The people were dying one after another.

Just the day before they had cast on the plain the twenty-seventh man.
Meanwhile, as we talked, the witch doctor came out of one of the yurtas.
He was an old man with a cataract on one eye and with a face deeply scarred by smallpox.

He was dressed in tatters with various colored bits of cloth hanging down from his waist.

He carried a drum and a flute.

We could see froth on his blue lips and madness in his eyes.