After a little while Tressa tranquilly resumed her paddling and singing:
“—And eight tall towers
Guard the route
Of human life,
Where at all hours
Death looks out,
Holding a knife
Rolled in a shroud.
For every man,
Humble or proud,
Mighty or bowed,
Death has a shroud;—for every man,—
Even for Tchingniz Khan!
Behold them pass!—lancer.
Baroulass,
Temple dancer
In tissue gold,
Khiounnou,
Karlik bold,
Christian, Jew,—
Nations swarm to the great Urdu.
Yaçaoul, with your kettledrum,
Warn your Khan that his hour is come!
Shroud and knife at his spurred feet throw,
And bid him stretch his neck for the blow!—”
“You know,” remarked Cleves, “that some of those songs you sing are devilish creepy.”
Tressa looked around at him over her shoulder, saw he was smiling, smiled faintly in return.
They were off Orchid Cove now. The hotel and cottages loomed dimly in the silver mist. Voices came distinctly across the water. There were people on the golf course paralleling the river; laughter sounded from the club-house veranda.
They went ashore.