a moment that the fire within his falcon eyes had lessened. They were still glowing coals, they were the gleaming heads of bunched swords, and they sparkled like the great gem on the middle finger of his long white hand. You remember it, my swine.
It was on a night in the sixth decade of his life. A sultry night, a scent-heavy night of high summer. Pan Strahinja lay upon his couch, in a tent richly hung with rugs and embroideries, whose gold-threaded walls gleamed in the reflection of a swinging lamp of bronze. He had just put aside his weapons, his robe of state, and slept—exhausted—after the princely meal he had just given in honor of a Turk.
Do not believe, my dear swine, that the great Pan Strahinja had sought out a Turk for a friend, or—No! You must understand—eh, my swine?—that great people have obligations. The Turk had just been his guest. But I suppose you do not understand that, do you? Anyway it doesn't make any difference.
Well, as I said before. Pan Strahinja lay upon his couch and slept. And beside him lay a woman. She lay there naked, playing with her long, un-
