Swift as a falcon is the White Khan to protect his people, keen is his eye of an eagle; his pride in his warriors is the pride of a strong war horse; his craft in battle is the craft of an aged wolf.

The White Khan’s victories are countless as the sands of the Great Desert; his enemies slain are as the drops of water in the river Kerulon. What is the power of the White Khan?

It is the sword of a warrior!

Chagan, the strong man, bearer of the two-handed sword, lifted the wine cup high. He bowed once to the south, once to the north, once each to the west and east, pouring as he did so a little wine from the cup. As he bowed to the north, in greeting to the dead, the assembled khans roared out a prayer and dashed their wine beakers against their bearded mouths.

The sun filtered through lofty pines upon the wedding assemblage. Here was Hotai Khan, the host, leader of the Ordus, and Togachar, khan of the Kalkas, with leaders of the Chakars and Kallmarks, the Hoshot, Torgot, and Tchoros of the Jun-gar. In the pine wood beside the river Kerulon the khans were assembled after a battle in the seventeenth century.

For a day they kept high the revelry, always wearing their swords, for quarrels were frequent, and the temper of the Tatar khans was savage. The wedding was that of Berang, son of the white-haired Hotai Khan, and Kerula the Tatar girl, who had been brought to the country of the Jun-gar by a stranger. Hotai Khan had asked for the marriage, for it was his wish to ally himself with the stranger who had come with Kerula and who had brought victory to the standard of the Tatar lords in their last battle with the Chinese.

Hotai Khan, a straight-backed veteran of a hundred battles, blind in one eye, rose from his bench and stepped to the side of Chagan, his sword-bearer. From the breast of his coat he drew forth a parchment inscribed with the written names of Kerula and Berang, and with pictures to represent them. This parchment he held high for all to see.

Then, stooping over a torch that Chagan grasped in a mighty hand, Hotai Khan touched the edge of the parchment to the fire. The blaze caught it and in a moment the written names of the two young people had disappeared in smoke. Thus, they were married. Chagan lifted his stout voice in a shout of approval, and the lords of the Jun-gar echoed the shout.

Grim men they were, with scarred faces and broad shoulders. They lounged carelessly over the massive tables, quaffing heartily at their favorite drink, mare’s milk. It was a wintry day and a cold wind searched the pines, but the Tatars, warmly clad in jackets of sable furs, long undervests of silk, and heavy boots fashioned like horses’ hoofs, ignored it. The glances of the khans strayed to Hotai Khan, to Berang and his slim bride, and to the stranger. More often than not, as they looked at the stranger, they scowled.

Khlit, the wanderer called the Wolf, famous for his curved sword, heeded not these scowls. He had exchanged his Cossack svitza for a fur jacket and tunic of the Tatars, but he still wore his round sheepskin hat. His curved sword hung at his belt, with a pair of Turkish pistols. This sword bore in engraved writing the testimony of his rank. Khlit, outcast from the Cossack camps, was one of the few living descendants of Genghis Khan. He had the blood of Kaidu, the Tatar hero, in his veins.

And for this reason his presence made the khans uneasy. Khlit, the newcomer, outranked them in blood. Moreover, he had aided them in their last battle when they defeated and slew Hang-Hi the Chinese general. Yet he was not a Tatar. He was alone, having reached them without any follower other than the girl Kerula. Who was this wanderer? How were they to receive him in their ranks?

Hotai Khan had not taken his seat after burning the marriage script of his son and Kerula. His glance strayed along the rows of brown faces, and he raised his hand in greeting, carrying it next to his mouth.

“Lords of the Jun-gar,” his deep voice rang out, “my son is married to the girl of Khlit. Hence he is now a brother, an anda. Honored am I that one of the blood of Kaidu is my anda. The smoke of my household will ascend for long, because of this. Let the nacars sound, to announce my new brother-in-arms!”

Chagan had been waiting for this, and the sword-bearer motioned to followers of Hotai Khan who were assembled with trumpets. A loud blast of the shrill instrument echoed through the pine grove. At the tables around that of the khans, warriors put down their glasses in surprise. The nacars were seldom sounded, save to herald a charge or to announce a council.

The khans consulted each other with glances. They were jealous by nature, and twofold so regarding Khlit. Each was jealous of his rights among the others, and each resented newcomers. In silence they waited for Hotai Khan to continue.

“The honor is great,” pursued the old Khan bluffly, “for Khlit is a worthy warrior. You do not know how he came here. I have heard the tale from the girl Kerula. He left his own land to seek fighting. He joined the followers of Tal Taulai Khan, who is now dead, without disclosing his rank as descendant of Kaidu. After a mighty battle he went into Persia where he led the Kallmark Tatar horde against an idolatrous fortress.”

Some Kallmark chieftains murmured confirmation of this. They had heard of Khlit’s entry into Persia. But the others kept silence.

“My anda is a true man among warriors,” went on Hotai Khan, “for he alone was khan to us and led us in battle against Hang-Hi, whom he defeated bloodily. Not for a generation have the nobles of Tatary seen the Chinese in fight. Is not this proof that Khlit’s Tatar blood has led him here, to his brothers? Is he not worthy of high rank among us?”

The murmur that went up at this changed to a growl. Hotai Khan searched the faces of his comrades and found sullen anger written there. He had hoped to have Khlit acknowledged as his brother—a rank that might lead to the post of Kha Khan, White Khan, which could only be held by one of the blood of Genghis, now empty for two generations among the Jun-gar.

Hotai Khan was old in years and his wisdom foresaw that if the khans were to keep from further defeats at the hands of the Chinese, they must have a leader.

Khlit was entitled by blood to be this leader. So Hotai Khan reasoned, in his wisdom.

Sullen glances were turned toward Khlit, who had not known beforehand of the purpose of Hotai Khan. All attention was centered on Khlit, the warrior known as the Wolf.

“What rank will the Tatar lords give to the descendant of Kaidu?” asked Hotai Khan. “It must be a high rank, by token of the warrant written on his sword.”

Still the khans did not speak. Hotai Khan flushed in anger, and would have spoken, but a short, powerful warrior in tarnished Persian mail rose from his seat and folded his arms.

“You did not say, Hotai Khan,” he growled, “when you bade us drink at the wedding, that it would be a kurultai council. Your words are cunning as the tongue of a wounded fox. We did not come to listen to them. We came to drink with Berang and wish him many sons.”

Several of the khans nodded their black heads in agreement. One or two put on their pointed helmets, which they had re-moved when they sat down at the banquet.

“Do your thoughts ever wander further than wine, Togachar?” said Hotai Khan promptly. “They say you were born with a sack of mare’s milk, but you drank it all when she was not looking. Harken, before another moon or two is ended the khans will be going back to their own districts. Is it not well, while the kurultai is assembled, to give rank to one who has nobler blood than we?”

Togachar sat down, disgruntled; but a lean man in leather armor rose, and the eyes of the gathering were turned on him. He lifted his hand in greeting and smiled sardonically at Hotai Khan. This was Chepé Buga, leader of the Chakars.

“Are we, Hotai Khan,” he began clearly, “like a woman bereft of her husband, or a herd without a master? Are the Jun-gar like a flock of sheep without a herder? Nay, we are lords of our riders and of the Tatar steppe. We would like to be in friendship and agreement with Khlit, the lord who is called Wolf. Let him be your anda. Is not brotherhood with the oldest of the khans a fitting rank for a stranger?”

The gray-haired warrior bowed his head at the shout of approval that rose at these words. He knew the obstinate independence of the Tatar hordes, and how they would be fighting among themselves before a year was up. Only united by a common purpose could they hope to hold ground against the oncoming hosts of China. He saw the hoped-for chance to bring them together slipping away.

“Khlit is welcome to half my belongings and to half my men,” he retorted proudly. “For he is my anda and we have exchanged girdles. Yet this is but a poor honor for the warrior who carried the banner of Genghis Khan in our van.”

“Where is the standard, Hotai Khan?” queried Chepé Buga, twisting his dark mustache. “Khlit admits that he has put it back where it should be, in the tomb of the mighty Kha Khan. Truly our White Khans, the rulers of the long white mountains of Tatary, have been heroes. Shall we make a stranger such a hero? Nay, we know him not.”

The assembly shouted approval at these words, which satisfied their jealousy of power and their hostility to the newcomer. “How can we make this man a White Khan?” said one angrily. “He is not even a Tatar.”

“The standard of Genghis Khan won the victory for us over Hang-Hi,” echoed another drunkenly. “Behold how the Khan of

Khans watches over his children. This man who has come among us had not a horse to his name. He has not been proved yet.”

A clamor of agreement greeted this. As is the way with crowds, the chiefs vied with each other in objections, and even insults to the Cossack. True, they did not know that Hotai Khan alone had been responsible for the proposal to give Khlit rank among them.

Khlit gave no sign that he understood what had passed, al-though his knowledge of the Tatar tongue was good. Catching the eye of Hotai Khan, he made a quick gesture of acknowledgment. He pointed the fingers of his right hand toward his knee. The handle of his sword he laid on his knee. He bowed his head. This was the Tatar rendering of thanks.

Hotai Khan saw the sword, the blade that had been Kaidu’s, and his sharp old face twisted in anger at his failure. Chepé Buga, still laughing at his jest, had lifted his beaker for a general toast when for a second time the nacars sounded.

This could not be a summons to the kurultai. Chepé Buga’s hand went to his sword. At the same instant a roll of drums answered the nacars. As one man the assembled Tatars were on their feet. From infancy they had known well the sound of Chinese drums.

II

Confusion reigned for another moment in the ranks of the Tatar revelers. With the exception of the khans, every warrior ran to his horse and mounted. Bows and spears flashed out. The horsemen formed into ranks through the pine grove. Squadrons dashed out into the open toward the sound of the drums, which came nearer along the riverbank.

Then Chagan trotted up to the table. The sword-bearer of Hotai Khan was replacing his mighty two-handed blade in its scabbard, and a grin spread across his tanned face, scarred by a sword cut that had sliced away part of one cheek.

“It is a messenger, master,” he bellowed; “he rides hither clad like the Prince of Shankiang, with a handful of followers. You can hang me by the thumbs if it is not a Chinese eunuch!”

A shout of laughter greeted this sally. Chagan wheeled his horse away through the grove. Presently, as the drums approached, the men at the table could hear the stentorian voice of the sword-bearer clearing a passage through the ranks of the horsemen who had crowded to see the new arrival.

A lane was cleared leading to the table. The khans gathered behind a tall, stout man wearing a Ming hat, clad in red silks and nankeen and black satin boots. His horse was caparisoned with green embroidered silks from which jade pendants hung. A dozen mailed riders armed with lances followed him.

The Chinaman caught sight of the gathering around the table. He dismounted with some difficulty and advanced to the khans with a bow. Hotai Khan and his comrades made no response, staring at him curiously. The eunuch’s brow glistened with sweat, although the day was chill, and his hands trembled.

He drew a roll of soft paper, wrapped in silk, from his pocket, and motioned to his followers. Two of them beat the kettledrums they carried on their horses. Whereupon their leader unwrapped the silk from the paper and held it in front of him reverently.

“Greetings and eternal good health to the Mongol khans,” he said in good Tatar, “and felicitations from the World-Honored One, the Son of Heaven and the Star of Good Hope.”

Khlit wondered as he saw the emissary turn respectfully and bow nine times toward the south. He noticed that the eunuch’s hand shook so that the paper trembled like a leaf.

“Speak,” growled Togachar impatiently, “or Chagan will cut your feet from under you, offspring of a dog!”

The trembling of the paper continued, but the voice of the emissary was even as he answered.

“Thrice honor and prosperity to the Mongol khans, neighbors and subjects of the Emperor Wan Li—”

A roar of anger greeted this, silenced by Hotai Khan.

“Who have been so imprudent as to take up arms against an army of the Son of Heaven, and slay one of the generals, Hang-Hi. It is written that with the slayer of his kin a man may not

live under the same sky. Such is the wisdom of our ancestors. The general Hang-Hi was a cousin of the Divine Person, and his death will be fully avenged. The great general of the Imperial court, Li Jusong, has been called from Korea and has taken a vow of vengeance. Evil will follow this act of the Mongol khans—”

“The evil will begin upon your fat, divine person,” muttered Chepé Buga aloud, and the eunuch shuddered.

“As a beginning of the vengeance,” he pursued, “Li Jusong, who marches to destroy the khans, seconded by the Dragon Emperor, and by the Lilies of the Court, decrees that the strange warrior who carried the Mongol standard in the battle which caused the death of Hang-Hi shall be given up. Failing this, the men of the Lily of the Court society will see to it that he is brought alive to the Emperor Wan Li. This is the imperial mandate to the Mongol khans. Wan Li, Son of Heaven, thus ends his message to his subjects.”

The eunuch closed the roll of paper. He faced the assembly calmly, although his fat cheeks were quivering. A brief silence followed. Several of the Tatars glanced at Khlit irresolutely. Jealousy showed in their eyes. Chepé Buga, however, stepped to the emissary and snatched the paper, which he flung on the ground, spitting on it.

“Are we subjects, scion of the devil’s worst brood?” he roared. “We will show your imperial master what we think of him. Chagan! See that nails are brought and driven into the ears of this fat beast.”

The grinning sword-bearer hastened away on his mission. Ho-tai Khan stepped forward, but Togachar restrained him.

“What is your name, old woman?” the latter flung at the terrified eunuch.

