stallion waits by the door. Slowly he has slipped from the saddle.
He pushes the curtain back, and not like a stranger—calmly—as if he himself were master there. And then he looks upon the Turk—and the woman. All he can see of her is her long gold hair, falling from a divan to the floor. The rugs upon the floor of the tent are thick and soft. They do not hear him. Is it laughter that is shining in his eyes? Is it anger? No. It is merely the cool observation of the judge who weighs the battle.
“There is something beautiful—noble—about love,” Pan Strahinja was thinking. “I will have a picture of this scene made for myself sometime—in gold.”
Then Pan Strahinja lifted up his voice. He spoke just as if he were talking about the weather.
“Listen, my friend.”
“The devil!” shrieks the Turk.
“Listen, my friend. I might have killed you just now. But if I had your blood would have flowed down over this little serpent. The thought of that displeases me.”
That was well said, my swine. Don’t you think
