Edith Rides Alone
"Allah!" muttered the Arab impatiently.
But there was the flash of a match and the driver—a bearded giant with bronzed, high-cheeked face, and enormous sheepskin hat—lit his pipe with care. This done, the Kirghiz leaned back indolently and cracked his whip.
The four-horse tarantass sped through the night, under the stars. As they went, the driver rumbled a kind of song in his throat. He seemed utterly indifferent to the horses who plunged forward into the dark. Again they were going up and by the feel of the wind and sight of the stars Edith fancied they were on their former course, to the north.
Once when they stopped long enough for a man by the roadside to pass something to Iskander—something that very much resembled the medicine pail—she ventured to speak.
"Poor Aravang,*' she observed to the Arab. "Can't we stop at a house to see how badly he is hurt?"
"A house? Before long we will come to one that is yours. Until then you must sleep. Sleep! Aravang has said he will not die."
The callousness of the words chilled Edith more than the growing cold into which they plunged headlong. A hand touched her and she started. Then, since her nerves had suffered, she almost cried—out of pity. The injured Aravang was trying to place his heavy coat about her as a covering against the cold.
