The Bronze Bowl
let. Edith regarded it tentatively, then took it in her clasp.
Very insufficient and hesitating she felt, watching the wasted face of the white man. She distrusted her own ability to help in any way. But she had come to believe in Mahmoud's skill.
Hope was arising within her. Before her eyes Donovan had emerged from the last stage of exhaustion. She prayed that he would live.
The light across the bearded face before her was changing. Looking up, Edith perceived that the embrasures of the room had turned from black to gray. The room grew colder. Then she started upright.
So near it seemed almost over her head came the blast of the trumpets.
The clarion note rose and fell, now beating at her senses, now dwindling away into space.
The half light of early dawn was creeping into the stone chamber. And Donovan's eyes had opened and were fastened on her.
Edith caught her breath, uncertain whether to remain where she was or to call Mahmoud. She decided to remain. Iskander had been positive. But the girl was troubled by the great need to serve the sick man. Mechanically, she patted the hand she held.
Donovan looked at her steadfastly, at her face, and the hand that stroked his gently. Soon she saw that his lips were moving, and bent nearer to listen. Her quick ears caught the words.
"Who—are—you?"
Edith wondered what to say, her pulse quickening as she hesitated.
"Miss Rand," she ventured finally, and felt that it
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