The thought seemed to appal him. For hours after that he climbed
ahead in silence.




Chapter VIII



Dear is the swagger that takes a man in
Helmeted, clattering, proud.
Sweet are the honors the arrogant win,
Hot from the breath of a crowd.
Precious the spirit that never will bend--
Hot challenge for insolent stare!
But--talk when you've tried it!--to win in the end,
Go ahsti!* Be meek! And beware!

[* Slowly.]


Even with the man with the stomach Ache mounted on the spare horse
for the sake of extra speed (and he was not suffering one-fifth so
much as he pretended); with Ismail to urge, and King to coax, and
the fear of mountain death on every side of them, they were the
part of a night and a day and a night and a part of another day
in reaching Khinjan.

Darya Khan, with the rifle held in both hands, led the way swiftly,