“Cho Kien.”

“Cho Kien,” laughed Chepé Buga, “after such a message do you expect to be pampered like a palace jade? Surely, you do not fear to join the Son of Heaven in the sky—by way of Hades. Hurry hither the nails. We will have good sport.”

Before Chagan could make his appearance, another stepped between Chepé Buga and the emissary. Khlit faced Chepé Buga and Hotai Khan. But he spoke to the other Tatars as well.

“Harken, noble lords,” he said in Tatar, “I have a boon to ask. Has not this man come with a message that concerns me? I am the man he seeks. Then let me answer him. And talk no more of nails. My answer must be taken to the emperor himself.”

Some of the riders murmured disapproval at being robbed of their sport. But the khans and Cho Kien waited in silence. The slant eyes of the eunuch fastened on Khlit and he drew a long breath of relief. He had not expected mercy from the khans, knowing the message he was bringing them.

“Cho Kien,” said Khlit slowly, and the Tatars hung on his words, “your life will be spared, to take this word to the man who is your master. Forget it not. The man you seek is Khlit, called the Wolf by his enemies—such that still live. He did not slay Hang-Hi, who committed suicide after his defeat. If your master wants vengeance on Khlit, tell him to come for it. He will not find me in the ranks of the Tatar khans but elsewhere. That is my message.”

Hotai Khan stepped forward and laid his hand on Khlit’s arm. “Nay,” he said anxiously, “you will be among us, lord. Are you not my anda? Am I not sworn to protect you with my sword and my blood? The arm of the Dragon Emperor is long, through his spies whose societies are found in all Tatary and the world. Half my men are yours to command. The Khantai Khan mountains and the river Kerulon will guard us. Berang has left me. My home will be empty without you.”

Khlit made again the gesture of thanks and this time his hand lingered on his sword.

“Hotai Khan,” he said, “your words are those of a brother. But I have no place among the ranks of the khans. Do you think I did not hear what was said at the council? I shall be alone when the men of the Dragon Emperor come to see me.”

“Nay, lord,” spoke up Chepé Buga hastily, “do not leave us. Our swords will carve the carcasses of those who come after you.”

With a grim smile Khlit shook his gray head. “I ask it not, noble lord. My enemies have been many, but my sword has served me well—”

“The men of the Dragon Emperor have other weapons than swords,” objected Hotai Khan. “If your death is decreed your sword will do little for you, outside our protection.”

“It is the sword of Kaidu, the hero, Hotai Khan. When have the White Khans asked protection of men? I am of their blood. Cho Kien, you have heard what we have said. Tell it to your master. Now, go!”

Hastily the eunuch seized the chance to escape. He mounted with more eagerness than skill, and shouted to his followers. The mailed riders wheeled their horses behind him and broke into a gallop once they were clear of the Tatar ranks. Followed by the gibes of the Tatars they disappeared in the direction of the river.

III

No sentries watched at the edge of Hotai Khan’s camp that night. There was shouting and drinking in the tents, following the marriage of Berang. But sentries were unknown in Tatar camps. The descendants of Genghis Khan held their enemies in scorn, and they never kept watch for a possible foe, proud of their strength.

Snow had begun to fall with darkness, and sifted in under the branches of the pine trees. The ground was already carpeted white, and the tents were cloaked with it. Through the snow, past the lighted tents and flaming torches, Khlit guided his horse.

The Cossack walked his horse until the last of the tents were left behind, and then he shook the flakes from his shoulders and broke into a trot. His shoulders were not as square as they had once been. His head bowed more than formerly. His thoughts were not cheering companions.

Once before he had ridden thus from the camp of the Cossacks, never to return. A second time he had left the yurta of the Kall-

mark Tatars, driven by the same impulse to wander. It may have been that it was the call of his ancestor’s blood that had drawn him to the Tatar steppe. He had fought his way to the camp of the Jun-gar, who were his kin, and among them he had thought to find companions for the last days of his life.

For Khlit was no longer young. His arm, tireless in battle until now, was failing him, and more than ever he found himself depending on craft to aid him against his foes. The curved sword had not been drawn from its sheath for many months. Khlit’s pride, which had separated him from comrades of the Cossack camp, would not let him dwell amid the jealousies of the Jun-gar khans. He set out again as he had done in the past, to match his wits against a foe. But this time he knew that his strength was not equal to his former efforts. And the wanderer realized that this enemy was greater than those of former years. The Dragon Emperor was not easily to be cheated of a victim.

Khlit pulled his saddlebags, containing food and powder, tighter. He had put on a long fur coat, but the cold pierced through it. His horse turned its head and neighed, edging to one side as if to turn back to the camp. Khlit jerked it forward in silence.

The next instant he was erect in the saddle and alert. The snow of the rough road made things visible some distance in advance. He made out the figure of a rider standing motionless a few paces ahead.

It was not a sentry, for none was posted. Also, it was no one who had taken the trail ahead of him, for the rider waited, his horse drawn up across the road. The man, whoever he was, could not have heard Khlit coming over the soft snow.

Khlit did not halt. He loosened his saber in its scabbard, and bent forward watchfully. The figure had not stirred, yet he felt that the man was observing him closely. His horse trotted for-ward, sniffing at the newcomer. They were within a few feet of each other when Khlit saw the arm’s sudden movement, and the flash of a sword over the rider’s head.

His own blade was out instantly and he urged his mount ahead suddenly by a pressure of the knees. He saw the other horse start back in alarm and the sword of the rider whirl over him. Parrying the heavy stroke of the other, Khlit threw the full weight of himself and his mount against the man, and felt the rider fall as his horse stumbled to its knees. The man sprang clear cleverly and confronted Khlit on foot.

The Cossack had wheeled his horse with uplifted blade for a second stroke when he was startled by a hearty laugh in the darkness. The man was standing before him, but with lowered weapon. Khlit halted distrustfully. As he did so a deep voice hailed him.

“Aye, it is true. It was well done, Khlit, lord, and I am content. By the mane of my grandfather’s sire, I was nearly a dead man. But put up the curved sword. I have had a good taste of it. Save it for others.”

A sudden suspicion struck Khlit.

“What name do you bear, O striker in the dark?” he asked grimly.

“They call me Chagan,” the voice growled, “and I was sword-bearer to the Ordu Khan until tonight. I saw you leaving the camp, and followed. Knowing the way, I easily got ahead of you. I had a mind to test the curved sword of Kaidu and I find it well to my liking.”

With that Chagan swung his heavy bulk skillfully into his saddle, and came close to Khlit.

“Lord,” he said slowly, “think not I meant evil. This great sword of mine has split men to the wishbone, but it was not laid heavily against you. I watched in the battle, and saw you bearing the standard of the White Khan, Genghis. I care not for talk of rank. I have seen what I have seen.”

“What said you, Chagan?” said Khlit. “I go alone, and there is peril ahead. My arm is not as strong as it was, to swing the curved sword. Get you back to the yurta where there is good wine.”

“Aye,” laughed the sword-bearer, “I had a skinful of it. If there is danger so much the better. But where you go, I go. Did I not see the standard of Genghis Khan in your hand? My eyes do not lie.”

“It is like a dog to bay without sense,” he growled. “And a dog tries to make game of what it lacks sense to understand. I am going into the country of the Dragon. Get back to your kennel, dog!”

He urged his horse past the huge sword-bearer and galloped on down the trail. Before he had gone a hundred paces Chagan was beside him. Khlit lengthened the stride of his horse, but Chagan had chosen his mount with care and kept pace.

“You have named me well, lord,” he growled. “I am a dog. And when was a dog sent home when a hunt was on?”

“Turn back, Chagan, one without wits, or Hotai Khan will be without a sword-bearer.”

Chagan reined his steed behind Khlit, for the trail had narrowed.

“Hotai Khan is without one now,” he made answer with a chuckle. “Nay, I know the paths around here, to the Dragon standard in your hands. Is not the battle thickest where the standard flies? I scent a battle in the wind.”

Khlit made no answer. Putting his horse to its best pace he succeeded in distancing Chagan to some degree. He turned aside into a grove of pines when he guessed that dawn was not far off. Dismounting and tethering his horse, he took a skin from his saddle and hung it to keep the driving snow off him as he spread his coat on the ground to sleep.

The sun was high and the snow had ceased falling when he wakened. He crawled from his robe and stood up. Then he saw that another skin had been stretched over his own. Beside his horse another was tied. At his feet he saw a bulky form on the ground. It was nearly covered with a white drift. Khlit recognized

the scarred face that turned up to him. The man had slept outside the shelter in the night. And it was Chagan, the sword-bearer.

IV

Khlit lost no time in putting a considerable distance between himself and the Tatar camp. He did not want to be followed, and he was grateful for the snow that had covered his tracks. He pressed ahead quickly, in a southeasterly direction that he knew would take him across the limits of Tatary and the plains that extended to the river Liao.

Chagan was not to be left behind, and Khlit was forced to reconcile himself to the company of the sword-bearer. The latter proved himself valuable in many ways. He led Khlit to a ford over the Kerulon. This river, he told the Cossack, formed the barrier that had been the scene of many battles between the retreating khans and the hosts of the Dragon Emperor.

As the two left the scattered yurtas of Tatars behind and came in sight of mud villages along the streams, Chagan conducted Khlit around the main caravan paths and the villages so that they were not observed.

Chagan made no comment on the course Khlit directed him to take. Apparently the sword-bearer was well content to follow where his master led. Only once did he ask a question.

“Lord,” he said one morning when the two were beginning their trot over the snow plains, “you have called me one without wit. Truly that is the case, for what need have I for wit when I follow you? Yet I would know one thing. What part of the empire is our destination? Are we going beyond the Wall?”

“Nay, I think not,” responded Khlit. “Some travelers told us that the army of Li Jusong had passed the Wall and was riding northwest. If a fox wishes to hide from the hounds, is not the best hiding place the house of the master of the hounds? For the hounds go afield from the house. I am going to the army of Li Jusong. They will not know me for a Tatar.”

“Aye, that’s very well,” grumbled Chagan, who did not seem overpleased with this. “But these hounds of ours have a keen nose for game. They are hard to throw off the scent. The Lilies of the Court that the fat fool Cho Kien mentioned are a society pledged to exterminate Tatars in China. They have sacked many cities outside the Wall. Aye, they are a poisonous sort of lilies, with their magicians that spy out the future. There will be many of the society in the ranks of Li Jusong, for he marches against Tatary.”

Khlit glanced shrewdly at his companion. Chagan was not the man to be held back from fear. Yet it was plain that he liked the Lilies of the Court but little.

“Where can we meet the army of Li Jusong, Chagan?” he asked. The sword-bearer scowled in thought and pointed ahead of them.

“Four days’ fast riding from here is the city of Shankiang,” he ventured, “a border city. It lies in the course of Li Jusong, and at the rate we are traveling we may reach it a little before he does.

“Shankiang is not a city of China, for it borders the upper Liao, where the people are Holangs, merchants and traders for the most part and unwarlike. They are neither Tatars nor Chinese. There you can see your fill of the men of Han and the silk devils of the Dragon Throne.”

On learning that Khlit would go to Shankiang, Chagan had a further suggestion to make. Khlit, he pointed out, had a full growth of hair on his head and in his mixed costume might pass for an ordinary traveler. Once in Shankiang, he said, they could stable their horses and Tatar trappings and go about on foot where they would attract less attention. But he, Chagan, would need a more complete disguise.

Their swords they must keep. So Chagan proposed that he purchase the clothes of a wrestler on the way to the city. His head was already shaven on the front of his skull, and if he shaved it entirely, it would be in the fashion of a wrestler. The two-handed

sword would then be in keeping with his costume, for the stout wrestlers carried such weapons as a mark of their craft.

To this Khlit agreed. He knew that it would cost Chagan misgivings to shave his treasured hind lock of hair. But the swordbearer’s great size would bear out his character of a wrestler. Whatever danger Khlit ran from Chagan’s presence would be balanced by the information the other could give him concerning the Chinese. All that would be necessary was for Chagan to keep silence in public where his tongue might betray him. Khlit, in speaking, used the tongue he had learned in Samarkand.

It was a favorite trick of the old Cossack to hide among the hunters when he was hunted. The army of Li Jusong would be made up of a hundred different clans, including warriors from Nankao to Holong, and in the myriad of fighters he might well be safe. In reasoning thus, Khlit had lost none of his cunning. He had, however, not reckoned upon two things. One was the prophecy of Li Chan Ko, magician of Li Jusong; the other was the Lilies of the Court.

Thus it happened that when Khlit rode with his companion into sight of the walled city of Shankiang he had the appearance of a traveler who was accompanied by a wrestler as henchman. Chagan’s bulk was swathed in a padded quilt, bound around with silk sashes painted to represent his prowess; his Tatar boots were discarded for cotton wrappings, and a fur cap displaced his pointed helmet. The scar that ran down his cheek bore out his character, and his long hair had been shaved off.

The rough trails and caravan paths over the plains had changed to a broad road occupied by merchants’ equipages, by wandering beggars, and by peasants carrying fish and grain to the city. On either side of the road the wind bells of tiled pagodas sounded cheerily; occasional stone pillars fashioned to charm away devils lined the way. Passing camels brushed past the horses of Khlit and Chagan.

The road joined the river Liao near the walls, and Khlit saw a multitude of junks drawn up along the banks. When evening fell and they were about to enter the gates, he saw the merchants and

beggars with them point to the river and touch their foreheads in reverence.

