Muren watched over the treasure well.

He noted grimly how his companions stared at the skeletons in the lake. But he did not pause when they dismounted from the camels, pressing onward over the gray soil, among the blasted trees. Fogan Ultai had fallen silent, and more than once the agent stopped and stared about him curiously, as Khlit had done. Chan Kieh Shi, however, pushed ahead as fast as his bent legs could carry him.

At the Kukulon gate Khlit paused to explain to his companions how they must go under the waterfall. They followed him without hesitation, first the mandarins, then the guards. Khlit stood again in the cavern under the falls and smelled the strange odor that came from the chasm. Here he noted that Fogan Ultai spoke with Chan Kieh Shi but the old man replied impatiently and pushed on.

Still Khlit had not spoken. They felt their way to the light that came down the corridor, Chan Kieh Shi turning over with his foot the Tatar forms that lined the way. They came out into the light and stood on the ledge by the rock bridge.

Khlit pointed silently to the giant forms outlined in the vapor on the other side of the bridge. The Chinese stared curiously about them, at the gray vault overhead and the chasm.

For the second time Khlit stood before the tomb of his ancestor. He raised his hand as if in greeting to the casket that hung between the golden elephants. Then he drew his belt closer about him, and spoke for the first time.

“There is the tomb,” he said, “come!”

Fogan Ultai stepped back cautiously, motioning for him to go ahead. As he advanced the Chinese followed closely, their eyes straining on the dim forms across the chasm through the mist.

Khlit bent his head low on his chest and raised the sleeve of his coat against his mouth and nose. He broke into a run as he stepped on the rock bridge. He felt the vapors warm his face and heard the rumbling below. On he ran, without looking back. He heard a sound that was not the rumbling of the mountain.

His brain was dizzy as the stifling fumes gripped him. Staggering forward he fell to his knees and crawled onward. Biting his lips to keep from breathing the poison he gained the further end of the bridge and the clearer air of the plateau. A cold breeze from some cavern drove the vapors back. Khlit had crossed the rock bridge in safety.

He climbed to his feet, supporting himself by one of the legs of the elephants. His hand touched a long pole, and he glanced at

it. The pole supported a crest of horns hung with a hundred yaks’ tails. Khlit knew that he held the standard of Genghis Khan.

Leaning on the standard for support he looked back the way he had come. On the rock bridge one man was crawling, choking and gasping. Khlit saw that it was one of the guards, the last to venture on the bridge. He watched the man draw himself for-ward. The Chinese, blinded and strangling, slipped to the side of the rock bridge. Vainly he tried to gain his balance, clutching at the smooth rock. His hold slipped. Khlit heard a hoarse cry, and a white figure dropped into the depths of the chasm, after the others.

Khlit was alone in the tomb of Genghis Khan.

The Cossack seated himself against the form of the Bearer of Wealth. His eyes wandered idly over the standard, gray with dust, above him. Then he stretched out at full length on the rock, and in a little while was asleep.

XIII

In times which are gone thou didst swoop like a falcon before us; today a car bears thee as it rumbles, advancing,

Oh thou, my Khan.

Hast thou left us; hast thou left wife and children, and the kurultai of thy nation?

Oh thou, my Khan.

Sweeping forward in pride, as sweeps forward an eagle, thou didst lead us aforetime,

Oh thou, my Khan.

Thou didst bring triumph and joy to thy people for sixty and six years; art thou leaving them now?

Oh thou, my Khan. Death chant of Genghis Khan

The night sentries were dozing at the door of the kurultai hall where the Tatar chieftains of the Jun-gar were assembled. In the hall, where the sound of the Chinese cannon echoed at intervals, were the nine khans that ruled what was left of the Tatar race on the borderland of China. Here was the leader of the Kalkas horde, from Karakorum, the chief of the Chakars, whose people had been

between the Great Wall and the desert of Gobi, the commander of the Eleuts, and others.

The ranks of the commanders of the Tatars were thinned. A Kallmark khan had left Altur Haiten with his followers when they deserted the ill-fated city. The leaders of the Hoshot and Tor-got hordes had fallen in unsuccessful sallies. Evil was the plight of the chiefs of the Jun-gar and they drank deeply, to forget.

They lay on benches around the long table of the kurultai council, swords and spears stacked against the walls, waiting for word of the expected attack of the army of Hang-Hi. For a year they had been directing the defense of the walls, leaders of horsemen penned in a citadel. They were veteran fighters, but they were weary and there had been many quarrels over the wine goblets.

They had been drinking deeply, these lords of Tatary, and few looked up when a man entered the hall. Yet these few did not again lay their heads upon the table. They stared in amazement and rose to their feet, feeling for swords.

The man who had come in was tall, with gray mustaches hanging to his broad shoulders. His face was scarred, and his eyes alert. His heavy boots were covered with gray dust, as was his svitza.

