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Updated: May 5, 2025
The southern wall of that strange room that quiet room to which only a far, vague murmur of the city's life whispered up, with faint blurs of steamer-whistles from the river bore Turkish spoils of battle. Here hung more rifles, there a Kurdish yataghan with two hand-grenades from Gallipoli, and a blood-red banner with a crescent and one star worked in gold thread.
To port, only a few scattered gleams along the base of the cliff or atop it, showed that the sparsely settled Palisades were drawing abeam. The ceaseless, swarming activities of the metropolis were being left behind. Silence was closing in, broken only by vagrant steamer-whistles from astern. A crawling string of lights, on the New York shore, told that an express was hurling itself cityward.
For a moment, silence fell as he remained there studying the automatic silence save for the faint, far hum of the city, the occasional melodious note of steamer-whistles on the river. The Master's face, now that full light brought out its details, showed a white scar that led from his right ear down along jaw and throat, till the collar masked it.
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