by Harold Lamb
"I thought no Mohammedans ever lived above the Himalayas." Edith was guilefully seeking the forbidden fruit of knowledge which Donovan had denied her.
"Your wisdom is too young, Miss Rand. The forefathers of the Moslems, the Uigurs and the Tartars had their birthplace in upper Central Asia. And they had Yakka Arik. Now they come here from Arabia, Turkestan, and the corners of Asia. The Arabs, Persians, Uigurs, Taghliks, and not a few Afghans ride here in the pilgrimage caravans——"
"Sometimes called the 'caravan of the dead'?" she put in.
Donovan looked at her sharply, and a hard mask settled on his lean face.
"Those who ride in the caravan of the dead have offended against the law of Yakka Arik. God grant you never come to know its meaning——"
He fell silent, his hands gripped tight together, sunk in meditation. Edith was startled by the gravity of his low voice. She half put out her hand to touch his, then drew back.
"I am so glad that I found you here," she said impulsively. "Mahmoud and the others frighten me. They never even look at me, and I am sure they have no sympathy at all. No one, even, except Iskander, comes to the house." It was her way of offering him peace—with honors—of asking him to trust her.
Donovan replied abstractedly, without weighing the possible effect of his words: "You see, it's my house, given me because they've made me khan—equal in rank to Iskander. They don't look at you because you are unveiled in the house, and they don't come here on that account—because, of course, they consider that you are mine and it's contrary to the old Moslem law to visit where the women of the house can be seen."
Edith caught her breath. So she was merely the property of Donovan Khan! The Sayaks thought of her as his wife or—or slave! She recalled the words of Iskander.
"Indeed," she observed frigidly, "haven't you told them that I am an American? They must know I have friends, who may trace me to Kashgar——"
Donovan shook his head thoughtfully.
"Any place but Kashgar, Miss Rand, where the Vulture roosts just now. You are safer here. As for your nationality, if you will pardon me, it is unknown here or in Central Asia generally."
"Is it?" Edith tossed away the tendril, feeling provoked the more because instinct told her this was the truth. "We shall see. They may learn what an American father will do for his daughter. But these Sayaks—why do they keep me prisoner? For ransom?"
"Indeed not"
"As—as hostage?"
"Nearer right. Not exactly."
"Then what? You won't tell me!"
A shapely foot in a native sandal—Edith's shoes were being preserved carefully against future need—began to tap the stone floor of the balcony. Donovan noticed it with appreciation. Everything about her, he reflected, was dainty. He did not interpret the animation of the foot as a sign of danger.
"Your friends seem to me very much like heathens, Mr. Donovan, in spite of your defense of them. And I think that church is a bad place."
"Well, they think of us as infidels. Yet, Miss Rand, the mosque and the man who lives within it is one of the safeguards of Christianity. He is the one more than any other whose friendship I must keep."
Craftily she sought for information about this man.
"He is not a Christian, is he? You always say, 'Perhaps'." Edith wanted him to understand that he had not made peace. "You never say what I want you to."
Donovan smiled doggedly. He did not understand the mood of the girl—that she wanted him to confide in her, comfort her.
"Remember," he observed bluntly, "Mahmoud has done much for me. And Iskander saved you—your life at Kashgar. He did the same thing for me, too, at Kashgar, when the Vulture's friends pretty nearly succeeded in poisoning me."
"But they are murderers and—and brigands. Aravang killed your servant."
He sighed. How was this girl, fresh from the outside world, to understand the men of another race and the rigid laws of Yakka Arik?
"They have their code. An old one. Miss Rand. Before the coming of Christ it was that of Christians. An eye for an eye—a blow for a blow." Donovan pointed suddenly to the mosque. "That is not an evil place. It is a temple of faith, and faith is not an evil thing."
"Then why can't I go there? To this man who is your friend?"
Anxiety flashed into Donovan's tense face. Edith mistook it for anger.
"Because I say so! You must not try to learn the secret of the Sayaks."
The familiar ring of command was in his low voice. The girl's chin went up stubbornly and the gray eyes became cold.