High was the ceiling of the hall, yet the standard of yaks’ tails which the man carried reached nearly to the ceiling. It was a standard like those of the Jun-gar, but of a different pattern. It bore a gold image of the sun and moon, tarnished by age.

Without speaking the man stood in the doorway and looked at the chiefs of the Jun-gar. Leaning on the stout pole of the standard, he watched them and his mouth curled in a snarl.

“Who are you, warrior, and what do you seek?” asked a khan whose head was clearer than the others. “What standard do you bring to the kurultai?”

One by one the sleepy warriors awakened, and fixed their eyes on the newcomer. A veteran, chief of the Chakars, gave a hoarse cry as he saw the standard of yaks’ tails and rose dizzily fighting the wine fumes in his brain.

“Who are you, Standard-Bearer?” he asked.

Still the stranger did not speak. He leaned on the pole, and watched them until the last of the chieftains had risen.

“Evil is the day,” he said in broken Tatar, “when the Jun-gar khans put aside their swords for the wine cup.”

“Who is it that speaks thus to the Jun-gar chiefs?” asked the Chakar veteran. “These are not the words of a common man.”

“My name is Khlit,” said the newcomer, gazing at the circle of watchers, “and I am the Standard-Bearer of Genghis Khan. I have come from the tomb of the Master of the Earth with the banner of the sun and moon, because there will be a great battle, aye, such a battle as has not been for many years—since the Grand Khans were dead!”

In the silence that followed the chieftains consulted each other with their eyes. The man who had appeared in the hall had startled them, and the Jun-gar khans felt a quick dread. The words of Khlit did not reassure them. The old Chakar leader stepped close to the standard and ran his eye over each detail of the design and emblem. He faced Khlit and his face was stern.

“Whence came this warrior?” he spoke in his gruff tones. “Answer truly, for a lie will earn death. The banner of Genghis Khan was like this, yet it has been buried for generations in the hills of Khantai Khan.”

“From the tomb in the hills of Khantai Khan came this,” said Khlit grimly. “From where the Onon Muren watch, by the Kukulon gate. I have slept at the tomb of Genghis Khan, among the twenty thousand slain. Have the chieftains of the Jun-gar forgot-ten the standard of a thousand battles?”

“Nay,” said the old man, “it is truly the banner of Genghis Khan. For here, by the sun and moon are the emblems of the old hordes, the wolf of the Kallmarks, the doe of the Chakars—”

The other chieftains crowded around the two, and their slant eyes gleamed at Khlit. In the eyes he read amazement, suspicion, and uncertainty. Khlit saw that they but half-believed the words of the elder. He raised his hand for attention.

“Harken, lords of the Jun-gar,” he said slowly. “You ask who I am. I am a fighter of the steppes and I follow the paths of battles. I found the road to the tomb of Genghis Khan, looking for treasure. Yet while I slept in the tomb a thought and a plan came to me. Genghis Khan is dead. Yet the thought came to me. It was to carry the standard that stood in the tomb to the chiefs of the Jun-gar, through the Chinese lines, so that they might have new heart for battle. If you truly believe this to be the standard of the Mighty Manslayer, I will tell you the plan, for words of wisdom should not fall on dead ears. Speak, do you believe?”

The chieftains looked at each other, with bleared eyes. Then the Chakar lord raised both hands and bowed his head.

“Said I not this was the banner? Aye, it is an omen.”

One by one the Jun-gar chiefs raised their hands and bowed. In their hearts was the dread of the name of the Mighty Manslayer. One of their number stepped forward.

“Aye,” he said slowly, “this is the standard that was buried. But it belongs to the grave of the One. The man who brought it from the grave will die, for it is written that none shall come from the tomb Genghis Khan and live. Shall we keep the standard for the men of Hang-Hi to carry to Liang Yang? Altur Haiten and all in it doomed. How may we keep the standard, when it cannot serve us, except to fall into the hands of the enemies of Genghis Khan and make their triumph greater?”

“Not so,” said Khlit, “for there will be a great battle. And the standard of the dead Khan should be with the men who are the remnants of his power. There is fear in the hearts of the Chinese at the name of Genghis Khan.”

He saw, however, that the Tatars had been impressed with the speech of their companion. Even the Chakar khan nodded his in agreement to what the other had said.

“The battle,” continued the khan, “will be the assault of the city. How can we prevent it? Hang-Hi has a quarter million men. We have a scant sixty-five thousand horsemen. The Chinese have

driven us from the Wall of Shensi and across the desert to Altur Haiten. Many Tatars died in the desert. Those in Altur Haiten are deserting by night to go to their homes. The engines of the Chinese are breaching the walls. We have only spears and arrows to fight against powder. Our food supplies are running out, and the men fight among themselves for what is left. We are shut in on four sides. The men are losing their strength from lack of food.”

