Conan lifted his bloody head.
'If I could come down from this beam I'd make a dying dog out of you, you Zaporoskan thief!' he rasped through blackened lips.
'Mitra, the knave knows me!' exclaimed the other. 'How, knave, do you know me?'
'There's only one of your breed in these parts,' muttered Conan. 'You are Olgerd Vladislav, the outlaw chief.'
'Aye! and once a hetman of the kozaki of the Zaporoskan River, as you have guessed. Would you like to live?'
'Only a fool would ask that question,' panted Conan.
'I am a hard man,' said Olgerd, 'and toughness is the only quality I respect in a man. I shall judge if you are a man, or only a dog after all, fit only to lie here and die.'
'If we cut him down we may be seen from the walls,' objected one of the nomads.
Olgerd shook his head.
'The dusk is deep. Here, take this ax, Djebal, and cut down the cross at the base.'