knowest nothing of the prophecy of the swords, made thee leave thy own country? What made thee come to India, to the house in the Colootallah? And by what right hast thou this in thy possession?”—touching the sword which rode at his hip.
“By what right hast thou the sword of the Gengizkhani, the sword of my clan?” Her eyes flashed fire. Her narrow hands opened and shut spasmodically. Her voice rose to a minatory treble, with that sudden, killing, unreasonable burst of temper which is the heritage of Arab blood. “I—I am thy friend! But if that which is whispered in the western marches is true—if, indeed, thou art an impostor, and not Al Nakia, not the 'Expected One'—then I shall …”
Hector cut through her words with a sharp gesture. He smiled, rather ruefully, and assured her that he had come into possession of the blade honestly enough, that it had been amongst the heirlooms of his family, and that, ever since he could remember, it had had a curious influence over him …
“As if this bit of steel had a soul!” Easily, naturally, unself-consciously, he expressed in Persian the things which inhibition of race and training would have made impossible for him in English. “When I held the blade in my hand, even when I was a small boy, wings from the past, serene and gigantic and compelling, seemed to bear me toward an ancient destiny. It seemed as if the blade would cut through the tangled web of all my doubts and riddles and sorrows of life—would help me to recover something very precious which I had lost … something …”
He interrupted himself.