Looking out he saw a large junk drifting down the current. It bore a multitude of colored lanterns, and banners floated from the mast and prow. The men on the junks along the banks raised a shrill chant as the vessel passed them. Khlit turned inquiringly to Chagan.

“They say,” whispered the latter contemptuously, “that the junk is sent out with lanterns to light the wandering ghosts of the dead. May the evil spirits rip my hide, but they had best waited until Li Jusong had gone. There will be more dead, then. Aye, the ghosts will be plentiful.”

So Chagan said, not knowing the prophecy of Li Chan Ko, magician of Li Jusong. But when he entered the towered gate of Shankiang, he touched Khlit’s shoulder and pointed out over the river. In the distance the sun was setting. It was a dull, angry red in color. And between them and the sun drifted the lighted lanterns of the junk on its silent course down the river.

V

The Courts of Purgatory are filled not only from the City of Old Age. The Rakchas are gleeful when they hear the sound of trumpets summoning men into battle on earth.

For on the terrace of night the sleepers will throng. Surely, they are sleeping, since they went to their graves as beds.

From the Kang Mu Chronicles

The first thing that Chagan did on arriving in Shankiang was to find stables for the horses of the travelers, and quarters for them-selves in the merchants’ section of the town nearby. He bargained for a room over a candlemaker’s shop where a window opened upon one of the main streets of the city. Another aperture in the rear gave access to a walled-in garden where the candle-maker, Wen Shu by name, tended a miniature garden in his leisure hours.

Never, save in Samarkand, had Khlit been in a city of the size of Shankiang. Unlike Tatar cities, the wall was the sole defense of the place—a wall of stone some forty feet in height, surmounted

by occasional towers and pierced by four gates. Within the wall was a solid mass of wooden buildings, humming like a hive with its populace.

While he waited for the coming of Li Jusong, Khlit wandered through the streets of Shankiang, visiting the teeming waterfront, and the booths of the journeying scholars who wrote letters and books for their clients, by the walled temples of the monks. At a shop set up outside their quarters he bought a set of ivory chess-men from a vendor, saying to Chagan that it was well to have a trade when Li Jusong’s men should question them. To this Chagan heartily agreed.

The giant sword-bearer seemed not in the best of humor. He spent long hours at the waterfront during the days of waiting, and returned with the news that Li Jusong had been seen approaching the river Liao. Also, he said, junks were hurrying to the city from the upper stretches of the river. That was foolish, Chagan declared, in the face of a coming army which was not allied to the Holangs.

Khlit watched Chagan closely, and he could have sworn the man had more on his mind than he was willing to tell. More than once the sword-bearer broke off what he was saying, to stare at his weapon in silence.

“Li Jusong should be here within three days,” Khlit observed to him one morning as they left their quarters.

“Aye,” said Chagan, “is not that what you are waiting for?”

The strange speech stuck in Khlit’s mind. A curtained sedan was carried past them, and Khlit caught a glimpse of a yellow face peering out from the curtains. He noticed what appeared to be a badge of office on the hat of the man in the sedan. Chagan, however, plucked at his arm, and hurried him away into the crowd.

“That was one of the Lily of the Court officials,” he whispered excitedly. “There are too many in the city, master, to please me. We may yet be strung up on the bone-crackers of their torture chambers, you and I!”

“Dog of the devil, Chagan,” growled Khlit, “I knew not you could be so easily frightened!”

“I—frightened?” Chagan stared his amazement. “Nay, but this place reeks of evildoing. I am sick for the plains and a horse.”

That evening, when the lanterns were hung outside the doors, Chagan came hurrying into the walled garden where Khlit was sitting nursing his sword.

“The beggars in the marketplace who have come from out-side say that Li Chan Ko, the magician of Li Jusong, has told a prophecy about Shankiang. They say the mandarins of the city are debating shutting the gates on Li Jusong, for the men of Han bear them no good will.”

The next day the city was rife with talk and the crowds thronged the streets. Khlit could not understand what was said, but he realized that the people were agitated. Bodies of infantry ill disciplined and worse armed were hurrying back and forth. The junks completely blocked the river.

The prospect of the city shutting its gates to the coming army had not occurred to Khlit. He was not aware of feuds between the men of Han and Wang under the Dragon Emperor and the outlying districts. He made his way to the southern gate in time to see an imposing cavalcade of mandarins and priests trot forth and the doors swing to behind them.

“They are emissaries going to Li Jusong,” Chagan explained after the sword-bearer had questioned a bystander, a small, bright-eyed archer clad in complete mail with an ax slung at his belt.

The latter swung around at Chagan’s words and stared at the two curiously.

“Ho there, those are foreign words,” he chuckled, closing one eye, “but fear not, my tongue does not wag by itself. Here, it pays to say little. One dog barks at nothing and the rest bark at him.”

“What man are you, archer?” questioned Khlit, for the other spoke a Tatar dialect that he understood.

“Nobody’s man, uncle, but his who pays the most. I am a wanderer of Manchu blood, at present in the employ of the mandarins

of this cursed city. Men call me Arslan; I am captain of a ten of archers on the walls. Likewise, a lusty singer. Harken—harken.” Arslan lifted a melodious voice:

An arbor of flowers, And a kettle of wine.

Alas! in the bowers No companion is mine.

Then the moon sheds her rays

On my goblet and me,

And my shadow betrays

We’re a party of three.

Though the moon cannot swallow

Her share of the grog

And my shadow must follow

Whenever I jog.

See the moon—how she glances

Response to my song.

See my shadow—it dances

So lightly along.

While sober Ifeel

You are both my good friends.

When drunken I reel

Our boon fellowship ends.

“By the looks of things,” muttered Chagan, “your arrows will be flying before long and by the same token a Lily-handled dagger will stick from your shoulder blades.”

“Not mine,” laughed Arslan. “For I am stationed on the Tower of the Five Falcons, which is loftiest of all on the walls. Harken, wrestler—you bear a goodly sword. If there is fighting, come to the Tower of the Five Falcons. Then you will see some pretty bow-and-arrow work!”

“Aye, we may come to toss your carcass over the walls, cousin Arslan,” growled Chagan.

But the archer turned away with a laugh. They heard him humming to himself as he disappeared in the crowd.

When they returned to the shop, Wen Shu had left his work and was laying a sacrifice of food and drink before his ancestral tablet in the sanctuary of the garden. More troops moved through the streets that night, and the gates were kept shut.

By the following night the embassy had not returned. Rumors were rife that the mandarins had been held as hostages and that Li Jusong had ordered the gates to be opened, and all soldiers to be disarmed. The cavalry of the Chinese general were reported in the suburbs. Khlit and Chagan slept that night in their boots and with their swords under their hands.

VI

At dawn, the Kang Mu relates, the gates of Shankiang were closed. Khlit was not able to return to the walls. When he tried to force through the crowds in the streets he was thrown back by armed bodies of horsemen. Shots were heard, and a wail went up from the women of Shankiang. Chagan and Khlit had agreed that in case the town resisted they would take to their horses, and await the arrival of Li Jusong. It might be possible to mingle with the ranks of the Chinese if they entered the place. But neither he nor Chagan was prepared for what followed.

They were unable to reach the stable and had drawn to one side of the street under an archway. The crowd surged back on them as a mounted man rode down the street. His armor was torn and he was without a weapon. Two footmen struggled to keep up with the rider by clinging to his stirrups. They also were without arms, although their badges showed them to be retainers of the mandarins. They were heading for the river.

After the rider had passed the people began to run into the houses. Merchants with their families in sedan chairs, accompanied by servants, thronged down the alleys that led to their junks. The wailing of women rose higher. From time to time bursts of musket shots sounded from the south. A bareheaded bonze with streaming garments came panting by them. When Chagan caught

the latter’s long sleeve to detain him, the priest tore himself loose and ran on with half his coat left in the Tatar’s hand.

The street was nearly deserted by now and Khlit motioned Chagan to resume their course to the stable. Like the Tatar, he felt the need of a horse between his legs, for he was not used to fighting on foot. They had not gone a dozen paces, however, when a group of horsemen came galloping toward them. They barely had time to jump aside into a doorway before the riders swept past like a torrent, several gorgeously robed mandarins in their midst.

“They go like men who want to save their skins,” growled Chagan. “Ha!”

He pointed after the horsemen. In the center of the alley a short distance away lay a quivering heap of silk. The bonze had not been quick to jump aside.

New crowds hurrying down to the junks barred the way to the stable and the two were forced to turn back to the candlemaker’s shop. They found Wen Shu with his wife and daughter in their best robes sitting quietly in the closed shop. With a hurried question, Chagan left the candlemaker and followed Khlit to their room.

“To eat,” said Khlit calmly, suiting the action to the word. “The walls of the town are strong. Li Jusong will have a hard time breaking in.”

Chagan shook his head moodily at this, but, observing that Khlit was making away with the best portions of the rice and fish, he fell to eating with the Cossack. That done, Chagan stretched full length on the floor and was soon asleep. Khlit watched by the window.

It was impossible now to leave the city by the walls. And Khlit was loath to join the mad rush for the junks. He waited for darkness, when it might be possible to venture abroad and learn more of what was happening. The sound of musketry presently ceased. The pandemonium in the street was quieter. Khlit heard the beat of horses’ hoofs.

Looking out, he saw a troop of riders in blue coats with banners trotting down the street in good order, four abreast. The sight re-assured him somewhat, and he shook Chagan into wakefulness.

“These are better warriors than the others we have seen,” he observed to the Tatar.

“Aye, your eye is keen, master,” chuckled Chagan; “those are some of Li Jusong’s Leo Tung men.”

He disappeared down the stairs leading to the shop, returning after a moment. Stretching his giant arms wide, he gave a huge yawn and shook himself like a dog.

“It was a good sleep,” he growled. “Come, Khlit, lord, we had best be stirring or we will be smoked out like dead fish. Wen Shu says that the city has fallen. Some of the infantry held the south-ern gate for a while, but the followers of the Lily treacherously opened the eastern gate to Li Jusong’s cavalry. It will be an evil night for Shankiang and you and I will have work for our swords.”

Khlit buckled his belt tighter and filled his pipe with tobacco. When the pipe was lighted to his satisfaction he turned to Chagan.

“What kind of men are these, Chagan?” he said, sweeping his arm in the direction of the city. “The walls could have kept Li Jusong out for a year—”

“In Tatary, yes, master. But in China there is always a traitor and a back door. Also a dagger in the kidneys of a true fighter. Come, I will show you proof of what has happened.”

Khlit followed Chagan down to the shop, where the Tatar paused, pointing grimly to where Wen Shu sat cross-legged on the floor, bowing back and forth in grief. All the candles and lanterns of the shop had been lighted. Incense burned at the ancestral shrine. Flowers were arranged in the vases.

Clearly outlined in the many-colored glow, Khlit saw the figures of the wife and daughter of Wen Shu. Dressed in their dainty garments, the two women hung from a rafter over the head of the candlemaker. Silken cords were around their white throats, and fastened to the rafter.

“He will wait there until a Han sword severs his neck also,” explained Chagan. “These people allow themselves to be slain like sheep once a city is taken. Still, Wen Shu has the satisfaction of seeing his women dead before the warriors of Li Jusong get here. I know, for I have carved up many like him.”

With that Chagan led the way into the street and Khlit followed silently. Evening was falling, but the sky was lighted by the glow of numerous fires. The smell of smoke was in the air. Khlit led Chagan into another street on the way to the stable. Here bodies were lying.

Chagan took no notice of them, but Khlit stooped at the first one and, drawing his curved sword, dipped it into the pool of blood beside the body, which was that of a child. The Tatar, seeing this, did likewise, with a grin.

“Better to be thought wolves than sheep, Chagan,” said Khlit grimly.

The prospect of danger had brought a light to his eyes and a flush to his lean cheeks. With bared swords the two passed on, keeping close together, in the direction of their horses. As they went they saw new evidence of the coming of Li Jusong.

By a many-storied pagoda which was blazing to its summit they saw a heap of bodies. The unfortunates who had taken refuge in the temple had been forced by the flames to come out, only to meet the swords of the Han warriors. So much Khlit read in the sight of the bodies, for he was old in the ways of warfare. He had stooped over the forms, when one of them, a slender girl, struggled upright and faced him.

The child was wild-eyed with fright, and her trembling hands gripped her throat. She stared blindly at Khlit, plainly expecting his sword to descend on her. Chagan took her by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet with rough good nature.

“Get you into that alley, dollf ace,” he bellowed, pointing to a dark opening at one side of the burning building, “or Li Jusong’s butchers will sharpen their blades—ha! Watch, Khlit, lord!”

A group of pikemen had run into the open space from another street and approached them. Chagan gave the girl a hasty shove, as if to cast her down among the bodies again. But instead of obeying him she pulled the form of a small boy to his feet beside her. The infant seemed to be wounded, for he was dripping blood. Holding the boy close to her, the girl remained motionless.

The pikemen had come up to them, and one of them questioned Chagan roughly. The sword-bearer made no reply, not understanding what the other said. Before Khlit realized what had happened one of the pikemen had thrust his weapon into the girl’s side. She sank to her knees with a low moan.

The boy gave a cry of anguish and clutched the hand of the soldier. With a laugh the pikeman wrenched his spear loose from the girl and wiped it clean on the boy’s garments. His half-dozen companions closed threateningly around Khlit and Chagan.