A murmur of assent went up. Khlit found no encouragement in the yellow faces that were lined with weariness and drunkenness.

“If we were in the plains,” said the Chakar chief, “there might be hope. But our sallies have been repulsed. We are penned in the city. Truly, Hang-Hi is too great a general to outwit.”

“Fools!” Khlit’s lips curled in scorn. “Would Genghis Khan fear such a man as Hang-Hi? I have seen him, and he is like a fat woman. I have seen the fortifications of the Chinese and the cannon. They can be taken.”

“The earthworks keep us from attacking on the east,” returned the Chakar leader, “and the walls are breached so that an army can march through.” He laid his hand on the pole. “What is the word of the kurultai, noble lords; shall we lay the standard of Genghis Khan in the flames, so that it will not be taken by the enemy? This man must not have it, for no low-born hand should touch it. Such is the law.”

An assenting shout went up. Instantly Khlit snatched his sword from its sheath. The Chakar khan was quick, or his hand would have been severed from his arm. As it was, Khlit’s sword slit the skin of his fingers which dripped blood. The others reached for their weapons angrily. Khlit raised his sword as they closed about him.

“Aye,” he said gruffly, “no low-born hand shall touch the standard. I will keep it, for I am of the blood of the Grand Khans. My sword which was my father’s and his before him bears witness. Read the writings, dogs!”

Several of the Tatars scanned the inscription and wonder re-placed the rage in their slant eyes. The Chakar chief broke the silence.

“I bear no grudge,” he said, “for this man is of the royal blood. How otherwise could he come from the tomb and live? It is so written. Yet shall he burn the standard rather than let it fall into the hands of the Chinese.”

“If I am the keeper of the standard,” growled Khlit, “shall I burn what it is my duty to protect?”

He leaned on the pole and watched the Jun-gar chiefs. Khlit had brought the standard from the tomb with him with much difficulty into Altur Haiten because he saw an opportunity to throw in his lot with the defeated Tatars. He counted on the banner restoring their spirit. He had not counted on the reception he met, but all his cunning was aroused to make the Jun-gar chiefs believe in the standard of the dead conqueror as an omen of victory.

He planned to place all his cunning, with the talisman of Genghis Khan, to the aid of the weakening chieftains. He under-stood the plan of the Chinese camp, thanks to his experience as a prisoner. And he was burning to seek revenge for the twenty-nine blows that had been given him. Kerula had named him her anda. The girl had sacrificed herself for him, and Khlit was determined to win her back alive or take payment for her death. And the prospect of the coming battle intoxicated him.

Already he had won the Jun-gar to acknowledgment of the standard and of his right to advise them. But he proceeded warily.

“As one of the royal blood, oh Khan,” said the man shrewdly who had first objected, “you will take the command from us? We will yield you the command, for since Tal Taulai Khan died we have had no one of the blood of Kaidu on the frontier.”

“As one of the royal blood, Chief,” responded Khlit dryly, for he saw jealousy flame in the faces of the others, “I shall carry the standard of Genghis Khan. Is not that the greatest honor? You and your companions will lead the hordes, for I have come only

to bring the banner, and to tell you the plan that came to me in the tomb of Genghis Khan. Do not insult my ears further by saying that the standard should be burned, however.”

He saw understanding come into the faces of the Jun-gar, and they sheathed their swords.

“Did the spirit of Genghis Khan suggest this plan to you?” asked the Chakar.

But Khlit was not to be trapped.

“As I slept in the tomb the plan came to me,” he said. “Who am I to say whence it came? I am not a man of wisdom, but a fighter.

“Harken, men of the Jun-gar,” he went on, raising his voice, “you say that your men are deserting? Will they desert if the banner of Genghis Khan leads them? You say that the Chinese engines are breaching the walls. Are we prisoners, to stay behind walls? You say that your men are horsemen. Let them fight, then, as horsemen.”

The Chakar khan bowed low. This time he kneeled and the others followed his example.

“Speak, warrior,” he said, “for we will listen. Tell us your plan and our ears will not be dead. We, also, are fighters, not men of wisdom.”

XIV

The day set for the capture of Altur Haiten by Hang-Hi dawned fair upon the activity of the Chinese camp. A pavilion of silk supported by bamboo poles and hung with banners was erected for the general of Wan Li on a rise fronting the eastern walls of the city which had been breached for the assault.

Hang-Hi’s lieutenants had made final preparations for the at-tack the night before. Junks moored at the riverbank had brought extra powder supplies from China. Scaling ladders had been assembled in the earthworks. The ditch around the city had been filled in long ago by Chinese engineers. The cannon were loaded and primed for the salvo that was to start the attack.

Early in the day Hang-Hi took his station in the pavilion where he could see the eastern walls. Past the pavilion matched streams of bannermen with picked footmen and regiments in complete armor. Hang-Hi’s advisors assembled by his chair. But the general wore a frown.

