The House of the Falcon

by Harold Lamb

  "It's glorious," she exclaimed. "I do hope Daddy comes in time."

  Major Fraser-Carnie halted precisely at the end of the music, his ruddy face a shade redder and perspiration on his bald forehead. He bowed.

  "Your wish. Miss Rand," he observed, "is my pleasure to fulfill. I go to make inquiries——"

  Time passed. Partners came and went—to return again. Edith had not seen Monsey yet. A young subaltern escorted her to a balcony overlooking the garden of roses where the dark surface of a round lake glimmered faintly.

  Perching on the stone railing, a scarf flung over the flimsy ball gown, she stared out at the sentinel-like trees rising against the sky. It was chilly and a fresh wind was lifting the branches of the trees below her, setting the tiny globes of the lanterns to dancing.

  The last thing Edith wanted was to be left alone. She listened sympathetically while the young subaltern described the miraculous floating gardens of Akbar, the pleasure palace of the dead emperors. She liked the witchery of the darkening garden, she liked the subaltern, and the music——

  "My dance, I believe. Miss Rand."

  At the first strains of the music beginning anew, Monsey had appeared behind them. Instinctively Edith yearned to restrain her former partner who now bowed, preparing to leave. Then she rose quietly. After all, she had promised.

  So she walked back to the ballroom, her hand on Monsey's arm. It would soon be over. Then she could enjoy the evening.

  Monsey had placed his arm lightly on her waist, and she swayed to the rhythm of the music, when a voice spoke at her side.

  "Mem-sahib, pardon!"

  Edith turned inquiringly, to see Rawul Singh stiffly at attention. Monsey wheeled on the Garhwali, his lean face dark.

  "It is the order of the major-sahib," Rawal Singh bowed apologetically. "He has sent a message."

  Monsey would have spoken angrily, but the girl was before him. The appearance of the orderly made her heart leap. "My father—he is here?"

  Rawul Singh shook his head.

  "This is the message, my mem-sahib. The major begs the mem-sahib to come to the bungalow. There your father waits. He has come in a tonga, and he asks for you."

  Placidly, the orderly met the glance of Monsey. Both men waited for the response of the girl. Edith had a swift impulse of alarm. Why had not the major and Arthur Rand come to the palace? Why had they delayed in summoning her? And why had not Fraser-Carnie come for her in person?

  The uncertainty passed quickly. Her father was tired after the journey. He had never cared for entertainments. Fraser-Carnie had remained at the bungalow to keep his guest company until she should come. That was it.

  "My father is well?"

  Anxious to be reassured, she asked the question of Rawul Singh, forgetting that the orderly had not left the palace.

  "Mem-sahib, I do not know. I have not seen him."

  Of course! She ran to where she had left her scarf and snatched it up, anxious only to be gone. There was no reason for her to be alarmed on behalf of Arthur Rand. But, womanlike, she wanted to assure herself of that at once. She did not even wait to speak to her aunt.

  It was a slight matter. But this eagerness of Edith to see her father, and her failure to tell Miss Rand, had in reality an important bearing on what followed. With the scarf in her possession, she was turning back from the balcony when Monsey confronted her.

  "Your promise?" he inquired evenly. "You must finish your dance with me. Rawul Singh can wait."

  Edith met his glance fairly.

  "It will be over in a minute," he urged, "and I will take you to the bungalow in my carriage." She hesitated, and he resumed impatiently, "Rawul Singh can accompany us—if you wish."

  "But my father is waiting, Mr. Monsey."

  "And I have waited. Since—Quebec."

  Monsey's hand stretched out for the scarf. The girl drew it closer over her bare shoulders.

  "You will not deny me the dance ?"

  "Yes—for the present."

  "Then I will escort you to the bungalow." Swiftly, he shifted his ground. "Surely you will not refuse that, Miss Rand?"

  His words were ironical, challenging. But Edith lifted her head purposefully. "My father has sent for me, Mr. Monsey——"

  "And you——"

  "I am going to the bungalow—with Rawul Singh."

