The House of the Falcon
passing. The son of Tahir might regret stooping to theft. His righteousness, however, was satisfied. And his pride. Certain things—and they were many—Iskander would have died rather than do.
Like the girl, he had an unyielding pride. Edith hated him cordially, yet with a good deal of respect. His unfathomable fatalism depressed her.
"Donovan Khan," she said. "You are going to take the box to him?"
For a long moment Iskander's brown eyes sought her gravely.
"What is written is written. And who can read what will come to pass?"
"A white man?"
"Once. Now—who knows?"
"You mean that Donovan may be dead?"
"It is all in the hand of God." The Arab swept a wide-sleeved arm against the infinite blue of the sky. "Dono-van Khan is like to the eagle that flies from mountain crag to tree top. Who will know when he is dead? Sometimes is he called khalga timur—the iron body—and sometimes"
"The Falcon?"
Iskander almost started. His words had recalled to Edith the message received by Monsey in Quebec—the Falcon has taken wing. Her response had been intuitive. Why were men—certain white men—termed eagles or falcons, in the Himalayas? It was absurd.
Monsey's letter had said that the Falcon was searching Srinagar. For what? Fraser-Carnie had related that Donovan had been in the City of the Sun. A sudden thought caused her to catch her breath.
"Tell me, Iskander," she cried. "You took the
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