“Has no trace been found,” he asked Yen Kui Kiang, impatiently, “of Chan Kieh Shi?”

The secretary bowed low and crossed his arms in his sleeves.

“Gracious Excellency,” he explained, “riders have searched the surrounding country. They have been to the mountains of Khantai Khan. Chan Kieh Shi went with the agent, Fogan Ultai to find the tomb of Genghis Khan, and since that day we have found no sign—”

“Fool!” Hang-Hi struck his ivory wand against his knee. “Tell me not what I know already. Have you learned that Chan Kieh Shi lives?”

“Nay, Excellency,” muttered the secretary, “we know not.”

“There are volcanoes in the mountains of Khantai Khan,” mused Hang-Hi, “and our men have been troubled by the sulfur fumes, which the Tatars fear, not knowing their nature. It is possible—”

He broke off, for some of his men were staring at him curiously. Hang-Hi did not desire to let them know how much he felt the loss of the wisest of the Chinese generals. Still, there was nothing to fear. The Tatars, his spies had reported, were weak with hunger and torn by divided leadership. Their number was small. And his preparations for the attack were flawless. It could not fail.

“Excellency,” ventured Yen Kui Kiang, “new reports from spies have come in. They say that the people of Altur Haiten are talking much of Genghis Khan. Our spies heard mention of his tomb. It may be that they hope for a miracle to save them.”

“There are no miracles, Yen Kui Kiang,” said Hang-Hi softly, “and Genghis Khan is dead. Why should I fear a dead man? Yet the tomb—Mir Turek said that was where the treasure of the Tatars was hidden. It may be that one of them found the tomb—”

“Send me the girl Kerula, who was taken with Mir Turek,” he said after a moment. “She may know something of the treasure. Still, the Tatar dogs cannot eat gold, nor can they melt it into swords.”

He waited while one of the mandarins of the court of ceremonies read to him the annals of the court, until the girl was brought.

Kerula, pale but erect, stood at the foot of Hang-Hi’s chair, and the Chinese general surveyed her impassively. Women, he thought, were a toy, fashioned for the pleasure of men, unschooled in the higher virtues.

Yen Kui Kiang interpreted the questions of Hang-Hi. Then he turned to the general humbly.

“Oh, right hand of Wan Li, Son of Heaven, harken. The girl Kerula says that she has no knowledge of the tomb of Genghis Khan. She was a slave of Mir Turek, and he guarded his secret from her. She says that men who have gone to the tomb died within a short time. And she has a strange thought—”

“Speak, Yen Kui Kiang,” urged the general as he hesitated. “It is written that Heaven sometimes puts wise thoughts into the heads of children.”

“It is strange, Excellency. The girl says that Genghis Khan rides over Tatary. That he and his army are to be heard in the night.”

Kerula caught the meaning of what the secretary was saying, and raised her head eagerly. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, and her thin hands were clasped over the splendor of her gold-embroidered garment.

“Aye, lord,” she said quickly, “I have heard the army. It was in the desert. We heard the tumans, Khlit and I, and they were many. Tatar horsemen sang their chant for us, and we heard the greeting to Dawn, by the elephants.”

“Child’s fancies,” murmured Hang-Hi when the other interpreted. “Our travelers have reported that the Tatar herdsmen believe these tales of the desert. If a grown man believes, why should not a child?”

“She says further,” added Yen Kui Kiang after a moment, “that what she heard was true. For Chinese sentries have reported armed men moving over the plains. The child thinks this is the army of Genghis Khan, coming to slay the Chinese. Then she says that last night she heard again the chant of the Tatar horsemen.”

Hang-Hi smiled impassively. Well he knew that the Tatars Kerula had heard of were deserters slipping out from the doomed city at night. Many thousands had made their way past the sentries by the west walls, who had orders not to see them—for Hang-Hi wished to allow the number of defenders to dwindle. Since the loss of Chan Kieh Shi he had grown cautious.

“What was the chant Kerula heard?” he asked indifferently. “Perchance it was the dogs fighting among themselves. Al-though, so fast do they desert in the night, there are few to quarrel.”

The cheeks of the girl flushed under the paint. All her fancies had been wound around the Tatar warriors and the great Genghis Khan. Even the beleaguered city and the imprisonment of Khlit had failed to convince the child that she did not live in the time of the Tatar conquerors. So much had the books of Mir Turek done.

She sang softly, her eyes half-closed:

“Oh lion of the Teneri, wilt thou come? The devotion of thy people, thy golden palace, the great Hordes of thy nation—all these are awaiting thee.

“Thy chiefs, thy commanders, thy great kinsfolk, all these are awaiting thy coming in the birth land which is thy stronghold.

“Thy standard of yaks’ tails, thy drum and trumpets in the hands of thy warriors of the Kalkas, the Torgots, the Jun-gar—all are awaiting thee.

