The winter sun shone gaily in through the open windows of my bedroom at Paulos’s, dimming the red flames of the big log fire, and throwing bright shafts of light along the dark polished floor. Outside, under the cloudless blue sky, the chenar trees stood in the last warmth of their russet autumn dress, almost the colour of Aryenis’s hair. The leafless silver of the poplars, the falling yellow leaves of the big mulberries, the faint yellow tinge in the green of the little lawns, the occasional splash of colour of a late rose with its loose-leafed glory of crimson, all spoke to the end of the year, and the little posy of winter violets on the table by my bed were a last parting gift of fragrance from a year that had held more life and adventure than all the thirty-one preceding it. Also a year that had once seemed to hold more promise than I had ever dreamed of. This was my second day at Paulos’s, and the peace of the place was sinking into my soul after the rather tiring and strained days I had been through. I had been put into the big oak-panelled bedroom on the ground-floor with a verandah which gave on to the walled garden at the back, Paulos’s favourite resort. My leg was less painful already, and, according to Forsyth, gave promise of healing up straight away--partly owing to the clean nature of the wound, partly to my own physical hardness after months of marching. Over the fireplace hung my mail and weapons, and above them, at Paulos’s own wish, his banner which had waved above us during our struggle at the Astara defile. The old archer had revised his opinion of me apparently, and himself polished up my mail daily, sitting with Payindah in the sunlit verandah outside, exchanging broken phrases. This morning, however, despite the peace of my surroundings, there was much to worry over. The previous day had brought a messenger from Kyrlos, whose army was now steadily pushing back the Shaman forces toward their fantastic hills, and with letters from Kyrlos came a characteristic note from Wrexham, a note which lay upon my little table, and which introduced an extraordinary complexity into things. For its brief contents informed Forsyth and me that we were likely to remain prisoners in Sakaeland for many, many months if not, perhaps, for ever; and what not so long before would have been to me at least a not unpleasing accident opened up now a prospect of weeks and months of Aryenis’s company, when everything told me that the Aryenis I had saved in the gate had been saved for some one else; Andros’s telltale eagle feathers were more illuminating than fifty statements. I took up John’s note again, scribbled in pencil on a sheet torn from his notebook.