"Very well," she said.
Donovan nodded in relief. He did not understand that, instead of consent, Edith's words meant that she was fully determined to disobey him. She would go to the mosque. Nothing would prevent her, now that Donovan, who should—so she reasoned—have been frank with her and trusted her instead of his Sayak friends, had forbidden it. And at the same time she would appeal to the man of the mosque to help Donovan and herself.
Unaware that Edith had made up her mind to do the very thing he was most anxious she should not do—the thing that could ruin her prospect of escape from the lake, Donovan proposed that they should go below to their quarters.
"I'm devilishly hungry," he said cheerfully, "and Aravang must have lunch ready. I think I smell baked fish."
"I'm not hungry," she assured him coldly.
The girl remained on her perch when Aravang appeared for the sick man. Later, when Donovan sent the native to convey to her by signs that lunch was waiting, she shook her head.
For the first time she noticed that Aravang had a large bird on his wrist. It was a goshawk, hooded. Its powerful claws gripped a glove on the man's hand. The slave started at sight of the girl.
Aravang had evidently planned a little of his favorite diversion, while his mistress was below stairs. Edith stared at the falcon curiously, surprised at its tameness. Hawks, she had always thought, were wild and not subject to domestication. Its hooked beak and sharp talons appeared menacing.
Suddenly she beckoned the native.
"Aravang," she said, "I know you are not as ignorant as you want to seem. You know some English. Even if you can't speak it very well. Now, please pay attention. No one else will tell me anything. So you must."
The falconer grinned, one hand gently Stroking the feathers of his pet. He could not have understood Edith's words, but he was obedient to the change in her voice. She faced him, one finger raised, as if he had been a child.
"Now listen." Edith spoke very slowly and distinctly. "Aravang, who is Dono-van Khan?" She lifted her brows and pointed to the stairway. "Who is he?"
"Dono-van Khan."
Edith was momentarily halted but not defeated. "Is he a real khan? Is he a khan among the Sayaks?" She nodded toward the distant mosque.
An expression of apprehension crossed the man's open face. He cast a wary eye at the stairs. "Sayak, no," he muttered. "Khan, yess."
Edith understood by this that Donovan was not a member of the religious brotherhood of Yakka Arik, but was held in esteem by them.
"What is a khan?" she whispered. "A chief?"
The last word did not penetrate to Aravang's understanding. He shifted his feet uneasily, handling the bird. Then he made a vocular effort.
"Mees effendi, Mees Rrand." He planted a fist on his own chest. "Me—kul! Dono-van Khan—manaps."
"What is that?"
Aravang was stumped. He could not explain. He shook his shaggy head and extended a pleading hand, to show his helplessness and his desire to serve his mistress. Then his broad face brightened.
"Manaps," he repeated and pointed to the hawk.
"A falcon?" She recalled that Iskander had termed him this, and she thought of the blue letter that had come to Monsey—The Falcon is on the wing."
So, Monsey had been warned that Donovan was alive.
At this, Aravang excelled himself. He drew an imaginary sword and swung it viciously at an invisible enemy, repeating the native
word, as if it were a charm. He darted a scarred finger at the mosque from which the throng of men and women was still emerging.
"Iskander, Dono-van Khan, manaps. Mees effendi, thus—you look!"
Abruptly, he whisked the hood off the goshawk and slipped the silver chain from its claw. For a second the falcon hesitated. Then, with a whirr of wings, it soared up from the balcony.
Edith watched it circle into the sky with the velocity of an arrow. The only other winged thing in sight was the black vulture, a carrion bird. Ordinarily, perhaps, the hawk would not have attacked such a thing. But now it was ravenous, having been starved by Aravang to the proper point And the native had trained his birds well.
In the space of a few swift moments the falcon had got above the vulture, which now began to fly toward the pines, evidently sensing some danger; and Aravang's pet had flashed down, striking the black bird with beak and tearing claws.
Edith saw the dying bird fall into a garden not far away. The hawk circled down close upon it. She looked up. Aravang had gone to redeem his pet.
