the gods, it snapped at
me!"

Thanis ignored him. "Stark," she said. "Stark! Listen. Men are coming.
Soldiers. They will question you. Do you hear me?"

Stark said heavily, "I hear."

"_Do not speak of Camar!_"

Stark got to his feet, and Balin said hastily, "Peace! The thing is
safe. I would not steal a death warrant!"

His voice had a ring of truth. Stark sat down again. It was an effort to
keep awake. There was clamor in the street below. It was still night.

Balin said carefully, "Tell them what you told the captain, nothing
more. They will kill you if they know."

A rough hand thundered at the door, and a voice cried, "Open up!"

Balin sauntered over to lift the bar. Thanis sat beside Stark, her hand
touching his. Stark rubbed his face. He had been shaved and washed, his
wounds rubbed with salve. The belt was gone, and his blood-stained
clothing. He realized only then that he was naked, and drew a cloth
around him. Thanis whispered, "The belt is there on that peg, under your
cloak."

Balin opened the door, and the room was full of men.

Stark recognized the captain. There were others, four of them, young,
old, intermediate, annoyed at being hauled away from their beds and
their gaming tables at this hour. The sixth man wore the jewelled
cuirass of a noble. He had a nice, a kind face. Grey hair, mild eyes,
soft cheeks. A fine man, but ludicrous in the trappings of a soldier.

"Is this the man?" he asked, and the captain nodded.

"Yes." It was his turn to say Sir.

Balin brought a chair. He had a fine flourish about him. He wore a
crimson jewel in his left ear, and every line of him was quick and
sensitive, instinct with mockery. His eyes were brightly cynical, in a
face worn lean with years of merry sinning. Stark liked him.

He was a civilized man. They all were--the noble, the captain, the lot
of them. So civilized that the origins of their culture were forgotten
half an age before the first clay brick was laid in Babylon.

Too civilized, Stark thought. Peace had drawn their fangs and cut their
claws. He thought of the wild clansmen coming fast across the snow, and
felt a certain pity for the men of Kushat.

The noble sat down.

"This is a strange tale you bring, wanderer. I would hear it from your
own lips."

Stark told it. He spoke slowly, watching every word, cursing the
weariness that fogged his brain.

The noble, who was called Rogain, asked him questions. Where was the
camp? How many