'What of the camp?' demanded Conan. 'Are the guards out?'
'Five hundred horsemen patrol the stream, your Majesty,' answered the general. 'The Nemedians have not offered to move against us in the night. They wait for dawn, even as we.'
'By Crom,' muttered Conan. 'I awoke with a feeling that doom was creeping on me in the night.'
He stared up at the great golden lamp which shed a soft glow over the velvet hangings and carpets of the great tent. They were alone; not even a slave or a page slept on the carpeted floor; but Conan's eyes blazed as they were wont to blaze in the teeth of great peril, and the sword quivered in his hand. Pallantides watched him uneasily. Conan seemed to be listening.
'Listen!' hissed the king. 'Did you hear it? A furtive step!'
'Seven knights guard your tent, your Majesty,' said Pallantides. 'None could approach it unchallenged.'
'Not outside,' growled Conan. 'It seemed to sound inside the tent.'
Pallantides cast a swift, startled look around. The velvet hangings merged with shadows in the corners, but if there had been anyone in the pavilion besides themselves, the general would have seen him. Again he shook his head.
'There is no one here, sire. You sleep in the midst of your host.'
'I have seen death strike a king in the midst of thousands,' muttered Conan. 'Something that walks on invisible feet and is not seen—'