At the same instant Khlit’s curved sword flashed up. It whirled swiftly against the throat of the pikeman. The soldier dropped beside the girl, his head hanging from his shoulder by a strip of flesh.

The spears of the others were lifted at Khlit, who had slashed the face of a second man with the same stroke that slew the murderer of the girl. He sprang back, only to see three of the menacing pikes knocked to the ground by a stroke of Chagan’s huge sword, with its foot-wide blade. He warded off the stroke of the fourth man, drawing a pistol at the same time.

Khlit discharged his pistol at the waist of the man who had struck at him, and turned to Chagan. His sword was lifted for a second stroke, but he stayed his hand. Chagan’s blade, falling again, had dashed two of the men to earth with split heads. The survivor had dropped his pike and taken to his heels. He did not go far, however.

With an oath Chagan caught up one of the pikes at his feet. Dropping his heavy sword for an instant, he poised the spear and hurled it after the fugitive with all the strength of his long arm.

The weapon caught the man in the small of the back and he dropped to his knees.

“The hunting had begun, Chagan,” cried Khlit, “but other dogs are coming. Follow me!”

With a backward glance at groups of Chinese who were running toward them from each end of the street Khlit turned and dived into the alley that Chagan had pointed out to the girl. The sword-bearer pounded at his heels.

VII

The alley was shut off from the light from the burning pagoda, but the sky was bright with the general conflagration of the city. Khlit saw that he was running down a passage between large buildings. He caught sight of an opening at his right and turned aside. Two dim objects about the height of a man confronted him. These he recognized as the stone drums of the city, now deserted.

He had been that way before, and with a flash of memory he swerved into a gateway that led him to a flight of steps. Up these he climbed, with the watchful Tatar at his heels. The steps led to a jade and stone gateway of the central Buddhist temple.

A cry from below told him that the pursuers had caught sight of them from the street. Chagan gave a curse, but Khlit drew him silently into the temple. It was deserted. The long hall that led to the giant bronze figure of Buddha was empty of worshipers. There was no place of concealment in the hall, and Khlit, perforce, ran to the figure of the cross-legged god.

At the very feet of the image stretched a white form. One of the priests had been slain in his sanctuary, for a red line blurred the white of the robe from throat to waist. Khlit wasted no time, but sought along the wall for the doors he knew must be there, opening into the priests’ apartments. A silken curtain covered the wall, but when Chagan thrust at it with his sword, it yielded and they pushed under it, finding themselves in an ebony and lacquer chamber, lighted by red lanterns.

A white robe flitted away down a passage that led from the priests’ chamber and Khlit sprang after it, panting with the effort he was making. The fleeing priest, who must have imagined that death stalked him, led them down the passage and through a narrow door out onto a terrace on the farther side of the building.

The wretched man had flung himself imploringly on the ground before them. Khlit stepped over his prostrate form, and Chagan followed him, bestowing a hearty kick on the priest as he did so. They were now in a cherry garden belonging to the temple. A few minutes more and they had reached the edge of the garden, unseen by their pursuers, who had stopped to slay the priest.

A stone wall confronted them, but this problem Chagan easily solved. Sheathing his sword, the Tatar swung himself up to the summit of the wall. Reaching down a powerful hand, he drew Khlit beside him. They dropped to the farther side and walked down the alley in which they found themselves.

It opened out into a wide square filled with moving bands of soldiers. Khlit realized that hesitation would mean disaster for them. Motioning to Chagan to follow, he stepped out among the Chinese. The latter, seeing their crimson swords, took no further notice of them. When they had put a safe distance between them and the temple garden, Khlit halted, leaning on his sword to recover breath.

He saw that they stood in a square one side of which was bordered by the city wall. The scene was outlined by flames behind them, and Khlit made out a tower opposite, rising against the wall and above it to a considerable height.

The Chinese around them were discharging arrows at the summit of the tower. Others were crowding around the door, which was already nearly blocked with dead. On the summit of the tower were several defenders who were replying to the arrows of the besiegers. Khlit could see the helmets of the men on the tower

appear at the edge of the rampart to let fly an arrow and then draw back. They had already taken heavy toll of the attackers.

Chagan, who had been scanning the tower closely, pointed up at it.

“The Tower of the Five Falcons, master,” he whispered. “I see the archer, Arslan, up there. His men shoot like devils. We had best go elsewhere or our friend Arslan will settle his score with me with one of his shafts.”

The streets leading from the square were nearly deserted by the Holangs, and the two were able to avoid wandering bands of Li Jusong’s men. Khlit traced his way back to the merchants’ quarter, and eventually they came to the stable where their horses had been left. The beasts were gone.

Chagan flung himself down on a heap of straw with an oath and Khlit seated himself beside the sword-bearer. Drawing bread and meat from a wallet at his belt, the Cossack began to eat calmly, sharing his food with Chagan. Khlit was too old a warrior to be disturbed by the slaughter that was going on around them throughout the city of Shankiang.

“We will wait here until daylight,” he told Chagan. “Tomorrow we may find a place in the ranks of Li Jusong.”

Chagan paused in the act of swallowing a mouthful of meat and stared at his companion curiously. He started to speak, then thought better of it. But for the remainder of the night, which was hideous with the sound of slaying and pillage, he kept silence. More than once Khlit found the giant looking at him moodily.

When the sun was well up the two went out of the stable. Stopping only to take a long drink at the well in the yard, they returned to the streets of the stricken city. Quiet prevailed. Nothing was to be seen save the bodies that filled the gutters and the doorways of houses. Smoke rose densely from several quarters of the town.

The quiet did not deceive Khlit. He had no need to ask Chagan to know that the sack of Shankiang was not ended; that it had only begun.

VIII

On turning into one of the main streets, lined with shopkeepers’ painted signs, Khlit and Chagan came face to face with a pro-cession of Holang prisoners. They were marching in single file, escorted by a party of Han men, and were tied together by a long rope.

“Like a string of pearls,” Chagan said.

The party was led by an officer of great height and imposing appearance. This man halted the procession as Khlit and Chagan came abreast him, and scanned them closely. Chagan returned his gaze with an impudent stare. Khlit essayed a word of greeting in the Uigur tongue to which the officer did not reply.

“What is your name and business, graybeard?” the Chinese asked finally. “You wear strange clothes.”

“A traveling chess player, sir,” responded Khlit quickly, “with my servant. Can you direct us to Li Jusong?”

“The general of the Son of Heaven is out inspecting the streets, Uigur,” answered the officer. “He would welcome you if you are truly a chess player, for the game is his distinguished delight. Your servant is big of bone. I am weary of killing these swine. We will have some sport. Len Shi!”

He struck his fan sharply against his leg, and a giant Chinaman made his appearance from among the troops with a low bow. The officer spoke to him sharply and gave a command to his men. Two of them went into a shop and returned with a chair in which he seated himself. Two others brought a square silk of the width of five paces which they spread in the street. The prisoners watched apathetically. “Your man is a wrestler,” said the officer to Khlit. “Len Shi is also a wrestler, a rascal of strength and skill. We will see which is the better man.”

When Khlit interpreted this to Chagan, who did not under-stand the Uigur tongue, the Tatar cast a calculating glance at Len Shi. Big as Chagan was, the Chinaman was broader at the shoulders and heavier by fifty pounds. When Len Shi had doffed his

quilted coat and undertunic, two massive arms showed, topped by a bull neck.

Chagan followed the example of his adversary promptly. He seemed no whit afraid, although he wore a scowl.

“I know not this wrestling sport,” he whispered to Khlit as he stripped off his shirt. “But there is no man in China who can overmatch me at handgrips. Let this fat bullock look to his back, for I will break it for him.”

Khlit watched his comrade with a troubled glance. Chagan was as powerful a man as he had ever seen, but Len Shi was weightier and moved with assurance, like one who had no doubt of his skill. Strong as the Tatar was, he might be no match for the Chinaman at the latter’s game.

The Cossack took the two-handed sword from Chagan, allowing no one else to touch it, in spite of the fact that two of the soldiers offered readily to do so. The rest crowded around the silk square, talking eagerly with Len Shi, who made no response, but stared at Chagan, hands on his knees and slant eyes narrowed.

Khlit watched the two men as they faced each other on the silk, and glanced at the bland countenance of the officer. The latter showed no sign of interest in the bout, but Khlit felt that he had arranged it with a purpose.

The next instant the two wrestlers had locked arms and were swaying over the square. Len Shi’s great face turned mottled with the effort he was making, and he roared with anger. Chagan made no sound, foiling the attempts of his adversary to trip him to the ground, where Len Shi’s greater weight would tell.

The soldiers crowded close to the two men, whose hot breaths rose in vapor through the cold air. The officer stroked his fan gently. Apparently he was not interested in the wrestlers, but Khlit saw that he watched them keenly. Len Shi had shifted his first hold to one more to his satisfaction, about the waist of Chagan, who had locked the other’s head in his mighty arms.

Len Shi, however, was a master of his craft. Twisting his head free from Chagan’s grip, he swung the Tatar free of the ground.

Following up his advantage, he put forth his strength and tossed Chagan clear of the silk. The Tatar fell heavily on his back. A shout went up from the soldiers.

Chagan, however, was on his feet in an instant, snarling with rage. He sprang at Len Shi, only to be caught by the waist in the same grip that had thrown him off his feet before. Chagan, however, was not one to be tricked twice in the same manner.

As before, Len Shi swung the sword-bearer from his feet as if he had been a child. Khlit wondered at the smooth skill of the wrestler who could handle Chagan in this manner. Blood was running from the latter’s mouth, for the fall had been a heavy one. Len Shi’s wide chest was panting from his efforts and he was shouting shrilly in triumph.

Khlit saw Len Shi turn with the quickness of a cat and catch Chagan on his back. The Tatar was now athwart his opponent’s broad shoulders, behind his neck in a horizontal position, with Len Shi’s arms grasping his legs on one side and his neck on the other.

“See,” said the officer to Khlit, “your man is like a trussed sheep. He is bleeding already, and he is helpless. Len Shi will presently cast him down and fall upon him. I have seen a dozen men crippled in this fashion. Len Shi is a master wrestler.”

In truth, Chagan’s arms were fumbling about Len Shi’s bull-like head in seeming helplessness. Slowly the Chinaman began to turn with his burden as if to gain momentum for the effort that would hurl Chagan to the earth. The Tatar, however, was watching every move of his adversary.

With a shout Len Shi whirled. His arm about Chagan’s legs shifted to the latter’s neck with lightning quickness. His muscles bulged as he strained for the throw. At the same instant Khlit saw Chagan fling both arms under Len Shi’s chin. As the latter flung the Tatar from him, Chagan’s powerful arms twisted Len Shi’s chin to one side.

Chagan flew through the air, wrenched loose from his hold. Len Shi had thrown his foe. But Chagan had caught Len Shi’s

head, so that his full weight had jerked upon the Chinaman’s spine. Len Shi’s neck was broken.

“A clever trick, Uigur,” the officer smiled blandly. “Len Shi has wrestled his last bout. But it was a Tatar trick. I suspected you and your follower. It will not be long before Len Shi is avenged.”

The officer called sharply to his men, who were staring in won-der at the lifeless form of their comrade. Khlit had not been unprepared for such a move. He cast a quick glance around. They were in the middle of the street. The prisoners with the guard filled the street at one end. From the other side a group of horsemen were advancing. Escape by either end was cut off.

The doors of nearby buildings stood open, after the pillage of the night before. It might have been possible for Khlit to have gained one of the doorways while the soldiers were advancing on him. But Chagan was still on his knees, bleeding and dizzy from his fall and ignorant of the discovery of the officer. Khlit would not leave him.

Stepping to the side of the Tatar, he pulled him roughly to his feet and thrust the great sword into his hand.

“Stand, Chagan,” he cried, “we are attacked!”

The Tatar grasped his weapon in both sinewy hands. But he was reeling from fatigue and dizziness. Khlit placed his back to Chagan and waited the onset of the Chinese with drawn sword. A grim smile twisted his white mustache. Truly, the odds were heavy. Twoscore against an old man and a tired warrior. Chagan, too, was naked of all protection, having doffed his quilted coat to wrestle. They had been cleverly tricked by the Chinese officer.

Khlit was facing the foot soldiers, who were advancing from the prisoners. Chagan was facing the horsemen, who had pulled up barely in time to keep from running them down. He saw that the men in front of him spread out to surround Chagan and him-self. This done, they waited.

Khlit gripped his sword impatiently. He would have preferred a quick onset to this. Then he caught sight of the Chinese officer

and caught his breath in surprise. The man was down on his knees in the street, with his head bowed nearly to the earth.

Khlit cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Directly in front of Chagan was a horseman. His mount was caparisoned in silk with jade pendants. He wore a shining robe on which a dragon was embroidered. No armor was visible and his only weapon was a small sword with a jeweled hilt. The man was of lean build with a hawk-like face, nearly as dark as his black eyes.

Behind him a score of mailed lancers were drawn up, with a banner at their head. The banner bore a dragon. The man’s hand was lifted as if to arrest the foot soldiers who were around Khlit. As Khlit watched him he spoke quickly to the officer who was on his knees. Khlit could not understand what they said, but presently the rider turned to him.

