The House of the Falcon
"You will sleep, madame," she heard him saying. The outlines of the room faded. She felt herself slipping into a comfortable void, deliciously restful.
"You will not need opium—to-night," Iskander was murmuring. Edith lifted her head in an effort to shake off the overpowering drowsiness. And the Arab again picked her up in his lean arms, carrying her out into the cold night air to the waiting cart.
Powerless, the girl subsided on the cushions, pillowing her head on her arm. Again the native tucked the blanket about her, and once more she felt the familiar shaking of the ekka. Edith tried desperately to collect her thoughts.
The last thing she had seen was—she was certain—the medicine pail of her aunt, as it was placed beside her in the cart.
Surely she had been mistaken. She almost laughed at the thought. Poor Aunt Kate without her medicines! Why, she would be positively ill if they were not returned to her. She must speak to Iskander about it Then he would go back … back …
She slept.
It was long before she wakened. Dimly she was conscious of daylight and the monotonous rumble of wheels. Edith asked for water sleepily. Instead, a cup of cold coffee was presented to her lips. Strong coffee, she thought, for it tasted bitter and made her head swim. Swiftly, without effort, she slipped off again into stupor.
Vague impressions crowded in on her. Always the cart raced forward. She saw the scarred face biding over her—heard the musical voice of Iskander. Once she looked out into a sea of mist She was very cold …
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