Dylara was too shocked to attempt analysis of her feelings. She knew only that an unbearable weight had come into her heart; beyond that her thoughts refused to go. Sudden tears stung her eyes.
The man rose and set about stamping out the fire. Watching him, the girl began to note how greatly this man differed from one of her own tribe. To begin with, he was smaller, both in build and in stature. His skin, under its heavy tan, was somewhat darker; his hair very black. He wore a tunic of some coarsely woven grayish white material; rude sandals of deerskin covered his feet. A quiver of arrows and a bow—both completely unfamiliar objects to the girl—swung from his shoulders, and a long thin knife of flint was thrust under a belt of skin at his waist.
His speech, too, had shown he was of another race. While it had been intelligible, his enunciation was puzzling at times; occasionally hardly understandable. The similarity to the Cro-Magnon tongue was far stronger than basic; still, there was considerable difference in subtle shadings of pronunciation and sentence structure.
He turned to her, finally. "Are you hungry?"
"No," she said dully.
"Good. We have delayed too long, as it is. Sephar is more than two suns away, and we are anxious to return."
He raised his voice in a half-shouted, "Ho!" In response a half-score of men rose from the tall grasses nearby.
"Trokar," called the hawk-faced one.
"Yes, Vulcar." A slender young man came forward.