Marching Sands
were afire with anticipation of a struggle. The long pent up enmity against their captors was about to be released. From the dwellings of Sungan came the lament of the women. It shrilled in the night air—the world-old plaint of women before battle.
Timur lingered with them. The three were surrounded by the hunters who had strung their bows and unsheathed their heavy swords.
There was only a half-light in the upper hall of the council-temple where they now stood. It reflected faintly upon the red sandstone of the walls, with the faded, painted figures of an older age looking down upon them.
Gutturally, the warriors spoke under their breath to each other, laughing much, although not loudly. Some, however, leaned upon their bows silently, their eyes blank. This note of tensity was familiar to the American. Gray had watched men go forward under fire with the same forced merriment, the same semi-stupor.
But the hunters were contented. Young men, for the most part, their lean faces hardened and lined by exposure to the sun, their bloodshot eyes narrow, their lips thin and cracked—they smiled more frequently than not. A savage pleasure lurked in their eyes. They were to lift their swords against the oppressors of the Wusun. Gray counted the swords. They were all too few.
Wearied of confinement, they were, for a brief
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