  He drew back, his dark eyes gleaming. Edith passed from the room, followed by the orderly. At the stairs she glanced back. Monsey was no longer to be seen.

  She would not wait for Rawul Singh to find the carriage and bring it to the main entrance. Instead she accompanied the orderly out upon the drive, where groups of native servants and drivers stood about lanterns. A puff of wind smote at the bushes beside the road, chilling the girl who had come without sufficient covering.

  "Hurry, Rawul Singh," she urged, "find the carriage."

  He ran ahead shouting among the idlers. She pressed after, not wishing to lose sight of him. They were nearing the outbuildings where the palace stables were located. Figures of natives gave back respectfully at her approach. She heard voices, in the darkness, almost drowned by the rising wind.

  A lantern, held by a bearded Kashmiri, flashed in her face. She could no longer make out the form of the orderly, and paused, uncertain. The rumble of wheels sounded in front of her.

  Two horses trotted out of the gloom. The lantern flickered away from the girl, not before she had seen the bulk of a wagon and the white tunic of its driver.

  Then powerful hands grasped her from behind. She was lifted bodily from the ground. A deep voice grunted a command, at her ear.

  Other hands groped for her from above. Startled, the girl cried out.

  "Rawul Singh!" And again: "Rawul Singh!"

  There was no answer. The wind had ceased abruptly, and the night was still. Edith felt herself drawn into the vehicle. She struggled, knowing that this could not be the Fraser-Carnie carriage. A hand, rough and odorous, pressed over her mouth, and she was laid swiftly on some yielding substance.

  Again the voice spoke angrily. A whip flapped. Edith was conscious that the wagon lurched forward, gathering speed. She heard the beat of hoofs, and struggled again, violently, in the hands that held her.

  The cart shook from side to side. Edith was dumbly surprised that it should be so dark—until she heard tree branches brush over a covering of some kind, near her head. Her blunted senses told her that she was held firmly, a man's powerful knee prisoning her legs.

  By now the wagon must have attained swift headway. It jolted and bounced painfully.

  Then, slowly, at first, came a scattered rustle an the roof of the vehicle. It increased to a rattle—grew deafening. A damp breath of air swept her face. Across her vision flashed a veiled gleam, followed by the rumble of thunder almost overhead.

  The thunderstorm had broken.

  CHAPTER VII

  INTO THE UNKNOWN

  Edith had been sole ruler of an American home and an American father. Now for the first time in her existence she was deprived of personal liberty.

  During the long hours of a stormy night she was held captive in the racing cart. The man who sat beside her in the darkness under the hood only placed his hand upon her when she struggled. Edith could not see him—except as a vague, cloaked shape during the intermittent flashes of lightning that cast a lurid half-light into the cart.

  Once she screamed vigorously. Only once, because a heavy wad of felt was thrust against her mouth and kept there. The girl could not loosen the grasp that held it, and the overpowering scent of grime and mutton tallow gradually nauseated her. Her dainty lips and teeth never had been so outraged before. When her head drooped and a despairing murmur escaped her, the felt was removed and the solitary guardian resumed his vigil.

  Twice when the cart first started its journey she had tried to rise and spring out. She was by no means a weakling. An active and athletic life had made her muscles supple and firm. Each time, however, the watcher as if guessing her inte
nt had pushed her back upon the cushions in spite of kicks, scratches, and vigorous blows against his bony face. Edith wondered if he were made of iron.

  After the second attempt she lay quiet, panting and furious. At intervals the cart stopped briefly while voices sounded obscurely by the horses; chains jangled and horses neighed near by. Then they went forward at a faster pace. Edith guessed that fresh horses had been harnessed to the ekka—the native cart.

  Plainly, they were traveling swiftly. But in what direction she could not know. Had there been a mistake? She felt not. The men in the cart must have seen her face by lantern light before they seized her.

  Was Monsey responsible for the whole thing? She thought he was capable of it. Who else would dare to lay hand on her? For a fleeting moment she considered the native visitors at the palace, even the raja. But it did not seem reasonable that they would try to abduct her—especially at the palace.

