CHAPTER VII

THE UNDYING FIRE For long hours Solf lay quaking among his rags. A silent duel went on in the cantonment, the weavers about the fire, whispering and planning, watching Solf with catlike eagerness; the wretched traitor returning their stares, defying them by his sleeplessness to attempt to rob him. Solf had had no sleep since his taking from the cantonment. In his service of treachery he had worked with a feverish zeal that had exhausted him. Inevitably, nature would conquer his will. He knew the time was close w…