“So we have a chess player who is a Tatar here,” he said in a smooth voice. “I did not know the Tatars played the favorite game of the Dragon Emperor. A rare jewel I have found. Too precious to be thrown to these dogs of mine. Will you sheathe your sword and come with Li Jusong, general of Wan Li, of the Dragon Throne?”

IX

Khlit looked long into Li Jusong’s impassive countenance. He was face to face at last with the famous general who had led victorious armies against the men of Japan and the Manchus in Korea. He pondered the latter’s words. Khlit knew nothing of chess-play. He had taken the role as a safeguard in case he was questioned. What Li Jusong’s purpose might be in sparing him he did not know.

It might be only a respite, but a respite was better than speedy death at the lances of the mailed riders. Khlit could see no course but to yield. He put little trust in the word of Li Jusong, but he preferred the society of the latter to the comrades of the dead Len Shi.

“Believe him not,” whispered Chagan, “he has the tongue of a poisonous snake. Keep your sword, master. You and I will take many souls with us to the courts of Hades, as good Tatars should.”

Khlit shook his head. He could see no good in resisting.

“Have I your word,” he asked Li Jusong, “that I and my companion may keep our swords? And that we will be spared?”

“Aye, stranger,” smiled Li Jusong, “so long as you are a chess player.”

In spite of Chagan’s protest, Khlit sheathed his weapon. The Tatar scowled blackly at this. Khlit wondered as he saw the man lift his great sword and bring it down across his knee with all the strength of his arms. Chagan’s two-handed sword snapped in twain and the giant cast the pieces from him.

“No other shall have this,” he growled. “Lord, you have done ill.”

Li Jusong regarded the sword-bearer curiously as Chagan stood beside Khlit with folded arms. His glance strayed to the curved sword of the Cossack and he frowned as if in an effort of memory. He motioned to two of his men to dismount.

“Ride with me,” he directed Khlit briefly, “you and your man.”

With that Li Jusong spurred forward his horse. The kneeling officer barely had time to spring to one side. The other riders closed in about them. They went onward through the blood-stained streets of Shankiang.

Chagan kept close to Khlit’s side. Only once did he speak. “You have done ill, lord,” he repeated surlily.

Khlit made no response and the two said no further word.

Even when Li Jusong left them at the gate of the governor’s palace, which he had taken for his own quarters, and the horse-men led them to apartments in the rear where they sat down to a sumptuous meal plundered from the palace larder, Chagan did not rouse from his reverie.

The soldiers left them here, with guards. Khlit sought out a bench and stretched full length upon it, for he was weary. In a moment he was asleep. Chagan, however, had not followed his example. The Tatar paced back and forth through the chamber, eyeing Khlit and the guards. His scarred face was black with anger.

X

In spite of tempest or drought or evil demons, the word of a wise

man will come true. Chinese proverb

That night was the eighth night of the second moon, according to the chronicle of the Kang Mu, and Li Jusong had put to the sword many thousands of the populace of Shankiang. For two nights and a day his men had sacked the city. Thus, says the Kang Mu, the words of Li Chan Ko, the magician from the Imperial Throne, came to pass.

That night Khlit learned of the strange prophecy of Li Chan Ko. He had slept for several hours when his guards wakened him, and took him with Chagan to the presence of Li Jusong.

The general of Wan Li had spent the early part of the night in drinking with his followers in the courtroom of the palace, an ornamented chamber, lacquered and tapestried, which had been spared pillage. Li Jusong was a man who trusted no one save Li Chan Ko, whom he held in great esteem. Consequently the two were alone with a few attendants when Khlit and Chagan were led to the long table where they sat. Four candles on the table lighted the room.

Li Jusong looked up at their entrance. His hard face was flushed from drinking and his black eyes seemed sunk in his head. He motioned Khlit to a seat on the other side of the table and scanned him covertly.

“The dogs and vultures are feasting high tonight in Shankiang, Tatar,” he murmured, “for the city has felt the weight of the Dragon’s claw. Like candles in the wind, the lives of its people are going out. Truly, it is as blind Li Chan Ko, in his wisdom, has said. Before we left the Great Wall he had foretold the destruction of the city. Harken, Tatar, and hear the words of wisdom.”

The general turned to Li Chan Ko, a shriveled man in a scholar’s dress, who wore the insignia of high caste. Khlit waited silently for what was to come.

“Li Chan Ko will repeat his prophecy,” explained Li Jusong, sipping his wine, “and I will translate his golden phrases into your language.”

The blind sage lifted his eyes and murmured. Khlit noted that the guards who stood beside Chagan bowed their heads as if at the words of a priest.

“This is the prophecy, O Tatar,” resumed Li Jusong. “All unworthy, I shall try to repeat it for you.

“The wind whistles through the long night, where ghosts of the unburied dead wander in the gloom. The fading moon twinkles on the fallen snow. The fosses of the walls are frozen with blood, and the beards of the dead are stiff with ice. Each arrow is sped; every bowstring broken, and the strength of the war horse is gone. Thus is the city of Shankiang on the coming of the Dragon Host.”

“These words, Tatar,” explained Li Jusong, “were written on the mind of the magician Li Chan Ko during sleep. Great is the wisdom of the magician!”

He emptied his wine cup and stared at Khlit from reddened eyes. The scholar sat with folded hands, paying no heed to what went on. Khlit, from the corner of his eye, observed that two spearmen were close behind him. Plainly, Li Jusong remembered that Khlit still had his sword. The general clapped his hands and called to one of the attendants. The man disappeared and presently returned with an ivory chessboard inlaid with gold, which he set on the table between Khlit and Li Jusong.

“Now we will have a game, Tatar, you and I,” smiled the Chinese. “It is a pretty set of chessmen, this, for it belonged to the governor himself before my men tied a silk bracelet around his neck and he sped to join his worthy ancestors.”

Khlit did not look at the board. He had no knowledge of the game. He was watching Li Jusong. Was the man serious, or was he playing with his captives?

“Come, Tatar,” said Li Jusong, “this is the pastime of kings. And here is wine. Drink, for wine is justly named the sweeper-

away-of-care. Come, you are no common Tatar. I knew as much when I saw your sword drawn today.”

Chagan gave a growl at this, but the general heeded him not. His glance challenged Khlit over the wine cup, as the Cossack drank deeply. A smile played over his thin lips. Khlit set down his cup and motioned for more. The act gave him a chance to think. Li Jusong was playing with him. It was a game of wits, and Khlit had played at such many times. He smiled in answer to Li Jusong and drank again.

“You have good eyes, Li Jusong,” he growled. “But this game of ivory puppets is not to my liking. It is a devil’s pastime.”

“Nevertheless,” responded the general softly, “few can play it. Are you one of the few? I seem to doubt it. A wolf does not sport with toys.”

Khlit looked up quickly. The other’s face was expressionless, but the black eyes gleamed. It must have been chance that led Li Jusong to mention a wolf, the name that men applied to Khlit.

“You have called it the sport of kings, Li Jusong,” he said slowly. “Yet kings play with greater stakes. Such as lives, and armies—”

“True!” The Chinese laughed quickly. “I am in a mood to humor you tonight, Tatar. We will play another game, with higher stakes. I knew that you were not a common man. That was why I spared you today.”

With a sudden move he swept the chessmen from the board. The ivory images rolled scattering about the floor.

“That is how I scatter my enemies,” he smiled, “wherever I meet them.”

He called to his attendants. One of the men left the room, and in a moment a door opened and several men came into the chamber, bowing before Li Jusong.

One or two were soldiers of rank but the others wore the robes of ceremony that stamped them as courtiers. The leader of the party halted close to the table with another bow. Something in the man’s broad yellow face stirred Khlit’s memory. He heard an

exclamation from Chagan. The man was Cho Kien, the eunuch who had come to the Tatar khans as envoy.

“I see you know our visitor already,” observed Li Jusong. “Cho Kien is high in favor at the Dragon Throne. He once bore you a message which was not delivered in full, owing to the presence of your undesirable companions. Cho Kien with his comrades of the Lily returned to Shankiang, following my instructions, and he recognized you while he was passing through the streets in a sedan.”

Khlit recalled the meeting between himself and Chagan and the official of the Lily in a curtained vehicle. He made no reply, waiting for what was to come.

“Cho Kien, who was kind enough to open one of the gates to my cavalry,” went on Li Jusong, “told me of your presence in the city, and I issued orders that you were to be spared and brought to me. For it was the wish of the Dragon Emperor, who is lofty as the clouds of heaven, that the message be delivered to you.”

XI

Cho Kien stepped forward at a sign from the general.

“It is written,” he said in his high voice, “to kill not the ox that tills your garden. The World-Honored One, in his graciousness, has received knowledge of Khlit, the strange warrior who defeated Hang-Hi. Nevertheless, not he but the Tatar khans are the enemies of the Dragon Throne. Khlit, who bears the name of the Wolf, is not a Tatar by birth. He is a wanderer of great skill in warfare, from a distant country. His curved sword is a charm that brings victory to the side on which he fights.”

The eunuch paused to glance keenly at Khlit. The latter was not surprised at this information, for it had been revealed to the councilors of Hang-Hi, some of whom must have escaped the massacre that followed the defeat of his army.

“The part of my message which was written on the paper I bore, and which was for the ear of Khlit alone, is this,” pursued Cho Kien. “The paper was taken from me by one of the khans,

but I remember its wording. The Gracious Emperor, Wan Li, convinced that only magic of high quality could have defeated so brave a man as Hang-Hi, has been pleased, on the advice of his wise men, to offer pardon to the warrior Khlit if he will use his magical power on the side of Wan Li against the rebel khans.”

Li Jusong cast a shrewd glance at Khlit.

“It is the wish of Wan Li, whom may long life and honor bless, that you be given a high command under me and hereditary rank. You are not born a Tatar. The cause of the khans is lost. The sun of Wan Li rises bright over all China.” He paused to empty his cup. “You will do well to accept the offer that will give you life.”

“And what if I refuse?” asked Khlit slowly.

“Then to my sorrow I shall be forced to have you beaten to death as a traitor with split bamboos in seven days, when the sack of Shankiang is ended. It would be brainless to choose death. I have seen the writing on your sword which signifies high descent. You have seen the power of the Dragon. The khans expect me to attack them at the Kerulon. But I shall wait here until they quarrel among themselves and the horde disbands. Spies have told me that the khans are on ill terms with each other.”

Cho Kien nodded confirmation to this. Khlit stared at the scattered chessmen on the floor in silence. Li Jusong was a shrewd general. He had discovered the weak point of the Jun-gar Horde. United, the warlike khans might offer stern resistance. Separately, they could be cut down. Khlit was a wanderer, who had fought with many armies. He was not a Tatar, although of Tatar blood. Allied with Li Jusong he might win high favor from the Dragon.

He filled his cup and drank deep. Li Jusong took this as a good omen and did likewise, bidding Cho Kien and the men of the Lily be seated.

“These are the men, O Khlit,” he smiled, “who are sworn to carry fire and sword into Tatary. If you refuse our offer they will see that you die slowly. Think well!”

At this the aged scholar, Li Chan Ko, leaned forward and placed under Li Jusong’s eyes a paper on which he had been tracing characters with a brush.

“The blind man of wisdom has a word for you,” said the general, holding a candlestick over the paper, for the light was dim. “He reminds you of the words of the Dragon Emperor to the khans, the saying—With the slayer of his kin a man may not live under the same sky.”

Khlit wondered as he watched the bland face of the blind man what the latter had meant by the sentence. Later he was to know more of the wisdom of Li Chan Ko. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chagan standing by the door with drooping head. The sword-bearer had heard what had passed. Khlit remembered that the latter had chosen to die rather than to trust Li Jusong.

He had only to say a word of agreement and he would be safe.

Chagan doubtless would be slain with dispatch, and there would be no Tatar witness to his decision. The khans had re-fused Khlit his rightful rank among them. Jealous and intolerant of each other, they seemed bound to fall before Li Jusong’s sword.

With Li Jusong he would hold a high rank. Weary of wandering alone, Khlit would have honor and a place of command. If he chose, he might not need to face the Tatars—might go into another part of China.

As he meditated his glance fell on his sword. The curved sword that had been his companion through life bore the inscription of Kaidu, the White Khan. The blood of the White Khans ran in Khlit’s veins. Moreover, he had fought with the khans of the Kerulon—had shared their bread and wine. They had followed him in battle.

“Li Jusong,” he said slowly, “tell me this thing. Is the man who betrays another to be trusted?”

“Nay, but you will betray no one. The khans have given you no place with them.”

“Then,” Khlit responded, “how is he to be trusted who asks one man to betray another?”

The old scholar, Li Chan Ko, turned his blind eyes to Khlit. He smiled approvingly, as if he had understood. Cho Kien spoke, his voice heavy with distrust.

“Your answer—what is it to be?”

Khlit stood up. The others did likewise, save Li Chan Ko. The dim light from the four candles showed Chagan’s burning glance fixed on him from among the guards at the door. Khlit pointed to him.

“I would speak with the Tatar first,” he said firmly.

Li Jusong and Cho Kien glanced at each other briefly. The former nodded.

“Bring the Tatar to the table,” he called to the guards. “He will be safer here.”

The guards escorted Chagan forward, leaving the door vacant. The two behind Khlit stepped to his side watchfully. The men of the Lily muttered, and drew closer.

Chagan’s questioning glance was on Khlit as the latter stepped close to his side.

“I give Chagan a farewell word,” said Khlit briefly.