“That is the chant,” she said proudly, “I heard it over the walls last night when the cannon did not growl. It was the same that the riders sang in the desert.”

Hang-Hi stared at her and shook his head. He looked inquiringly at Yen Kui Kiang.

“There was some revelry and shouting in the town, Excellency,” declared the secretary. “Assuredly, the child has strange fancies.”

“It was not fancy, Yen Kui Kiang,” observed Hang-Hi thought-fully, “when Kerula said that no men returned from the tomb of Genghis Khan. Take her back to the women’s quarters and watch her. She may be useful as hostage.”

He held up his hand for silence as a blast of trumpets sounded from the walls of Altur Haiten.

“Wait: our enemies sound a parley. Go, Yen Kui Kiang and bring us their message. It may be the surrender of the city.”

Hang-Hi and his councilors watched while the eastern gate in front of them swung back to allow the exit of a Tatar party. Yen Kui Kiang with some Chinese officers met them just outside the walls. After the brief conference the Chinese party returned to the silk pavilion, while the Tatars waited.

The secretary bowed very low before Hang-Hi and his face was troubled with the message he was to deliver.

“The Tatar dogs are mad, Excellency,” he muttered, “truly their madness is great. They say that they will give us terms. If we yield all our prisoners, and the wealth our army has taken, with our arms and banners, they will allow us to return in safety to the Great Wall. They ask hostages of half our generals. On these terms the Tatars, in their madness, say we can return safely. Otherwise they will give battle.”

Hang-Hi rose from his throne, and his heavy face flamed in anger. He had not expected this.

“Hunger must have maddened them, Excellency,” repeated Yen Kui Kiang, prostrating himself, “for they say Genghis Khan has taken command of their army. Their terms, they say, are the terms of Genghis Khan to his enemies—”

A joyous cry from Kerula interrupted him. The girl was looking eagerly toward the walls of the city, her pale face alight. Hang-Hi motioned her aside, and some soldiers grasped her, thrusting her back into the pavilion.

“This is out answer,” cried Hang-Hi. He lifted his ivory wand. “Sound the assault. Our cannon will answer them.” “But, Excellency,” remonstrated Yen Kui Kiang, who was a

just man, “the envoys—”

He was interrupted by the blast of a hundred cannon. The walls of Altur Haiten shook under the impact of giant rocks, which had undermined their base. A volley of musketry followed, and few of the envoys reached the gateway in safety before the iron doors closed.

Trumpets rang out through the Chinese camp. The regiments of assault were set in motion toward the walls, led by men in armor with scaling ladders and mercenaries with muskets. The attack on Altur Haiten had begun.

XV

Hang-Hi sank back in his chair and watched. Yen Kui Kiang took his place at the general’s side. The chronicler of the Chinese saw all that took place that day. And the sight was strange. Never had a battle begun as this one did.

Hang-Hi saw the Chinese ranks advance in good order beyond the breastworks to the filled-in moat. Then, for the first time, he began to wonder. The walls of Altur Haiten, shattered by cannon, were barren of defenders. No arrows or rocks greeted the attackers who climbed to the breaches and planted their scaling ladders without opposition.

At a signal from one of the generals, rows of men in armor began to mount the scaling ladders. The columns that faced the breaches made their way slowly over the debris. Hang-Hi wondered if the defenders had lost heart. Truly, there could be few in the city, for his sentries had counted many thousand who fled from the place during the last few nights on horseback.

The Chinese forces mounted scaling ladders to the top of the walls without opposition. Not a shot had been fired. No one had fallen wounded. Men in the breaches were slower, for the Tatars had erected barricades.

A frown appeared on the smooth brow of Hang-Hi. It seemed as if the city was in his grasp. Yet he wondered at the silence. Suddenly he arose. Men on the walls were shouting and running about. The ranks under the walls swayed in confusion. Were the shouts an omen of victory?

Hang-Hi gripped his ivory wand quickly. His councilors stared, wide-eyed. Slowly, before their eyes, the walls of Altur Haiten began to crumple and fall. They fell not inward, but outward.

The eastern wall, a section at a time, fell with a sonorous crash. Fell upon the ranks of the attackers, with the men who had gained the top. Hang-Hi saw men leaping desperately into space. The men under the walls crowded back in disorder. A moan sounded with the crash of bricks, the cry of thousands of men in pain. Then the space where the walls had been was covered by a rising cloud of dust and pulverized clay.

Through this smoke, Hang-Hi could make out giant beams thrusting. He guessed at the means which had toppled the walls on the attackers, after the Chinese cannon had undermined them.

The moans of the wounded gave place to a shrill battle cry from behind the dust curtain. Hang-Hi saw ranks of Tatars with bared weapons surging forward. As the battle cry mounted the oncoming ranks met the retreating attackers and the blended roar of melee drowned all other sounds.

