“You ride a black mare…” he mumbled. “On a night as black as a pall… You sweep away the tracks behind you…” The girl turned around and looked at him. She had already wrapped the shawl around her face and the black-ringed spectral eyes looked out from over it. “Whoever meets you,” the beggar mumbled, “will not avoid death… For you yourself are death.” The girl looked long at him. Long. And rather dispassionately. “You’re right,” she said finally.
