The House of the Falcon
was absurdly formal and purposeless. Donovan appeared to ponder it. She wondered if he had heard. When his eyes closed she was alarmed, and tugged at his hand. At this he looked up and she sighed with relief.
"Please don't go to sleep again," she cried softly. "Don't you understand? You must get well—to help me."
He was silent at this, as if the words had been too much for his weakened comprehension.
"Help you?" he murmured, eyes closed.
"Yes," she breathed
Silence followed, but she knew now that he was awake, groping slowly for thoughts, striving to connect ideas with a kind of patient, dogged determination. Edith understood now why Iskander had remarked upon the strength of John Donovan.
"You must rest," she warned.
He was quiet for a long time. Chin on hand, she gazed out into the circle of the window over the bed. No glass was in the embrasure, and the morning breeze swept mildly into the room. She could see the red flame of sunrise painted on the shape of a wandering cloud. The sky was fast becoming blue. Edith was cold and very tired.
"Help you," the murmur reached her again. So faint that she wondered if she really had heard it. The brow of the man was puckered as if in an effort of the mind. Edith realized that this must not be permitted. So she began to stroke his forehead with her free hand. This seemed to calm him. Before long Donovan's breathing was regular and she knew that he slept. But she did not leave his side nor release his hand.
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