Hang-Hi glanced over the scene of conflict. Only a portion of the east walls facing him had fallen. The rest stood. But the sally of the Tatars carried them forward into the breastworks of the Chinese. There the disordered regiments of assault rallied, only to be pushed back further, among the guns and machines. In the dense mass of fighting men it was useless to fire a musket, and the cannon were silent.

Hang-Hi turned to his aides and began to give orders swiftly.

Mounted couriers were sent to the other quarters of the camp for reinforcements. Reserve regiments were brought up and thrown into the melee. Chosen men of Leo Tung and the Sung

commanders advanced from the junks in the river. The rush of the Tatars was stemmed in the rear of the cannon.

Then Hang-Hi addressed his generals. It was a stroke of fortune from heaven, he said, that levelled the walls. The Tatars were few and already they were retreating to the city, fighting desperately. The Chinese would be victorious, he said, for there was no longer any obstacle to their capture of Altur Haiten. Surely, the Tatars had become mad. Why otherwise should they speak of Genghis Khan, who was dead?

When the sun was high at midday Hang-Hi’s meal was served in the pavilion and he ate and drank heartily. Messengers had informed him of all that was taking place. The Tatars, they said, were fighting with a courage which they had not previously shown. They spiked the cannon, and thinned the ranks of the musketmen.

On the other hand, the sally had been by a few thousand, who had retired behind the mounds of brick and clay where the walls had been. A second assault by the Chinese, ordered for the after-noon, could not fail of success.

In the midst of Hang-Hi’s meal came a mounted courier from the west quarter of the camp.

“Oh, Excellency,” he cried, bowing to the floor of the pavilion, “we have been attacked by mounted Tatars from the plains. They came suddenly, and many were killed. They came, many thousands, from the woods.”

Other messengers confirmed this. Unexpectedly a strong force of mounted Tatars had appeared and defeated the weakened regiments who were stationed on the west side. These had retreated in confusion to the north and south.

“Dogs,” snarled the general of Wan Li. “Are you women to run from a few riders? Order the forces on the south and north to hold their ground. My men will be in Altur Haiten in a few hours. Whence came these new foemen?”

Yen Kui Kiang advanced and bowed.

“Favored of Heaven,” he said, “they must be some of the deserters returned. They are fighting fiercely, but their number can-not be great. Without doubt they can be easily checked during our assault.”

But the secretary had not reckoned on the mobility and prowess of the Horde, fighting in their favorite manner, maneuvering on horseback against infantry. Before the assault could be ordered, Hang-Hi learned that a second column of the enemy, stronger than the first, had struck the rear of the Chinese camp to the north and broken the ranks of the besiegers. Yen Kui Kiang declared that the latter were falling back in orderly manner on the masses of troops to the east, but the quick eyes of Hang-Hi saw crowds of his men pouring from the north side in rout.

By midafternoon the situation of the Chinese had not improved. They held two of the four sides of the city—the east and south. More than sixty thousand men had fallen in the destruction of the walls and the defeat by the cavalry. Hang-Hi found that the river at his rear, which had served as a means of communication from China, hindered movements of his troops and menaced him if he should retreat further.

Assembling his generals, Hang-Hi ordered the veteran Leo Tung men to take the first ranks on the east, facing the cavalry, between the town and the river, and the legions of the Sung generals to hold the southern camp. The other troops he had drawn up for the assault of the city he ordered to the breastworks facing the demolished walls.

The southern camp which had escaped attack he ordered to be watchful. This portion of his troops faced both the city and the plains, without the support of the river. Hang-Hi was thankful in his heart that the Tatar cavalry had drawn off in the afternoon. His men feared the Tatars on horseback.

He wished vainly for Chan Kieh Shi. As evening fell he heard the chant of the defenders inside the walls. Whence had came the army of mounted men? They seemed to have sprung from

the plains—Chakars and Tchoros, and even Kallmarks from the horde which had deserted early in the siege. And messengers brought him word that they had seen the standard of Genghis Khan among the Kallmarks.

The signal for the final assault of Altur Haiten was never given.

XVI

Kerula had taken refuge soon after the battle began in the house-hold pagoda of Hang-Hi with the other women. Here she took her place at one of the windows looking toward the south, listening with all her ears to the reports that were brought to the pagoda.

Night had fallen and she could not see the flare of the flame cauldrons, or the flash of cannon. The camp of the Chinese seemed thronged with soldiers in confusion who passed hither and thither with torches, and red lanterns. Mounted men fought to get through the throngs, trampling the infantry. Moaning of the wounded could be heard. Kerula’s thoughts were busy as she watched.

