The House of the Falcon
Then the fat innkeeper summoned the sitting men with a single word. They leaped up, grasping staves, and flew at the throng. It was fez against turban, with objurgation rising to the roofs of the alley, slippered feet planted against broad buttocks and staves thrust into spitting faces.
Apparently the alley scum were not disposed to fight for the chance of plundering the girl. They seemed listless in defense as well as attack. The men from the inn cleared a small ring around the now passive horse and squatted there, apparently to wait.
To Edith the pause was intolerable. She could not ride free of the alley. The tired horse would not budge—disliking, beyond doubt, the presence of skirts upon his back. The actions of the serai-keeper suggested that he had sent for some one. For whom? Iskander?
Edith decided to wait and see. Every muscle in her slender body ached with fatigue. She dared not dismount to ease her cramped limbs.
Where were Iskander and Aravang? Had they traced her to the walled city? She hoped that they had taken the other turning. Every minute increased the suspense.
Then swaggering men bearing scimitars pushed through the throng that gave back readily. The leader of the file gripped Edith's reins and led the stallion into the serai and she recognized her friend of the tamarisk grove. At this, the innkeeper placed matting across the front of his room with care. One of the newcomers with bared scimitar remained at the entrance.
"Mees Rand!" smiled the man at Edith's side, adding to himself: "Verily is the luck of Monsey good,
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