For a long moment he leaned close to the sword-bearer’s ear and whispered. The latter’s sullen eyes opened wide in astonishment. Cho Kien motioned to the guards impatiently, but Khlit stepped back to the table, resting both hands on it. He smiled grimly.

“This is my answer, Li Jusong,” he said slowly. His hands tightened on the table. “Aye, my blood is noble—it is that of the White Khans. I keep faith with my blood—thus!”

A heave of his lean arms, and the table crashed over on its side. The candles fell with the flagon of wine and the goblets. The spilled wine extinguished the candles. A shout went up from the Chinese. The chamber was in darkness.

“The door, Chagan!” Khlit’s voice rang out.

He heard the sword-bearer’s answering shout, and the crash of bodies on the floor. A heavy weight descended on his head, and he sank forward over the table. A haze fell upon his mind.

XII

When consciousness returned to Khlit he found himself chained to a pillar by the arms in a lacquered chamber. Beside him were white-robed bodies of dead Buddhist priests. He was in the room in the rear of the temple through which he had passed before.

Daylight showed Khlit the interior of the chamber. Narrow windows high in the wall at his back let in the light. The walls were of black ebony and teakwood. The single door was also of teakwood, and very strong.

The place seemed to have been a council room for the monks of the temple. It was littered with discarded robes, books, and chairs. The cold was piercing, but it served to lessen the stench of the bodies. And for seven days Khlit endured the cold and hunger of the place, for Cho Kien, who tended him, gave him only rice and water.

Khlit knew that the massacre was still going on in the streets of Shankiang, for at intervals shots and cries reached his ears. Footsteps passed in the adjoining corridors, but no one entered the chamber. Only Cho Kien came, to mock him.

The eunuch told him nothing of the fate of Chagan. He forced captive priests in white robes to minister to Khlit, at the point of the sword. Even if the sword-bearer had escaped from the palace there was little chance of winning free from the walled city where the swords of Li Jusong were reaping a deadly harvest. For a week the sound of slaying continued.

Khlit’s situation gave him small food for hope. His arms long since had become numb from the cold and the ropes. He could sleep only at intervals, sitting against the pillar. His sword had disappeared from his belt, but he saw it strapped to Cho Kien.

The first night had convinced him that there was no loosening his bonds. And Cho Kien’s vigilance prevented his speaking to the priests, even if they could have understood him. There was nothing to do but struggle to keep his blood stirring under the grip of the cold, and ward off with his boots the rats that came to gnaw the dead bodies.

The Cossack had long ceased to count the days. He was weak from hardships and lack of food. He had spoken no word for a week. His eyes were sunken in his head and his chest burned with fever. The rats had nearly finished the meat from the bodies in the corner and were becoming bolder in their attacks on him. Especially when he slept did they torment him.

Khlit’s memory suffered from the week of imprisonment. Two things, however, were clear in his mind. He longed to regain possession of his curved sword. And he desired to slay Cho Kien, who openly rejoiced in his ownership of the valuable weapon.

It did not occur to Khlit to beg for mercy of his captor or to alter his decision concerning the missive of Wan Li. The Cossack had never asked mercy of men, and his pride was invincible.

It was late on the seventh night—he had seen the glimmer of a pale moon on the floor at his feet—when Khlit came face to face with Li Chan Ko, the magician. That night he beheld something of the strange power of the man whose wisdom was feared by Li Jusong and by Wan Li, the Dragon Emperor.

So quietly had Li Chan Ko come into the chamber that Khlit was not aware of him until the blind man moved into the square of moonlight that lay beneath one of the windows. The teak door had not opened, and Khlit knew that Cho Kien had the only key to it, yet he saw the yellow robe of the scholar advancing toward him.

Khlit shook his head savagely, for he thought the fever was tricking him. He saw that Li Chan Ko’s eyes were closed and that he moved slowly, leaning on his staff. The wizened face of the old man was calm. He had come from the corner where the dead men lay, but when he came abreast of Khlit he paused. Li Chan Ko turned directly to him and Khlit shuddered as he saw the eyes of the blind man open, as if seeking him.

“Once,” said Li Chan Ko, “I heard you answer a question, strange warrior whom men call Khlit. It was wisely answered as if the spirit of Confucius himself had told you what to say. A noble mind is the highest form of virtue. Little do we take with

us into the world of things that are not, yet a noble spirit is with us in our last hour.”

The words of the scholar, in Tatar, were soft and he spoke as if he saw Khlit. A shudder went through the Cossack.

“The city of Shankiang is an evil place,” went on the magician, “and those who do not know say that hobgoblins and ill-omened foxes infest the citadel. Li Jusong is one of these, for he slew fifty thousand in the houses that my prophecy might be fulfilled. Yet in my dream of stricken Shankiang I saw snow over the streets and there has been no snow. The prophecy is not yet fulfilled.”

Khlit spoke in a voice harsh from suffering. “Li Chan Ko,” he asked, “how did you come here?”

“I came,” said the blind man, “because I dreamed last night that the Rakchas took the soul of a man in this room, and that he ascended on the dragon. I heard them say that you were kept here, and that Cho Kien would come tonight to beat you with a bamboo cudgel until your body was broken. I would help you if I could.”

“Then loosen my bonds,” whispered Khlit eagerly, “and put a sword in my hand.”

Li Chan Ko shook his head with a slow smile.

“What is to be, will be,” he responded, “and who am I to interfere with the workings of Heaven? Nay, I came through a corridor that leads to the closet behind the bodies of the dead men. Cho Kien had told me of the place, which he learned from his slaves, the priests of the temple. Cho Kien has profaned the temple with murder, which is ill.”

Khlit mastered his disappointment with an effort.

“Was Chagan, my follower, slain?” he inquired, for the blind man seemed to have heard all that took place.

“Nay, I think not,” Li Chan Ko shook his head slowly. “That night your man broke through his guards and escaped. I think he must have left the city, for Li Jusong said that Chagan had been seen in the Tower of the Five Falcons with the archer who still holds the tower.”

Khlit pondered this. Chagan had escaped, without knowing what had happened to his master. The Tatar might have made every effort to find him; but how was he to do so? Probably he had concluded that Khlit was already dead. If what Li Chan Ko said was true, his life was to be taken that night. Cho Kien was prepared to end his imprisonment.

“Will you give me a sword?” he said. “Or break against the pillar the blade of the curved sword the eunuch wears? Better that than to be sullied by the hands of Cho Kien.”

Again the blind man shook his head gently.

“I am not a meddler with fate. What I have foretold will come to pass. I have not strength to break the sword or to take it from Cho Kien. Harken, here is Cho Kien, with his men, at the door.”

The blind man turned his head as if listening to sounds which Khlit could not hear. For the second time the Cossack shuddered. Li Chan Ko seemed to him to be one of the Rakchas themselves— evil spirits of purgatory. When he looked up again, the magician had drawn back against the wall. He was nearly concealed now by the shadows.

Khlit heard the familiar sound of the door grating on its hinges. He caught a glimpse of several spearmen who bore torches out-side the door. Cho Kien with one priest advanced into the room and closed the heavy door upon his attendants. In his hand the eunuch held a steel-tipped flail of bamboo.

The priest carried a torch.

XIII

Old Li Chan Ko had drawn farther from the pillar and Cho Kien did not see him as he stepped in front of Khlit, his narrow eyes gleaming, the curved sword at his fat middle. The priest stood near, watching them. The man’s face stirred Khlit’s memory.

“Li Jusong has said,” Cho Kien whispered, “that your death must come this night. His men are weary of slaying, and I have come with the flail, to carry out the command of my master, Wan Li. Soon you will no longer kick away the rats.”

“I saved your life at the Tatar camp, Cho Kien,” said Khlit grimly, “and you have this in payment for me. If you were a true man you would free me and give me my sword. I am weak and you would risk little. Should a man of noble blood be beaten to death like a servant?”

“Nay,” grinned the eunuch, “I have heard tales of that sword of yours. I shall wear it, for it bears the inscription of a Tatar hero.”

At Cho Kien’s command the priest stepped nearer with the torch. The Cossack eyed his sword longingly. Truly, Chagan had been wise when he said it was better to face the Chinese weapons than trust to their good faith.

“Are you going to leave me tied to the pillar?” he said. “Aye, the devil has planted fear in your heart, Cho Kien. Before your birth you were a woman, and when you are born again, it will be as a jackal.”

The eunuch snarled angrily, the whites of his eyes showing. He laid aside his long robe and stepped close to Khlit, who laughed in his face.

“Dog,” mocked the Cossack, “one without honor! Aye, the name of dog is too good for you, for a dog is faithful—”

“To his master,” cried the eunuch shrilly. “It is the word of Wan Li, monarch of the earth and dispenser of life and death that I am obeying. You shall die more slowly for those words. The torch will burn the soles of your feet until you bellow like a dying ox!”

“The torture will not make me cry, jackal. But to die at the hand of such as you—I would that I had let the Tatars drive home the nails into your ears. Then they would be less apt for spying.”

Cho Kien held the flail before Khlit.

“Your head shall be sent to the Tatar camp, Khlit,” he cried. “With a tale of how you whimpered under the lash and begged Cho Kien to let you live as a slave. I searched for you long, Tatar Wolf, in the city after I saw you in the crowd. I learned that you had been seen at the house of Wen Shu, the candle-maker, and I

went thither. You had gone, so I exacted penalty on the family of the candlemaker.”

“Nay, Cho Kien, they were dead.”

The eunuch laughed shrilly.

“We tore their jewels from their clothes and cut down the bodies of the women, for Wen Shu had fled. Then we threw them into the street, to be food for dogs, and offal under horses’ feet!”

Khlit heard a sound behind Cho Kien, and thought that Li Chan Ko had spoken. The magician, however, was silent in the shadows. The eunuch turned to the priest with a snarl and took the torch, which he waved in front of the Cossack’s face. The priest stepped nearer as if to see what was to happen.

As he did so Khlit had a good glimpse of the man’s face. In spite of the shaven head and the white robe, he knew that he had seen the man. The latter was breathing heavily as if from excitement. He stretched out his hand toward Cho Kien.

Khlit closed his eyes for an instant as the torch singed his face. As he opened them he caught the gleam of steel. He saw the priest withdraw the sword from the scabbard at Cho Kien’s side. He read burning hatred in the man’s convulsed face.

Then the blade swung aloft and descended upon the eunuch’s neck.

The evil eyes of Cho Kien opened wide with pain. He wavered on his feet for an instant. Then the torch dropped to the floor. With a shudder Cho Kien sank to his knees. The priest hacked and stabbed at his frame as if possessed of a demon. Then Khlit remembered where he had seen the man before. It was Wen Shu, in the dress of a Buddhist monk.

There had been no sound save the fall of the torch, and the guards had not been alarmed. Khlit’s heart gave a bound as he saw the dead Cho Kien. He whispered to Wen Shu to free him. He raised his voice, but the candlemaker was standing over the slain eunuch, with eyes for nothing but the blood which spotted Cho Kien’s elegant dress. It had been an evil moment when Cho Kien had boasted of his visit to the shop of Wen Shu.

Then the form of Li Chan Ko made its appearance beside Wen Shu. The candlemaker started back in alarm as he saw the blind man. He made no move to attack the other, however. All his rage had been spent on the eunuch.

“Where is Cho Kien?” asked the magician of Khlit.

“Dead,” said Khlit grimly. “Your dream has come true, Li Chan Ko.”

The blind man closed his eyes as if in thought. Then he stretched out his hand toward Khlit. He spoke softly to Wen Shu, and the latter unbound the Cossack’s arms.

“One man is dead,” said Li Chan Ko to Khlit, “and you need not remain, now that the prophecy is fulfilled. Lead me out by the closet door.”

Khlit groaned with the effort of moving his arms. With the assistance of Wen Shu, he buckled his belt around his waist and replaced the sword in its sheath. The candlemaker, who was now trembling with fear of what he had done, took up the torch and by its light Khlit was able to lead Li Chan Ko to the narrow door through which the magician had come. As he passed from the gloomy chamber he heard the scurrying of many tiny feet over the floor. The rats were hurrying toward the body of Cho Kien.

XIV

The wind is swift, but swifter is a Tatar horse. A fool will ask thee why, but the wise man knows that it is because a Tatar wears no spurs. His horse is one with himself.

From the Kang Mu Chronicles

Arslan the archer nodded with sleep. He was weary with watching on the summit of the Tower of the Five Falcons. Since the last of his comrades had been slain by musket shots from the wall be-low, Arslan had had little sleep. He lay prone on the battlements of the tower, where he could make out in the moonlight sentries moving back and forth on the wall below him, out of reach of his arrows.

The Tower of the Five Falcons was the highest in the city of Shankiang. It topped the city wall against which it was built by some thirty feet. It had been designed as a watchtower, and was a scant dozen feet in width, with a narrow door opening on the ground, and slits for windows on each of its five stories.

Had the tower been built against the wall Arslan might have escaped before this by a rope made from the coats of his dead comrades. But the distance of five times a man’s height separated wall and tower, and the Manchu archer had chosen to remain in his stronghold rather than run the gantlet of the watchers who were posted around, waiting for starvation to bring him forth.

Arslan nodded with sleep. But even as he heard a sound be-low him he wakened and fitted arrow to bowstring. He had sent many Chinese speeding to their ancestors and his enemies had prudently left him unmolested for the past week, but Arslan was wary and vigilant. Moreover, although the other defenders of the tower were dead, a half-dozen helmets showed around the battlements of the summit. At intervals these helmets and spearpoints which were a target for arrows of the besiegers changed their positions.

