and something like a shudder passed through him, something that touched the fringe of a forgotten mystery, ancient, magnificent, transcendent.
He had reined in his mount with his left hand while, instinctively, as if searching for encouragement, his right felt for the hilt of the blade—the blade that was responsible for all this twisted, mad adventure.
Then he shook off the dim, whirling thoughts. He spurred the camel's lean flanks.
On! By the side of Aziza Nurmahal who was smilingly returning the throaty salutations of the Tamerlanis who came running down the streets, out of houses and mosques and bazaars, to meet her: tradesmen and peasants and artisans; too, sabre-rattling, hook-nosed, swaggering nobles. And Hector noticed that many of the latter gave churlish greetings, and that some of them even stalked past, straight backed, insolently looking the other way, without a sign of recognition for their sovereign princess.
They continued their way through the main road of the city, and up a steep, stone-paved ascent that led to the chowk, the outer courtyard of the palace.
There they dismounted and walked, past files of soldiers and servants and courtiers, through a huge gate studded with brass spikes, through another court yard crammed with human life, and into still another which was lifeless except for the whir and coo of hundreds of blue-winged pigeons.
The Princess drew a foot-long, skewer-like key from her waist shawl, opened the door, and motioned Hector to enter.