She had heard of the Tatar army that attacked from the plains. The Chinese had told wild tales of the fierceness and daring of the riders. Kerula pressed her hands together and trembled with joy. She had no doubt that this army was the Horde of Genghis Khan that she had heard in the desert. Did not the messengers say they had seen the yaks’-tails banner and heard the name of the Mighty Manslayer shouted? She had told this to the women and they had cried out in fear, leaving her alone as one accursed. Kerula was glad of this.

She listened intently at the window. She had caught the distant roar of battle in the dark. This time, however, it came from the south, in a new quarter. The sounds came nearer instead of receding. Kerula leaned far out and listened.

Truly, a great battle was being fought, unknown to the girl. Scarcely had nightfall come when the Chinese regiments to the south had been struck in the rear by successive phalanxes of Tatar horsemen that broke their ranks and threw them into confusion.

For the second time the army of the plains had appeared, led by the banner of yaks’ tails, and chanting their war song. These were not the warriors who had waited for a year behind the walls of Altur Haiten. Who were they and whence had they come?

Messages began to reach the women’s quarters. A rumor said that the Sung generals had been captured or killed, with most of their men. Another reported that a myriad Tatars were attacking in the dark. Genghis Khan had been seen riding at the head of his men, aided by demons who gave no quarter.

The confusion in the streets below Kerula grew worse. Men shouted that Altur Haiten was empty of defenders—that the Tatars were all in the plains. Reinforcements hurrying to the south lost their way in the dark and were scattered by fugitive regiments.

A mandarin in a torn robe ran into the hall of the pagoda and ordered the women to get ready to take refuge in the junks.

“A million devils have come out of the plains,” he cried, “and our doctors are pronouncing incantations to ward them off. Hang-Hi has ordered all his household to the boats.”

A wail greeted this, which grew as the women surged toward the doors in a panic. Kerula was caught in the crowd and thrust through the gate of the pagoda into the street.

She could see her way now, for buildings in the camp were in flames some distance away. Beside the women hurried soldiers without arms. She saw one or two of the helmeted Leo Tung warriors strive to push back the mob.

“Fools and dogs!” growled one sturdy warrior. “Hang-Hi holds the southern camp with one hundred thousand men. The banner-men of Leo Tung are coming to aid him. There is no battle, save on the south. Blind, and without courage!”

But the women pushed past him, screaming and calling: “The junks! We were told to go to the junks. There we will be safe!”

As often happens, the confusion of the Chinese camp was heightened by the frantic women, and their outcry caused further

panic at a time when the Leo Tung warriors who were trying to win through the mob of routed soldiers, prisoners, camp followers, and women, might have restored order. It was an evil hour for Hang-Hi that he left his pavilion to go to the front, with great bravery. In his absence the terror of the unknown gripped the camp.

“The junks!” a fleeing soldier showed. “We shall be safe there.”

The spear of a Leo Tung pierced his chest but other voices took up the cry:

“The junks! The camp is lost.”

The cry spread through the camp, and the crowds began to push toward the river front, carrying with them many of the Leo Tung men.

Kerula cast about for a shelter, for she did not wish to be carried to the river. Rather she hoped to be picked up by some of the Tatars who she knew were coming. An open archway invited her and she slipped inside, to find herself in the empty Hall of Judgment.

Lanterns of many colors were lighted along the walls of the hall, and banners of victory hung around the vacant chair of Hang-Hi. The Chinese general had planned to sit there that night with his councilors, after the fall of Altur Haiten.

Kerula ran up the silken carpet to the dais and crouched in some of the hangings where she was safe from observation.

“The junks!” she heard continually. “Hang-Hi is defeated, His men are running back from the south. To the river!”

Gradually the shouting diminished, and Kerula guessed that that part of the camp was deserted. She was about to venture out from her hiding place for a look into the street when she heard the sound of horses’ feet outside.

Her heart leaped, for she thought that the men of Genghis Khan had come. Surely, she felt, the horsemen must be Tatars, for the Chinese had no cavalry. She head voices at the archway and listened. Her heart sank as she heard Hang-Hi’s voice.

“Go to the Leo Tung men, Yen Kui Kiang, and order them to hold the other side of the river. Put the junks in motion and take the survivors of the Sung forces with my own Guard back along this side of the river. The flames of the camp will light the way. Go! The battle is lost, for those we let pass as deserters were not deserters, but an army, few at a time.”

“Nay, Excellency,” Yen Kui Kiang remonstrated, “my place is with you. Shall the viceroy of the Son of Heaven go unattended?”

“Does the viceroy of the Son of Heaven need the help of men?” Hang-Hi answered. “I give you this as a duty. Go!”

A brief silence followed, when the horses’ hoofs sounded down the street. A murmur of voices, and Kerula heard the doors of the Hall of Judgment close. She looked out from her hiding place. Hang-Hi, gorgeous in his silken and gold robe, was walking up the carpet toward his seat.