  Where was Rawul Singh? Why had he not answered her? She dismissed the suspicion that the message delivered by the Garhwali had been a pretext to make her leave the ball. Rawul Singh was faithful, and he must have been near her when she had been carried off. Why had he made no effort to help her?

  It was impossible for her to understand yet that she was leaving her father. Major Fraser-Carnie, and Aunt Kate.

  Every sense, however, told the girl that the hooded cart was pelting through the rain-driven night at a reckless pace. Its sway and lurch shook her roughly, dulling her perceptions. She found it almost impossible to think. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. Until then she had not noticed that she was shivering. "I'm so thirsty," she murmured petulantly.

  A figure on the driver's seat stirred. There was a movement, a gurgle of liquid, and a cup was thrust against her lips.

  Edith tasted its contents suspiciously. Then she took the cup and drank. It was good water, rather musty. "Some more," she commanded.

  She had emptied the cup a second time before she reflected that some one in the cart must understand English. Edith sat up and looked over her shoulder, hugging the blanket to her.

  "Who are you?"

  Like the glimmer of a will-o'-the-wisp, the lightning flickered, revealing two huddled shadows on the driver's seat. They had not moved at the question. Her voice rose angrily, almost hysterically.

  "Take me back to the major-sahib—at once. You must take me to Srinagar! You must——"

  A lump rose in her throat. Edith began to cry, overmastered by sheer helplessness.

  By degrees the rain ceased. A fresh, cold wind sprang up, shaking the hood of the ekka. The thunder had rolled away, like some sportive, muttering giant betaking himself to distant skies. The blackness around Edith changed to a somber gray. She could make out the cloaked form of her guard, a massive bulk wrapped in sheepskin. She sat up, peering at him.

  The scarred face of the native of Baramula met her eyes.

  Dawn flooded the interior of the hood suddenly. Edith could hear the twittering of birds near by. And the cart jolted to a halt, while the heavy breathing of spent horses reached her ears.

  A voice close at hand was repeating unknown words monotonously, sonorously. The girl stirred her numbed limbs and climbed stiffly forward upon the empty driver's seat.

  She looked out upon a verdant mountain slope. The level light of new day revealed towering mountain peaks snow-capped. A flock of sheep were feeding about a broken-down hut that looked for all the world like a chalet of Switzerland. Steaming horses hung their heads over a muddy road that was more like a trail. Beside the road two small carpets were placed and on them turbaned figures raised lean arms. The driver and his companion were praying. It was this prayer Edith had heard.

  The taller of the two men rose to his feet, and, seeing her watching, salaamed.

  "Iskander!" she cried.

  The seller of rugs inclined his head respectfully; his elegant attire seemed none the worse for the bad night. "Good-morning, khanum."' he said quietly. Edith stared at him. She wondered if she looked as disordered as she felt. She was trying to read his face, but found the task singularly difficult.

  "Madame will have her breakfast," observed Iskander in his excellent English. The girl saw that the other native—a withered satyr of a man—was building a fire. Edith was hungry. The smell of boiling coffee attacked her with a vital pang. Thus, she resolved to breakfast before speaking her mind to Iskander.

  Heated chupatties, fruit and coffee refreshed her. Her chin rose a notch and she summoned Iskander with purposeful calm. Her gray eyes were coldly alight The storm was about to break.

  "I have you to thank for the cup of water—last night?" she observed.

  Iskander bowed.

  "Then," she went on, "you heard me call to you. Why did you not turn back at once to Srinagar?"

  Again the Arab bent his head. His aristocratic features were inscrutable.

  "I regret," he said, "it could not be."

  "You will do it now—at once!"

  The gray eyes were tempestuous, the beautiful face flushed. Not many women could have passed through such a night and looked as attractive as Edith Rand. The discreet gaze of the Mohammedan seemed to suggest as much.

  "I am sorry," he responded politely, almost absently.

