seem [si: m], those [ðəuz], shut [ʃʌt]

The garbled warnings of the Zuagir returned to him, seeming somewhow less fantastic than they had seemed in the crowded, sunlit streets. He wondered again at the riddle of those empty huts. Why did the beggars shun them? He turned back into the chamber, shut the door, and bolted it.

The light began to flicker, and he investigated (свет начал мерцать, и он занялся расследованием), swearing when he found the palm oil in the lamp was almost exhausted (выругавшись, когда /он/ обнаружил, /что/ пальмовое масло в лампе было почти израсходовано). He started to shout for Aram, then shrugged his shoulders and blew out the light (он начал звать Арама, потом пожал /своими/ плечами и задул свет; to blow — дуть). In the soft darkness he stretched himself fully clad on the couch (в приятной темноте он растянулся полностью одетый на софе), his sinewy hand by instinct searching for and closing on the hilt of his broadsword (его мускулистая рука инстинктивно поискала и сомкнулась на рукоятке его палаша; sinew — сухожилие). Glancing idly at the stars framed in the barred windows (глядя лениво на звезды, обрамленные зарешеченными окнами), with the murmur of the breeze through the palms in his ears (с шорохом бриза сквозь пальмы в /его/ ушах), he sank into slumber with a vague consciousness of the muttering drum (он погрузился в дрему с неясным осознанием глухо грохочущего барабана; to sink — погружаться, тонуть), out on the desert — the low rumble and mutter of a leather-covered drum (снаружи в пустыне — низкий рокот и грохот обтянутого кожей барабана), beaten with soft, rhythmic strokes of an open black hand (ударяемого = по которому бьет мягкими ритмичными ударами раскрытая черная рука; to beat — бить, ударять) …

blew [blu: ], stretch [streʧ], consciousness [ˈkɔnʃəsnɪs]

The light began to flicker, and he investigated, swearing when he found the palm oil in the lamp was almost exhausted. He started to shout for Aram, then shrugged his shoulders and blew out the light. In the soft darkness he stretched himself fully clad on the couch, his sinewy hand by instinct searching for and closing on the hilt of his broadsword. Glancing idly at the stars framed in the barred windows, with the murmur of the breeze through the palms in his ears, he sank into slumber with a vague consciousness of the muttering drum, out on the desert — the low rumble and mutter of a leather-covered drum, beaten with soft, rhythmic strokes of an open black hand …