Harold Lamb

“ What thought have you for the Falcon, the Cossack? He serves to protect you—to groom your horse-—to bring wood for your fire. When the wolves howl, the borzoi is caressed by his mistress; when the sun shines, the Cossack is good enough for your jests. The Cossack is bloody—the Cossack is revengeful—and in your dreams you cling to the man who has slain multitudes for a whim—”
Springing to her feet, Nada faced him with blazing eyes.
“Stop! I have given my love to no man.”
“Nay, only you can know if Otrèpiev be man or fiend.” ”

“ But the Cossack rose suddenly to his feet, and cupped his hands about his eyes to peer at the heights.
“Kirdy,” Nada went on impulsively, “let Otrèpiev meet his fate, wherever he has gone. He will not return. I fear, for us.”
“Nada,” he said slowly, “there is no fear in you. Your beauty is such that you command and men obey, like slaves. It burns, this fever.” ”

“ Such a name usually, the Cossack remembered, had a cause.
If there were indeed a city beyond the pass, it might be a city where the Horde had met with calamity in almost forgotten days. If so, the Tatars would naturally avoid the site. Asia has its lost cities where once devastating sand or plague has entered in—or an invading horde. Time would have erased the memory of calamity, though not the dread of the place.
So much Kirdy knew. And this would account for the tale of the Persian, that the mountain rampart was unscalable, and that beyond it the sun came up. ”