The moon was bright overhead, and Arslan yawned, stroking his black mustache. All at once he sat up alertly. He had heard footsteps in the square underneath, and a shout. In an instant he was peering over the side, with raised bow. He saw a figure run from the shadows of the buildings into the clear space under the tower. The figure approached the door of the tower, climbing over the dead men, and Arslan wondered. For it was a single, tall man, sword in hand, who did not look like a Chinese. As it reached the door the figure called up to him.

“A Tatar comes to the tower, Arslan,” it growled. “Let me in, for I am followed.”

Suspicious of treachery, Arslan scanned the newcomer, arrow poised. Truly, the man looked like a Tatar. And Arslan saw arrows

flicker out of the shadows, to rattle against the stones of the tower.

“What is your name, Tatar?” he cried.

“Khlit, the chess player, of the southern gate. Do you remember Chagan, the wrestler—”

Arslan cast down his bow.

“Aye, Tatar,” he called cheerily, “Chagan was a true man. He said he would live to fling my carcass over the wall. Instead of that he flung over his own. Climb in the door. It is blocked by stinking bodies and a heap of masonry, but there is an opening at the top that leads in, over the pile—”

Khlit dived within the door as a new volley of arrows sought him out. Arslan discharged a shaft or two at the shadows and a cry told him that he had aimed well.

The arrows ceased. Presently he heard the sound of steps on the stone stairs that led to the summit, and a shadow emerged that became the figure of the tall Cossack.

“Bend that tall head of yours, uncle,” grunted Arslan, “or it will be a rare target for the sly cutthroats yonder. Welcome to the Tower of the Five Falcons. Did I not say it was proof against the host of Li Jusong! Chagan was here a few days ago, but he said you were kept in the gilt bird cage of Li Jusong’s palace.”

Khlit dropped to the stone flags, breathing heavily, and moving his cramped arms painfully. He caught sight of the dozen silent watchers of the tower and pointed to them inquiringly. Arslan chuckled under his mustache.

“My good warriors, uncle,” he whispered. “Such warriors have never been seen before. Their flesh is the coats of my dead comrades; their bones are spears. Arrows harm them not—and give me more shafts for my bow. Although I collect plenty from the quivers of the dogs lying at the door. And they ask not for food— although I saw to it before I took command of the tower that it was well stocked with wine and dried meat. Ho! I am glad to have a comrade. It had been ill watching alone.”

Khlit scanned the archer keenly. Arslan’s eyes were haggard. His helmet was dented by a crossbow bolt, the leather gauntlet on the left arm was stained with blood. But his hardy spirit shone in his black eyes. Khlit’s heart leaped at being with a comrade again and out in the clear air, after the fetid room of the temple. A swallow of wine, drunk from Arslan’s helmet, and a mouthful of meat sent the blood stirring in his veins again.

“They will be after you presently, uncle,” grinned Arslan, eyeing the shadows. “Li Jusong will hear of your arrival at the tower, and will whip his dogs to the attack. My warriors will not aid us much, I fear. Aye, it will be warm work. Chagan told me that Cho Kien was sharpening his knife for you.”

Khlit drew his curved sword and ran his thumb along its edge lovingly.

“Cho Kien is food for the rats,” he said grimly. “How did you meet with Chagan?” Arslan peered over the rampart cautiously. A musket shot greeted his appearance.

“Ho! The dogs are giving tongue,” he cried; “soon they will run in for the kill. Why, Chagan came to me as you did, but without his great sword. He was eager to be over the walls, and so like a fool he leaped to the wall from the tower. It was a desperate chance. The night was dark and the sentries saw him not. He had my twisted rope around his middle. One end of it I held here while he lowered himself down on the outside of the wall. But my rope parted and he fell.

“I think his leg was broken, for he limped as he rose after his fall. No one but an iron brute such as he could have done it. He must have got free the next morning. Many horses were loose on the plain and he may have caught one.”

The archer gave a warning hiss and caught Khlit by the shoulder.

“The dogs are astir, uncle,” he whispered. “Go you and stand at the top of the stone heap inside the door. If any of the vermin escape my shafts, shave their skulls for them with that long sword of yours.”

Khlit hastened down the narrow stairs to the lower story, where he took up his stand on the summit of the pile of stones that Arslan and his comrades had torn from the floors above to form a rampart behind the door.

He saw at a glance the strength of the place, which had enabled a few men to stand off the attacks of many. The door was scarce a yard in width, and the stones formed a barrier inside to the height of a tall man. The entrance was choked with bodies, and barely wide enough to permit two men to come in at a time.

He placed himself where he could see through the door. A thin stream of moonlight came in, but the top of the stone heap where he stood was in darkness. Khlit was weary, but the prospect of battle refreshed him. He sat down calmly, lighting his pipe, and waited. A sound from the top of the tower caught his ear.

It was the soft note of a lute. A second later he heard Arslan’s voice lifted in song.

Where the Fox athwart is lying,

And the moonbeams hang,

They hunt—the pack is dying—

These men of Wang.

He heard arrows strike against the stone of the tower, but the song did not falter.

A sound of music lulls them,

To the Serpent’s fang.

Alas! The sweet lute gulls them

My men of Wang.

The next moment footsteps pattered across the square in front of the tower. Khlit heard a cry of pain, and a heavy fall. He sprang to his feet and peered down at the entrance. He saw a man fall bodily into it, and lie writhing, an arrow sticking from his shoulders. A hand appeared and jerked the body aside.

Khlit saw a Chinese warrior clamber through the door and start up the heap of stones. The man held a pike before him, and

peered anxiously ahead of him. He did not see Khlit, who stepped to one side softly, avoiding the pike.

The next instant the man fell prone. A stroke of the curved sword had severed his head cleanly from his body. Khlit caught the pike as it was sliding down the stones. With it he pushed the body back into the door. A second man appeared, climbing over the body of the first.

Khlit shortened the pike and waited until the man was up to him. A quick thrust and the second warrior followed the first. He heard Arslan’s voice above the clamor outside.

To my chant they sing the chorus,

And woe they sang.

They fall in their blood before us—

Dead men of Wang!

Two of the attackers essayed the entrance together, crowding each other and helpless in the dark. Khlit’s spear felled one of the two, and the other crawled back hastily. The door was now choked with bodies. No further effort was made to clear it.

For some time there were shouts outside and on the wall beside the tower. Khlit waited with ears strained. The shouts died away and he could hear men running from the tower. Silence followed, broken by Arslan’s shout of triumph.

“Ho, there, uncle of the curved sword! Come to the tower. The hunt has ended for tonight.”

XV

Khlit found Arslan filling his helmet at the wine cask on the roof of the tower. The Manchu was spitting blood from a cut through his cheek where an arrow had glanced, but he grinned as he saw the Cossack. He pointed to where dawn was showing in the east. A cold wind whipped across the tower, and a few snowflakes fell between them.

“A warm skirmish, and a cold dawn, uncle,” said the Manchu, wiping his mouth after the wine, and offering his helmet to Khlit.

“How liked you my song? I play my lute day and night for these dogs of ours—and to keep awake. It brings me a rare harvest of arrows. Would that Chagan was here to see that skirmish. He was a rare drinker of wine. The cask is near empty.”

Khlit seated himself and wrapped his coat close about him. The snowflakes were the beginning of a storm which presently began to whiten the tower. There was little satisfaction in Khlit’s heart. A second attack on the tower with ladders might prove successful. Two men could not hold it long against odds. And there was no escape. He could not hope to leap thirty feet to the wall as Chagan had done, even if there had been a second rope.

“Where went Chagan?” he asked shortly.

“To his people, no doubt,” responded Arslan indifferently, sitting close to Khlit and wrapping himself in his fur cloak. “We can rest for a while, uncle. The men of Wang may leave us in peace now, for the troops are drunk with pillage. You and I are too small game for them to bother about. Aye, the Tatar was in a hurry to carry some message he bore. His mission here was ended.”

“How was that?” growled Khlit. “Speak, minstrel without wits!”

“Nay,” objected Arslan, “my song was witty indeed. Why was his mission ended? Well, it is a long tale in the telling. Chagan was sent after you by the Tatar khans when they found you were leaving the camp. It seems they trusted you not.”

Khlit looked up impatiently, and something in his eye made Arslan hasten on, more seriously.

“I meant no offense, comrade. Chagan told me the tale, and it is not in the brute to lie. It seems that a certain fat eunuch, Cho Kien, upon whom may the rats hold high festival, came to the khans with a missive from Wan Li, demanding your person. So much he read. The rest the khans read for themselves, for Cho Kien left the script behind him in his haste to get away with a whole skin.

“Wan Li offered you a post in his army, and high honor. When you left secretly, refusing aid and escort from the khans, some

were suspicious. So Chagan was sent to accompany you and leave you not on penalty of having his hide ripped.”

Khlit made no reply. He recalled the first meeting with the sword-bearer and how he had thought it strange that the man had left Hotai Khan, his master. So the jealousy of the khans had followed him into China.

“If you yielded to Li Jusong,” went on Arslan, “and took the place that was offered you, Chagan was to slay you and stick your head on a spear in front of your tent. If you did not bargain with the Chinese, and remained true to the Tatars, who seemed to think you one of them in blood—although you look not like a Tatar to me—Chagan was to serve you faithfully and bring the news to the khans. I know not why they take such an interest in you.”

Khlit smiled grimly as he thought of the kurultai in the forest. Truly, the khans had debated much about him. Chagan had not told Arslan of Khlit’s rank, or of the curved sword of Kaidu.

“Was that all the tale?” he asked.

“That was all—save that Chagan said the khans had assembled this side of the Kerulon to watch the movements of Li Jusong. They have all of their power there, with additional parties of Tungusi and Manchus—my comrades. Would I were at the Kerulon camp, four days’ march from here, and not on top of this cursed tower. You have the bearing and speech of one accustomed to command, uncle. What is your name and people?”

“I am Khlit of the Cossacks.”

“A Cossack? I have not heard of that horde. Chagan must have lied when he said you were a Tatar. At all events, you fight well, and that is enough.”

Khlit, who had been pondering, turned to Arslan moodily. “Think you the khans will march east?” he asked.

“Nay,” Arslan growled sleepily, “how do I know? They will quarrel among themselves, more like, and waste their power in feuds. Such is their way. When they have a leader as they had at Altai Haiten, they are invincible—”

“Li Jusong is a shrewd general,” debated Khlit. “He will not move from Shankiang to attack the khans, for he knows that they will quarrel.”

Khlit’s head dropped on his chest. He was well content to have the khans know from Chagan of the reply he had made to Li Jusong. Since they had sent a man to watch him, it was well that they should know he had been faithful to them—to the blood of his ancestor. He recalled Chagan’s misgivings when he had come to Shankiang with grim amusement. Truly, the sword-bearer had had some grounds for his suspicion.

A movement on the part of Arslan caused Khlit to turn suddenly. The archer was wide awake now, and in his face was a look of wonder. His hand was stretched out toward Khlit’s sword, fingers touching the hilt. Instinctively the Cossack struck down the archer’s hand. Arslan drew back, but there was no anger in his face.

“Pardon,” he said, “I did not mean ill. The sun is up—and I saw the hilt of your sword for the first time. It is like the sword of the White Khans. Does it—is it yours? Was it your father’s?”

He remained sunk in musing, but Arslan arose presently. Re-moving his cloak, the Manchu laid it over Khlit, propping it against the stone rampart so as to keep the snow from him. When Khlit looked up at this, Arslan bent down on one knee.

“You need sleep, master, for you are weary. I will watch.” He looked up anxiously. “If my tongue has given offense, slay me. I spoke in folly, not knowing who you were.”

So Arslan took up his watch on the Tower of the Five Falcons. And presently, through the falling snow he saw the figure of a mounted man opposite the walls. The rider was some distance away, only partly visible in the storm. Other horsemen appeared beside him.

Arslan knew that parties of Li Jusong’s men were scattered over the outlying districts in pillage. But these were different. He could see their pointed helmets and lances behind their backs. As he watched they wheeled their horses and vanished.

XVI

Khlit slept soundly. Worn out from his week in the temple he lay quiet while the snow piled up on the tower. Little by little, however, he began to be aware of an increasing clamor under him. His dreams were disturbed by the sound of horses galloping, and trumpets. He stirred and sat up, pushing aside the fur cloak that Arslan had stretched over him.

By the position of the sun he saw that he had slept away half the day. The snow had ceased and the plain around Shankiang with the roads and outlying houses visible from the top of the tower were carpeted with white. Khlit groaned as he setup, for his body ached from cold. He saw Arslan sitting near him, stringing his bow and sorting out his arrows. The archer was humming to himself.

The swords will be a-shining

And bowstrings twang,

Where the banners are entwining

These men of Wang.

Khlit sprang to his feet and looked down at the walls of Shankiang. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with an oath. Surely a change had taken place in the city. Across the square under the tower squadrons of horse were galloping in haste. An uproar resounded in the streets. Chinese infantry were running up the stone steps leading to the summit of the walls and taking their stations along the battlements.

“What is this?” growled Khlit. “Why did you not waken me?”