  Edith flared into angry scorn. She stormed, threatened, abused. She warned Iskander that Major Fraser-Carnie would most certainly avenge the insult to her. The Arab's dark face was blank under the lash of words. Edith checked herself—suddenly, realizing that she was making no progress.

  "My father will shoot you for this, Iskander," she said slowly.

  The man's brown eyes sought hers curiously.

  "A life already has been spent," his voice was stern.

  The girl caught her breath, wondering what he meant. Abruptly Iskander stepped from her view and the powerful native climbed back into the cart. A lurch, and the ekka started again upon its course—away from Srinagar.

  Throughout tormented hours of a long day Edith was jolted ceaselessly upon the floor of the cart. She lay passive, white-lipped. Resolutely she fought off weariness, determined not to sleep.

  It was evening when the cart at last halted again. Edith was weak with hunger and fatigue. Iskander's bearded face peered in at her keenly and the Arab gathered her up bodily in his arms. When she pushed away from him and gained her feet on the ground, he spoke gently.

  "Madame must have a bath. Then dinner will be served."

  Bewildered by the ordeal of the day and night, Edith saw that she was being led to a small, whitewashed dak bungalow. It was evening and she could barely make out her surroundings; but in a neat room stood a tin tub filled with warm water. Iskander pointed to a pile of clothing on a chair.

  "It would be well to change," he suggested respectfully. "The night in the upper Hills will be cold, very cold. We cannot stay here."

  With that he left her, closing the door after him. Edith's woman soul yearned for the tub, but she was resentfully unwilling to bathe. She took up the clothing and was surprised to see a stout walking suit of her own, with shoes and woolen stockings. Her tam-o'-shanter was there, as well as a linen waist.

  Edith appreciated the advantage of changing from the flimsy ball gown to a serviceable attire. Feeling utterly weary, she even indulged in a hasty wash—and donned the other suit.

  Iskander smiled approval when he saw her changed dress. He did up the discarded gown skillfully and announced that dinner waited in the main room of the bungalow. Food and the warmth of a fire at her back brought irresistible drowsiness. Reaction claimed her at last. As she stared at the white figure of the Arab, it seemed to grow until it filled the room. Iskander's eyes peered into hers.

  "You will sleep, madame," she heard him saying. The outlines of the room faded. She felt herself slipping into a comfortable void, deliciously restful.

  "You will not need opium—tonight," Iskander was murmuring. Edith lifted her head in an effort to shake off the overpowering drowsiness. And the Arab again picked
her up in his lean arms, carrying her out into the cold night air to the waiting cart.

  Powerless, the girl subsided on the cushions, pillowing her head on her arm. Again the native tucked the blanket about her, and once more she felt the familiar shaking of the ekka. Edith tried desperately to collect her thoughts.

  The last thing she had seen was—she was certain—the medicine pail of her aunt, as it was placed beside her in the cart.

  Surely she had been mistaken. She almost laughed at the thought. Poor Aunt Kate without her medicines! Why, she would be positively ill if they were not returned to her. She must speak to Iskander about it Then he would go back . . . back . . .

  She slept

  It was long before she wakened. Dimly she was conscious of daylight and the monotonous rumble of wheels. Edith asked for water sleepily. Instead, a cup of cold coffee was presented to her lips. Strong coffee, she thought, for it tasted bitter and made her head swim. Swiftly, without effort, she slipped off again into stupor.

  Vague impressions crowded in on her. Always the cart raced forward. She saw the scarred face biding over her—heard the musical voice of Iskander. Once she looked out into a sea of mist She was very cold . . .

  Another time the cart was standing still in what seemed a red inferno. Demoniac forms peered at her from the walls of the inferno. Her lungs labored for air. Edith hid her face, not knowing that she was in a valley walled with red sandstone from which the glare of the sun was reflected from rock pinnacles and grotesque shapes carved by the erosion of water throughout innumerable years.

  She did not know that she was passing through a lofty altitude where breathing was difficult, and that the snow peaks she had once seen from a distance were close overhead——

  Iskander understood well the uses of narcotics, and was aware that sleep alone would retain the strength of the woman through the continuous stages of a racking journey.