ting spears, picking flints from the frogs of their horses.
At each fire a brass kettle of mutton-rice stew steamed and bubbled and smelled fat and rank. The men liked that smell, and sniffed often.
Mountaineers, not subjects of the Black Sheep khan, trudged from fire to fire, peddling provisions. The Turkomans swapped knives with the mountain men and baited the red-kirtled women. The feast of the singing bakshi seemed to be in a grand good humor.
Kara Yussuf himself, flinging thrift to the winds, entertained in his goat-hair pavilion. Black-bearded, pinch-eyed, with a sword-cleft in his chin, he symbolized courage and cunning. Primed with wine he waved greetings and hallooed to the fires; but talked low in the ears of his chieftains.
In the spirit of peace and goodwill to mankind, Kara Yussuf had discarded his weapons. His war helmet was passed, full of sweetmeats. Though his sabre still hung in the sheath at his belt, it was hidden by the long jubba of rainbow silk reserved for holiday splendor.
At one of the reeking pots of p'lov, outside the regal pavilion, a man stared at the khan, fascinated. He, too, had a split beard of the same square cut, a cleft in his chin, and a squint. His hair, his eyes, in a loose way his whole aspect, resembled the face of the khan.
The resemblance stopped short in the matter of the soul; for the fellow looked dreamy and kind.
When the khan dipped his fist into his mutton-rice mess, the man aped him, though he burned his whole hand. He imitated the khan's every gesture. So engrossed he became in thus playing the king that one of his pot comrades shouted:
"Look, Uncle, our Guchee is at it again!"
The old fellow called Uncle cackled.
"Ay," he said, "Guchee fancies he looks like Kara Yussuf. But his belly's too round, I'm thinking."
"We can remedy that," said a squat, sunburned fellow, "by dividing amongst us his share of the kettle."
"Even then," cackled Uncle, "a good dog could detect him; for Guchee still would smell of the yaboos."
Guchee raised his cleft chin with a khan-like scorn:
"Cackle on, you old hen. My hour shall come. I was not born to look great for nothing."
"Thou wert born," said another, "to whack yaboos on the rump—"
His jest was cut short as if his tongue had been clipped. A warning stillness struck the encampment.
From the mouth of the nearest guarded pass came the jingle and thud of armed riding.
The Turkomans gripped their weapons and stared as Mangali, the Tatar, rode through.
Mangali, the Tatar, great Tamerlane's friend, was equipped as beseemed the Earth-Shakers. His bridle reins dazzled with silver and sunstone; his arrow case twinkled with gold. His helmet sprouted the red horse-tail that had swept a million souls to oblivion.
None but this mighty Tatar chief could wield that appalling tulwar, double length and double width, hung by a loop of camel's hair from the horn of his brocaded saddle.
Though he was traveling through bitterly jealous lands, the Tatar led only six warriors.
Tall guards near the khan's pavilion crossed lances to halt the armed band:
