The Voice of Mahmoud
His fingers trembled, touching the soft masses of her hair. She looked up, reading the secret of the steadfast eyes that were close to hers in the darkness.
Sheer triumph thrilled the girl. He loved her. Donovan Khan loved her. No matter how short their hour of happiness, they would be together.
Bitterness was in the heart of the man. He had brought the woman he loved to suffering and the shadow of death.
"Sweetheart of mine, did you really say you would—be my wife? Then I didn't dream it, did I?" His arm tightened around her and his lips brushed her closed eyes. He heard a soft, quivering laugh.
"Donovan Khan, you haven't said yet that you love me?"
"Love you—you, Edith? Why, I've done nothing else but that since you came to Yakka Arik. Didn't you know?"
"But I wanted to hear you say it. Now everything's all right."
"It must be so for you, Edith. This nightmare will end; you'll sail to England with me, won't you, darling? There's a jolly curate, my uncle—a garden that was made for you" something choked the man's words.
"England is so far. There is an army chaplain at—at"
Edith's voice failed, and Donovan closed her lips with a fierce kiss.
"Sreenugger, you darling!" He tried to look into the face that was pressed tightly against his shoulder, and, failing, he murmured inarticulately into her ear, his arm straining her to him.
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