“Sleep was best, Lord,” responded the Manchu, “for soon we shall need all our wits. Aye, the Dragon is rousing itself from its drunken sleep of the past week. Look!”

He pointed to the northern gate, which was visible at some distance from the tower. A horde of horsemen were rushing through the doors, a motley crowd of soldiers, along the road where Khlit and Chagan had come to the city. As Khlit watched, he saw the massive gates close, shutting out the fugitives. A wail arose from the horsemen barred from the city.

What did this mean? The city was alarmed, and the Chinese were assembling on the walls. They had closed the gates hastily, shutting out some of their own men. Khlit cast a keen glance over the streets. He saw that confusion reigned.

The sentinels were dozing.

To arms they sprang!

The toils are fast enclosing

Our men of Wang!

Thus Arslan chanted. As he did so he pointed out over the plains. Khlit drew in his breath sharply. In the distance a dark mass was moving toward Shankiang. Spears glinted in the sun. Along the highroad a second mass was advancing at rapid pace. By the bank of a river a third body was moving. Over a hill to the west still another dark line was flooding down the slope toward the walls. Banners were to be seen in the midst of the oncoming hordes, which were composed of horsemen. Even at the distance he recognized the banners.

“The khans have left the Kerulon,” he said to Arslan. “They must have met and defeated the detachments of Li Jusong which were out in the country.”

“Aye,” responded the archer with a chuckle, “now we will see, you and I, Lord, the Dragon penned in its lair. The hunters are the hunted. Either a miracle has come to pass, or the khans have learned how Li Jusong’s men were scattered in pillage and have come to strike before the Dragon can prepare to defend the city.”

XVII

Old in the ways of the battle, Khlit noted the events that took place within the walls with a critical eye. During the next few hours he saw every detail of the tableau that was spread before him. And he wondered at what he saw.

The Chinese had been taken by surprise. Plainly the Tatars had succeeded, as was their custom, in cutting off the outlying troops

before warning could reach the city. The mounted columns of the khans had not paused in their advance, and Li Jusong had barely had time to close the gates of Shankiang and order his men to the walls. The snowstorm had formed a screen for the movements of the khans during the last few hours. And the Chinese forces were disorganized by the sack of Shankiang.

So much Khlit reasoned to himself. He saw, however, that the walls of the city were high, and that cannon were ranged at intervals between the towers. The defenders were hurrying to the ramparts and crowding around the cannon. The uproar was incessant.

“It will take weeks for cannon to breach these walls,” he shouted to Arslan above the confusion. “And there are no traitors in the city to open a gate, as when Li Jusong besieged the place.”

Arslan paused in sorting his arrows long enough to stare curiously at Khlit.

“Have you ever seen your khans storm a city, lord? Nay, I think not. They have little use for cannon. From the time of Genghis Khan they have attacked a walled city in one way and one way only. Soon you will see how it is done. The Chinese know the manner of it. See—they are squealing about the cannon like a herd of cattle.”

Khlit leaned on the battlement of the tower and surveyed the Tatar forces which had advanced within easy gunshot of the walls. The foremost columns had paused to wait for the others to reach their line. The troops were mainly horsemen, with bowmen and others clinging to their stirrups.

The column directly opposite the Tower of the Five Falcons was headed by the banner of the Chakars. That advancing by the highway bore the Kallmark standard. Khlit thought that the horsemen by the river carried the Hoshot banner, of Chepé Buga, the lean veteran of a hundred battles. There were other banners which he could not make out, but which were familiar to Arslan.

“Look!” cried the archer. “There is the Tungusi standard— from the mountains of the North. Aye, and there is the banner of my brother Manchu archers, from the highlands of Manchuria. Now there will be rare arrow work. Li Jusong will be begging a happy omen from Li Chan Ko, his magician, for here is all the Tatar power.”

Khlit made no response. He was spellbound by the sight before him. The Tatar host was greater than the army he had seen at the Kerulon. Each column must have contained twenty thousand warriors. There were five columns. The strength of Li Jusong, Khlit had heard, consisted of two hundred thousand men. But a good portion of these had been slain in the sack of the city. More had been caught beyond the walls. He saw the crowd of men outside the gate clamoring for admittance. In the face of the Tatar host the Chinese dared not open the gate to their comrades.

What had brought the Tatars to Shankiang? How had they buried the quarrels of the khans? Who was leading them to the attack?

Khlit felt his heart swell with pride. The hosts in front of him were of his blood. They were the finest warriors of Asia or Europe. They were the men whose standard he had carried at Altai Haiten. He longed to be in their ranks, with a horse under him.

A blast of trumpets interrupted his thoughts. He heard a shout arise from the Chinese on the walls. At the same instant, at the sound of the nacars the Tatar array started into movement. Every column was in motion toward the walls. The reports of cannon sounded from the city. But the pieces were ill aimed and little harm was done.

“Now you will see how the khans storm a city, uncle,” roared Arslan, in a fever of excitement.

The ranks of horsemen were moving faster now, to the sound of the nacars. A roar went up from thousands of throats. Over the entire plain in front of Shankiang the Tatar army spread, from the

river to the hills on the west. Like a torrent they rushed toward the walls.

Khlit watched them with troubled eye. He had never seen such a thing as this. An army of cavalry was storming the high walls of a city, without cannon, without engines of siege, or preparation of any kind.

XVIII

The attack on Shankiang, says the Chinese history the Kang Mu, lasted for five hours, from noon to the setting of the sun. And for five hours there was no pause in the fury of the assault, or the slaughter on both sides.

Khlit, watching keenly, saw the first rank of horsemen gain the space below the walls, where the cannon of the defenders could not reach them. Then he saw that each of the leading horsemen bore a long ladder. No sooner had they reached the walls than a thousand ladders were raised, from the ground or from the backs of horses which were trained to remain still while this was done. Up these ladders swarmed the footmen who had been clinging to the stirrups of the riders.

Other ranks joined them and as fast as ladders were cast down others were raised. The sound of the nacars continued without ceasing, accompanied by the roar of the Tatar hordes, who struggled to gain a place under the walls. The archers and musketmen dropped back a short interval and covered the summit of the walls with a shower of arrows and bullets. The Manchu bowmen were skillful and their shafts exacted a heavy toll among the Chinese, who returned their fire desperately, striking down numbers of the attackers.

The unfortunate Chinese who had been caught without the gates were cut down to a man. Their bodies, with those of dead Tatars, were flung under the walls to form a rampart for the ladders. Not for a minute did the Tatars, utterly brave and reckless of loss, cease their efforts. As the piles of bodies grew, added to

by slain horses, groups of ladders were raised at a time, fastened together by ropes, and these were not cast down.

Tatar swordsmen swarming up them grappled with the Chinese on the walls. At places Khlit saw the pointed helmets of the Tatars spread over the summit of the walls. At such times bodies of Chinese held in reserve hurried up the steps to the walls and engaged the besiegers. After stubborn fighting the walls would be cleared, only to be assaulted again by fresh men of the khans.

Although the attacking horsemen fought recklessly, Khlit noted that they carried on the assault in perfect order, and that the men followed their leaders with blind obedience. The Chinese, on the other hand, although well armed and skillful fighters, gave way at times to panic and rapidly lost all semblance of order.

Arslan, who had been plying his bow unsparingly at the Chinese on the wall under him, who had no opportunity to defend themselves against him, gave a shout and pointed to the wall on the west.

“Ho, uncle!” he cried, “we gain the wall yonder. A strip of it is bare of the Chinese dogs!”

Khlit saw that what the archer said was true. The Tatars had cleared a space of defenders and were fighting savagely to force the Chinese farther along the walls. Other ladders disgorged helmeted swordsmen to swell their ranks. A party of Chinese under a man in the uniform of a high officer were raking the Tatars with musket fire from nearby housetops. A cannon on one of the towers cut swathes in their ranks, but still the swordsmen swarmed to the assault.

“Those are the Ordus of Hotai Khan, Arslan,” he cried in response, “but yonder are the men of Chepé Buga. There is where the Dragon will be struck.

“Hide of the devil!” swore Arslan in glee. “May the demons of purgatory devour me, but the Tatars are swimming the river.” Li Jusong had placed his men in junks there, but the speed of the Tatar attack had not given them time to tie the boats together. The horsemen were climbing from their mounts and swarming

over the banks of the river. Some, in scows, had boarded the junks and turned the cannon of the vessels against the other junks.

Chepé Buga, crafty in battle, had struck the city in its weakest place—the river. Already his men had demoralized the crews of the junks and gained the bank. Khlit saw horsemen rushing through the streets of Shankiang toward the river quarter, led by Chinese mandarins.

Directly under the Tower of the Five Falcons a regiment of cavalry was crossing the square, led by Li Jusong himself. They galloped in good order with lances in their hands.

Khlit saw the general of Wan Li sitting quietly on his horse, watching the cavalry pass. At his side among his followers was the blind Li Chan Ko, his face tranquil amid the uproar.

XIX

Arslan pointed at the cavalry. “Leo Tung men, and good soldiers all,” he muttered. “Li Jusong has saved them to strike at any who entered the walls. Ho! What is that?”

From the western wall a loud cry echoed which ran from tower to tower. Arslan listened attentively, and turned to Khlit, a grim light in his eye.

“The western gate is forced, lord,” he said. “The Tatar horse-men are in the streets. Soon they will be at the rear of Li Jusong’s men. Look!”

Li Jusong had forced his horse into the ranks of horsemen, motioning them back from their course. Even the general, however, could not check the regiments of cavalry in full gallop. Some hundreds halted. Those who had passed continued on their way toward the river. The news that the western gate had fallen spread panic among the defenders of the wall under the Tower of the Five Falcons.

The Chinese turned and fled down the steps to the streets. A torrent of Tatars poured after them. A swift glance showed Khlit that where the Ordus had been fighting the cannon was

silenced and the musketeers had vanished from the housetops. Chepé Buga’s men still swarmed against the riverbank.

Li Jusong with his handful of cavalry turned back to the men-aced western quarter. But few of the infantry followed them. The streets leading to the south, on which side the Tatars had not attacked, were filled with a panic-stricken throng of Chinese. A wail went up that drowned the clamor of the nacars.

The sun was touching the horizon on the east. The dark mass of Tatar horsemen that had been outside the walls was flooding into the doomed city by the northern and the western gates. The cannon on the walls were silent. In the streets of the city a hideous tumult arose.

Khlit caught sight of a score of horsemen galloping recklessly back through the square under the tower. It was Li Jusong, returning with what was left of his men. The general halted at sight of the oncoming Tatars and wheeled his horse into a street leading to the south. His followers formed around him, trampling down the fugitives on foot. Like a hurricane they swept through the street and vanished.

Arslan unstrung his bow. Khlit nodded understandingly.

“The city has fallen,” he said, absently. His gaze was fixed on one face among the corpses in the snow, and the dead horses. The first gleam of moonlight had shown him this face—Li Chan Ko’s. The magician’s prophecy had come to pass.

XX

It was after the sun had set, and the pale moonlight had flooded the snow-covered streets of Shankiang, lighting the dark stains that spread over the snow, when a group of riders with torches arrived before the entrance to the Tower of the Five Falcons. The tall form of Chepé Buga and a younger man led the horsemen, who halted before the entrance. The khan of the Hoshots was bleeding from a sword cut over the forehead, and Berang, the younger man, bore a broken spear as his only weapon. Behind the two followed Chagan, his face drawn with pain from his broken

leg. The two gazed curiously at the ring of stiff bodies that lay around the door of the tower. It was here, they had learned from Chagan, that Khlit had been seen during the assault.

Chepé Buga started and wiped the blood from his eyes as he saw a tall figure emerge from the narrow door, pushing aside the bodies that checked it. Another followed, but it was Khlit who drew the eyes of the Tatars. He stood with folded arms be-fore the tower. Chepé Buga and Berang dismounted from their horses.

“Lord,” said Chepé Buga, and there was respect in his deep voice, “we heard that you had lived through the battle and were in this tower. We came, as soon as we could leave our men, to seek you.”

“Aye,” said Khlit.

“Hotai Khan, eldest of the lords of Tatary, was slain on the wall,” continued Chepé Buga, “and Togachar died in the city. Many faces will be missing from the kurultai of the khans tonight. Lord, will you come to take your rightful place in the kurultai? The khans are waiting.”

Khlit’s glance searched the face of Chepé Buga.

“Have I a place,” he asked slowly, “among the khans?”

“Nay,” the voice of the Tatar rang out proudly, “not among the khans. When Chagan brought the message you whispered to him in the hall of Li Jusong, that the Chinese forces were scattered and disorganized by pillage; and that Shankiang might be taken by surprise, there were some in the kurultai by the Kerulon who doubted. But when Chagan told of your answer to the offer of Cho Kien, we knew that you spoke in wisdom, and in loyalty to the khans. Nay, your rank is Kha Khan, White Khan of the Jun-gar.”

“Your message, lord,” added Berang, “brought us victory. Without your wisdom we are a flock without a shepherd. Glad were we when we saw you on the tower, for we knew then that you had not been slain.”

Quickly Berang raised his right hand, and carried it to his spear. Chepé Buga did likewise. A shout went up from the horsemen,

in which Arslan joined. Khlit was silent, but his heart was big within him. Khlit, the wanderer, the man called the Wolf, had found honor and a home.

Arslan, the archer, lifted his voice in song.

They sing no more the chorus

That once they sang.

They are—see their ghosts before us—

Dead men of Wang.