He tried again:
"Yeh-yeh (grandfather) can you not give me some comforting information about this neighbourhood?"
Still no answer.
"Tortoise!" he exclaimed, exchanging his politeness for an habitual insult in his irritation as he pulled at the man's sleeve. "Old tortoise, you sleep deep out here in your rags under the city wall."
Then something prompted him to stop and gaze open-mouthed at the old man's bare chest and stomach. It had a big dark stain. He bent lower until his eyes were only a few inches away. Quite distinctly in the moonlight he could see the marks of the wound.
"Ssu-la—he is dead," the boy whispered in a hollow voice.
He was dead—evidently shot down by the soldiers. He had been killed in sight of his home.
Death in the East is no mystery: yet the boy shivered once or twice because he was so lonely. The vast barren space under the wall was tenanted only by this dead man and himself; and lurking somewhere near were the soldiers.
From far away came a peculiar grunt and snarl which was repeated again and again. The sound rose and hung on the night air, and now the boy rejoiced.
"Camels," he exclaimed aloud in his joy. There was a caravan of animals evidently camped just by the stone bridge, waiting like him for the dawn. At the first streak of daylight they would be off. It would be easy to join them. By mixing with the drivers he might escape notice. Now with the phlegm and patience of his race he sat down with his legs tucked under him prepared to wait for dawn.