The fantastic melodies of wandering gypsy songs went throbbing through the room; rollicking gavots, Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes.
As the music grew sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.
Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness returned and overwhelmed him.

They marshaled past, thirteen in all; and there were glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains, men moving in the blur of smoke, long watches in the night.

Thirteen years in God-forsaken outposts, with never a sight of a woman's face, the sound of her voice, the swish of her gown, nor a touch of the spell which radiates from her presence.
He had never made friends.

Others had come up to him and passed him, and had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt of the cold, the heat, the watchfulness.

He had made his bed; he was too much his father's son to whine because it was hard.