When Kushad’s daughter swung open the portal, she started back in alarm. Before the door stood a haggard giant of a man, unshaven and mud-caked, carrying a saddle, a pair of saddle bags, a bow in its case, and a blanket roll. Although he presented a horrific aspect, the man grinned broadly through sweat and dirt. “Hail, Tahmina!” he croaked. “You’ve grown since I saw you last; in a few years you’ll be a woman, ripe for the plucking. Don’t you know me?” “Can it be—you must be Captain Conan, the Cimmerian!” she stammered. “Come in! My father will rejoice to see you.” “He may be less joyful when he hears my story,” grunted Conan, setting down his burdens. “How fares the old fellow?” “He is well, though his sight is nearly gone. He has no client at the moment, so come with me.” Conan followed the girl back to a chamber in which a small, white-bearded man sat cross-legged on a cushion. As Conan entered, the man stared from eyes clouded by cataract. “Are you not Conan?”
