CHAPTER XIII
A LAMP GOES OUT
There was complete stillness in the room as Edith stood beside the form of the white man who was called Donovan, and Khan.
She scanned the unconscious face again attentively, noting the finely shaped head, the handsome mouth and brow. The man was young, and very much wasted by sickness. The lean cheeks still bore the brown hue of exposure to the weather.
Edith turned to the Arab, forcing herself to speak. "Is he—dead?"
Before answering he bent over the sick body, his eyes gleaming intently. He touched a finger to his lips and held it over Donovan's mouth. Then he turned to exchange a swift question and answer with the withered watcher on the floor.
"If any can tell, he is the one." Iskander indicated the seated man of the aged face and beadlike eyes. "He is the master of healing substances, who can count the sands of life."
"What does he say?" Edith framed the question gently. She sensed the anxiety of Iskander, the patience of the silent watchers—the vital importance to them of the life of the white man.
"The sands of life have not run out. And the wine vessel that held the wine is not broken." Iskander spoke slowly, with a kind of thoughtful exultation.
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