FAR behind them slept the city of Kashgar, the clang of gongs from the citadel marking the passing of the hours, and dawn heralded by the tiny note of the bell in the Swede’s chapel, sounding its note of protest against the wailing summons of the muezzin in the slender minarets that stood against the deeper shadows of the overhanging mountains.
Kashgar, with its filth and smells, its incessant chatter of polyglot voices behind the shop mats, the harem screen and the courtyard wall—voices bargaining, quarrelling and plotting—knew that they were gone. Even in the hours of sleep the voices were not still, and men moved in the windy alleys, bending their heads against the dust, and old Fen Shi, sitting with his ear against the mat of his shop, made melody on the one string of his fiddle.
Gui
