The House of the Falcon
"No!" cried the faith that was in Donovaxn. "She was carried off!"
And now the voice was silenced.
Iskander strode in, swaggering and fully armed. When the Arab saw that Donovan would not speak he glanced curiously at Edith's empty chair.
Others of the Sayaks came, among them the chief, and finally Mahmoud. Each one looked at him fleetingly, then knelt on cushions or against the wall, adjusting striped silk robes, and thrusting their hands into the wide sleeves.
"You have summoned us and we are here. The council of Sayak chieftains waits until you speak."
Donovan leaned back in his chair and his glance went from face to face along the wall—dark faces, keen of eye, that did not turn from his scrutiny. His lips moved wordlessly as he murmured to himself: "Isn't it just my bally luck? Every minute we lose before going after Edith is worth—well, there's no price high enough. But I can't act—I can't think of acting—until I've made a clean breast to these chaps who trust me now as they always have, but whose natures won't let them keep from suspecting me if I tell them Edith's gone. Iskander, of course, will back me to a certain extent—no farther. Won't do now to strain his friendship or to bank on my word alone, again."
His lined face was grave, his dear eyes purposeful; but he was tired and his pulse throbbed heavily. Edith's departure jeopardized the fruits of years of work—of the mission that had taken him from the army. Laboriously he had won the faith of the Sayaks. And now
He had made a pledge to the Sayaks and the pledge
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