In the room below the girl found Donovan standing by the table where the lunch was set. He had not touched the food, waiting until she should came.
His lean face, and bright, deep-set eyes made her think of the hawk.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE STONE CHAMBER
For the next few days Edith was very busy with needle and thread. She had Aravang bring her one or two garments of the Sayak women, explaining to Donovan that she needed a pattern for her dressmaking.
She would sit by the embrasure of the stone room on an ebony bench, her slippered feet crossed on a splendid Persian rug, her loose blue smock stripped back from her forearms. Softly, she hummed under her breath, while the needle flew.
Donovan, now able to walk with a makeshift cane, was frequently absent. He had long talks with the leaders of the Sayaks. Once Edith saw him from the window, passing through the garden with Mahmoud. She returned to her singing and her new dress. Donovan sick had been the object of her care; Donovan convalescent was quite a different proposition.
"By Jove!"
It was the man himself, pipe in hand, leaning against the doorpost, his eyes on her. Not often did he come to the stone chamber during the daytime. He considered the room as Edith's, and he was careful not to intrude unless some occasion warranted it. How was he to know that she missed him: at least, she assured herself, it was the empty house she dreaded. Nothing more.
During the last days Donovan had been more silent than ever. He walked much, sometimes with Edith, in the garden. At such times he was shy and self-contained. But now, his eyes had lighted up, and a smile softened his clear-cut mouth.
"By Jove, you do seem a medieval matron, with your—ah—tapestry and your hair loose on your shoulders like that. You have no idea how beautiful you are!"
Edith drew a quick, startled breath, and her hands flew to her hair. He watched her coil it dexterously, admiring the play of her slender arms and firm fingers.
How graceful she was, he thought! How childlike in her clear-eyed honesty and friendliness. He appreciated the sterling quality of her pride and fearlessness. Yet it was not for that he loved her.
John Donovan worshiped the slender slippers on Edith's feet. Sight of the woman's fairness wrought in the lonely man a silent longing aid, more than this, an all-powerful awe. This was the reason he had been absent from the stone room so much. He was afraid his presence might disturb Edith, perhaps annoy her. He was happiest when they walked in the garden.
Resolutely he tried to keep from thinking of her—something that was as impossible as to keep from breathing—or dwelling on the happiness that her stay in the valley had brought to him. His task was to safeguard her.
To Edith, the long absences of the man and his silence when with her were things that troubled her. Frequently, when he was gone, she spent hours in trying a new adjustment of her Sayak garb, or a fresh manner of dressing her hair. She sang to herself at times. Often she frowned, feeling so much out of Donovan's life and the events that passed in Yakka Arik.
Now a tantalizing smile twitched her lips.
"Have I aged so much? I don't feel at all matronl."
"Oh, I say. The tableau resembled a sketch by Tintoretto or Paul Veronese. Really, you are no more than a child. Twenty-two, at the most——"
"Twenty," corrected Edith, biting off a thread tranquilly. She surveyed the nearly-completed garment with satisfaction. Donovan watched her, drawing at his pipe, which—unknown to him—had gone out.
Covertly Edith stole a glance at the precious mirror that she had adjusted near her bed. A skilled finger poked a straying hair into place. Outwardly she ignored Donovan. Of course.
"You know Veronese, Mr. Donovan? I adore Masaccio. His figures seem really like men and not just splendid counterfeits." A subtle undercurrent of meaning ran through her words. "They are—so honest and—and frank."
"Really?" He was absorbed in the turn of her wrist as she drew the thread through. "Oh, that Masaccio chap has strength, no end. But Veronese is—ah—luxurious."
"Am I, then, an image of luxury?" She laughed. "Behold a poor beggar maid, forced to make her own clothes, and wash them, too. And a prisoner in a pagan castle. Just how much liberty have you and Mahmoud and Company decided to allot me?"
"All you desire, within the barriers and outside the mosque."
"Suppose I go climb the mountains?"
