The House of the Falcon
Iskander Khan Edith regarded as a pagan, with blood on his hands. Aravang, she thought, was no better than a murderer. What made them so anxious to aid the sick man? She looked from Mahmoud, now heating something in a bronze bowl over the brazier, to the still face of Donovan.
"It was the wisdom of Mahmoud," the mild voice of Iskander went on, "that sent me to Kashmir—to heal the loneliness of the white man. I went to find a spur for his spirit—a spur that would drive away the dark angel of death. The spur would be a woman of his own race and rank. The sight of her would make him wish to live. Aye—she would nurse him and make this place a home."
"And so"
"You are here." Iskander folded his arms, a brief hiss of satisfied personal pride escaping his lips. "Zalla 'llahir alaihi wa sallam! The will of Allah is all-in-all. Behold, the sickness is of the spirit and so also is the spur. Hai—you are beautiful as a keen, bright sword. I have watched you, and I know—I know."
Mechanically Edith placed the lamp by the couch and faced the Arab. She had been hurried hundreds of miles over mountain paths to serve Donovan—the man they called Dono-van Khan. At this thought she flushed and bit her lip.
"Why did you choose—me?"
"Hai! Does the falcon pause when a thrush is in sight? I chose the first white woman, strong, and fair of face. Likewise, it was said in Srinagar that you were skilled in tending the sick mem-sahib."
Edith smiled bitterly, reflecting how it would astonish her worthy aunt to learn that her fancied ills
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