Summary

Portrait of Harold Lamb Harold Lamb Rusudan — XIII. The Most Magnificent (1927)

Even the carpet, woven by the silk looms of Persia, was tinged by this glow, likewise the heavy canopy of Tyrian purple over the couch. The head of Lascaris, bloodless in its pallor, was faintly flushed. The skin lay in folds under his eyes and his thin mouth showed no lips at all; the flesh had fallen away from the bone so much that the aspect was that of a skull, for his hair had been clipped close.
“Eh, Rusudan,” he murmured, “thou dost hate me, without doubt. A self-willed barbarian, an unwilling captive and a scornful attendant.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of Harold Lamb Harold Lamb Rusudan — XIII. The Most Magnificent (1927)

The Greek slaves, trained to the lute and to gentler harmony, fidgeted and smiled, wishing to show their disapproval, but Lascaris relished the savage undertone of the gipsy song.
Many times had Rusudan repeated the song, and when she had finished she half closed her eyes, leaning her head against the marble pillar, thinking of anything but the whispering women and the glow of sunset on the yellow marble. It was months since she had quieted Hugh in his fever with that same song.
As she meditated she was aware of another singer, a man with a lusty voice, and none too sensitive an ear.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of Harold Lamb Harold Lamb Rusudan — XIII. The Most Magnificent (1927)

Arslan scrutinized his companion shrewdly. Hugh's red-gold beard had been shaved and his long hair clipped. His gambeson and mail had been discarded for a wadded robe and a sheepskin shoulder cloak with a hood that could be drawn up over his head, but the poise of the long body, the stride of a man accustomed to spurs and authority, were not to be concealed, or the scar of the sword-cut that ran from eye to chin.
“Nay,” he said again, “in a boat there is no hiding. Have we come to the Chersonese to free a single woman or to prepare the way for Subotai?
Source: Wikisource

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