"In those?" His pipe stem indicated the slippers that barely covered the soles of her stockinged feet. "Besides, you would be turned back by the guards in the passes."
"Haven't you the password?"
"There is no password."
A shadow crossed his expressive face. "The Sayak chiefs are in council and within a day or two there may be fighting in the hills. There are rumors that the Vulture is spreading his wings again. Until the—uncertainty is over you are safest here. I want you to trust me, Edith."
It was the first time he had called her that. The gray eyes glanced at him fleetingly, then fell to her work.
"Who is this Vulture, Donovan Khan? A tribal chief?"
"Rather more." He hesitated and Edith thought of the black bird that had passed over the lake.
"Aravang says you are a falcon."
"I wish I had wings."
"But falcons are horrid, destructive things."
"Sometimes they kill what is fitting." John Donovan fell into one of his frequent moods of introspection. "Certain things have no right to live. Destiny, in its course of life, adjusts that. Now, a vulture, flying over that sheepfold across the lake, should be killed."
A new thought startled her. "Donovan Khan, will you be in this feud—in danger?"
He paused to light his pipe, and then spoke casually. "Danger? Well, you have no cause to worry, Edith. And after all this bother is over and I have made good my promise to the Sayaks, I will ask your release from Yakka Arik and learn what kismet has in store."
She started. Monsey had used that word. Donovan went on amiably:
"I'm awfully grateful to fate that you came instead of—another." He frowned swiftly. "God knows, I don't mean that. I wouldn't have you here——"
"So you don't like me, after all!" Edith laughed whimsically. "I was just thinking, Donovan Khan, that my aunt would envy me. Behold, personally conducted, I have visited and seen the sights and people of Central Asia. Hotel accommodation was provided me free of charge. I have toured what the guidebooks can the roof of the world, and in conveyances that poor Aunt Kate never dreamed of."
So infectious were her high spirits the man laughed with her. Their eyes met and held. Each had a message for the other. Edith's laugh ceased. She looked away and as she did so, he saw that she had flushed.
In this one moment the two castaways were brought together. They had read understanding in each other's eyes. And this was the time when the girl needed the comfort of the man's confidence.
It was the last moment of pleasant c
amaraderie. Neither one could know of the shadow that was dosing in upon Yakka Arik, or the events that were to be set in motion by Edith's own willfulness. Nor did they realize how great would be their need of each other.
Womanlike, Edith hastened to speak of other matters.
"You are as bad as ever, Donovan Khan. You have changed the subject altogether, with ruthless damage to my curiosity. Now, how did you come to know who I was when I first told you my name?"
"That is not my story, Edith. But after I undertook this thing for the Sayaks——" he broke off. After I started on this venture, I stopped at one of our advanced posts, an English station, for supplies and weapons. There I spent the night with a fine old chap. He was practically alone at the station. We fell to talking. First about the service, you know, and then about ourselves. He seemed to be lonely."
Donovan paused, with his habitual reluctance to explain anything about himself.
"This man was a friend of your mother. He had been often in your United States, and visited her home. Said the hospitality he received was a kind of landmark in his life. He—loved your mother and asked her to marry him. But he didn't win out. Another man, you know. It was a fair field and a good fight, he said."
Edith was intensely interested.
She understood now why Fraser-Carnie had befriended her, knowing that the old officer cherished the memory of her mother. It was clear that he and the adventurer—so she thought of her companion—had met at Gilghit.
"So Major Fraser-Carnie was your friend, too," she mused, and then added impulsively, "I feel sure he and my father will trace me to Kashgar, in time, and then they will come here——"
"Not without a guide from the Sayaks themselves. From the tower itself, down the ravine, Yakka Arik can't be seen. And then there are the guards."
Edith was immersed in her new thought.
"But you say that Iskander is master of the armed guards and that you have equal rank with him. Donovan Khan, surely this man in the temple who has authority, as you say, even over Mahmoud and Iskander, must be peacefully inclined—if he is really a priest. Can't you ask him to make peace with the person you call the Vulture and to send word to Major Fraser-Carnie?"