XVII

Kerula did not move. It was too late to hide behind the hangings. A movement would have attracted the attention of the general, who advanced quietly to the dais. The girl wondered, for the appearance of the commander was not that of a conquered man.

He seated himself on his throne and spread his robe on his knee. Kerula watching him, saw the wide, yellow face bend over his robe thoughtfully. He was writing on the cloth with a brush dipped in gilt.

Hang-Hi’s stately head turned and the slant eyes fastened on her. Kerula did not shrink back. Her eyes met the general’s proudly, and the man smiled at her. Again Kerula marveled. Was this the man who had been defeated by Genghis Khan?

“Little captive,” said the Chinese slowly, and she understood, for she had learned the language, quickly, “why are you not with the other women? Have you come to die with your master, as an honorable woman should?”

“Nay, Hang-Hi, lord,” Kerula answered proudly, “I am waiting for my anda—a warrior to protect me. He has promised. He

is a great warrior—Khlit, the Wolf. He has been to the tomb of Genghis Khan.”

Hang-Hi had finished his writing, and laid down his brush. He took a stout silk cord from the breast of his robe and fingered it curiously.

“Khlit said that the banner of Genghis Khan was at the tomb,” added the girl. “He will come, for he has promised.”

Hang-Hi lifted his head and pointed to the writing on the robe.

“This is an ode,” he said slowly, “and it means that it is better to lose one’s life than to lose honor by saving it. Little captive, you also will lose yours. We shall know the secrets of life and death, you and I. The banner of Genghis Khan?” His brow darkened moodily. “Could it have been brought from the tomb to the Tatars? If Chan Kieh Shi were here he could answer my question.”

He listened, as a roar and crackling that was not of a mob came to his ears. He passed his hand over his forehead, seeming to forget the girl.

“Fools!” he murmured. “How could they believe—Tatars and Chinese—that Genghis Khan was alive? He is dead, and the dead cannot live. Yet the name of Genghis Khan was on the lips of the Tatars, and my men feared. Fools! Their folly was their undoing.”

The roar and crackling came nearer and Kerula thought she smelled smoke. She gazed in fascination at the silken cord.

“Nay,” he said grimly, catching her glance, “the cord is for me, little captive. It is easier than the flames. The flames are near us, for I ordered my men to set fire to the Hall. Listen—”

Kerula heard a crackling that soared overhead. Smoke dimmed the banners along the wall. She saw Hang-Hi lift his hands to his throat. Once they fell to his lap, and rose again with the silken cord. With a cry she sped down the aisle.

The heavy teak door at the further end was closed. She beat on it with her fists helplessly, and wrenched at the fastenings. Behind her the hall glowed with a new light.

She pulled at the door with all her strength and it gave a little. She squeezed through the opening, and ran under the archway into the street.

As she did so she threw up her hands with a cry. Rank upon rank of dark horsemen were passing. Their cloaked figures and helmets were not Chinese. She was struck by one of the horses and fell to ground. Dimly she was aware that the horse which struck her turned. Then the black mantle of night seemed to fall on her and her eyes closed.

When she opened her eyes again and looked around her she was in a very different place. She lay on a pallet, covered with straw, in a small hut. The sun was streaming into it from a window over her head.

Kerula turned her head. She felt weak. The darkness that had closed on her was very near, but the sun’s rays heartened her. The hut was empty save for one man. She looked at him, and her pulse quickened.

Khlit was seated on a stool, watching her, his black pipe between his teeth and his curved sword over one knee. His clothing was covered with dust, but his eyes were keen and alert. She put out one hand and touched the sword over his knee.

“Khlit, lord,” she said happily, “you came to me as you promised you would. I told Hang-Hi you would come. But—”

A frown crossed her face as if she was striving to remember something.

“I dreamed such a dream, Khlit, lord. It seemed as if I was being carried on a horse by a warrior. I saw flames, and then darkness of the plains. Then I saw that he carried the standard of Genghis Khan that Hang-Hi feared. The standard of yaks’ tails flapped over me as we went to the tomb in the mountains, and I cried with happiness. I dreamed it was Genghis Khan that carried me.”

“It was a good battle,” Khlit growled, “it was a battle such as I have never seen. Nay, little Kerula, was your dream anything but a dream?”

“Aye, Khlit, lord. But then the standard of Genghis Khan. Surely that was real, for the men of Hang-Hi saw it.”

Khlit touched the lettering on his sword.

“Nay, Kerula,” he said slowly, “the standard of Genghis Khan lies in his tomb where the Onon Muren watch. No man will go there. For the standard and what is in the tomb belong to Genghis Khan.”

In his eyes as he spoke was the look of a man who has looked upon forbidden things unafraid. Yet when men asked him if he knew the way to the tomb where the treasure was he said that surely no man could find his way to the dead. And when Kerula told him again that her memory of the ride was real, he laughed and told her that it was a dream among dreams.