"Boolba—what is it?"
"The book—the book! It is mine! See ... floor!"
But the book had disappeared.
"Where, Boolba—where, my good Boolba?" The voice of Boolba's master was tremulous. "Show me—did he strike you—he shall suffer, by the saints! Look for it, Boolba!"
"Look! Look!" yelled the writhing man. "How shall I look? I who am blind—blind—blind!"
CHAPTER X
TERROR IN MAKING
In the spring of 1919 Malcolm Hay came out from the Kursky Voksal carrying his own well-worn valise. An indifferent cigar was clenched between his white teeth, and there was a sparkle of amusement in his grave eyes. He stood seventy inches in his stockings, and an excellent judge of men who looked him over, noted the set and width of shoulders, the upward lift of chin, the tanned face and flexibility of body, marked him down "soldier"—either American or English.