en
Where wild men hide--
Wild beasts abide,
Mongol and Baiaghod,
Turkoman, Taidjigod,
Each in his den.
The skies are blue,
The plains are wide,
Over the fens the horsemen ride!"

Still echoing the wild air, and playing with both hands in spite of
the lighted cigarette between his fingers, he glanced over his
shoulder at Neeland:

"A very old, old song," he explained, "made in the days of the great
invasion when all the world was fighting anybody who would fight back.
I made it into English. It's quite nice, I think."

His naive pleasure in his own translation amused Neeland immensely,
and he said that he considered it a fine piece of verse.

"Yes," said Sengoun, "but you ought to hear a love song I made out of
odd fragments I picked up here and there. I call it '_Samarcand_'; or
rather '_Samarcand Mahfouzeh_,' which means, 'Samarcand the Well
Guarded':

"'Outside my guarded door
Whose voice repeats my name?'
'The voice thou hast heard before
Under the white moon's flame!
And thy name is my song; and my song is ever the same!'

"'How many warriors, dead,
Have sung the song you sing?
Some by an arrow were sped;
Some by a dagger's sting.'
'Like a bird in the night is my song--a bird on the wing!'

"'Ahmed and Yucouf bled!
A dead king blocks my door!'
'If thy halls and walls be red,
Shall Samarcand ask more?
Or my song shall cleanse thy house or my heart's blood
foul thy floor!'

"'Now hast thou conquered me!
Humbly thy captive, I.
My soul escapes to thee;
My body here must lie;
Ride!--with thy song, and my soul in thy arms; and let me die.'"

Sengoun, still playing, flung over his shoulder:

"A Tartar song from the Turcoman. I borrowed it and put new clothes on
it. Nice, isn't it?"

"Enchanting!" replied Neeland, laughing in spite of himself.

Rue Carew, with her snowy shoulders and red-gold hair, came drifting
in, consigning them to their seats with a gesture, and giving them to
understand that she had come to hear the singing.

So Sengoun continued his sketchy, haphazard recital, waving his
cigarette now and then for emphasis, and conversing frequently over
his shoulder while Rue Carew leaned on the piano and gravely watched
his nimble fingers alternately punish and caress the keyboard.

After a little while the Princess Mistchenka came in saying that she
had letters to write. They conversed, however, for nearly an hour
before s