# The House of the Falcon/Chapter 22
### CHAPTER XXII A PLEDGE

It was Mahmoud who signed for Edith to follow him toward the rear of the mosque. As John Donovan was silent, she obeyed hesitatingly.
Here was the bronze grating, raised some few feet from the tiled floor, and behind it the damask curtain that hung in dark folds from the edge of the dome to the floor. Glancing up, the girl saw that the sun's ray had vanished; overhead, through the dome's opening, a long cleft, dividing solid rock was visible. Only for an hour at midday did the sun strike down this natural shaft in the rock.
Edith heard a dull, purring sound from beneath. Underfoot there was a slight, continuous vibration as the hidden springs seethed and boiled. The heat rose from the vapor and touched her face.
"What is it?" she asked Donovan, her low voice trembling in spite of her effort at control.
"Wait. Do not be afraid."
She tried to smile in answer, as Mahmoud took the veil from Iskander, who still held it, and wound it tightly about her arms and body. Then he looked up and spoke to the manaps, who slowly removed his own shawl girdle and handed it to the physician. Mahmoud turned to Donovan, who was watching from smoldering eyes.
"In this way there will be no pain, Dono-van Khan. ​We will bind the white woman and lay her upon the raised place. Then the hot vapor will creep into her throat. Soon she will be dead."
Donovan was smiling—a habit of the man when his thoughts were racing and there was danger to be met.
"Mahmoud," he began slowly, almost painfully, "you must listen to what I have to say. Miss Rand is not a woman of your people. She is innocent of evil. You will not slay her——"
"A woman. No more. What is she but a beautiful slave? Aye, one made for the pleasure of men?"
"I love Miss Rand," said Donovan.
Mahmoud stroked the girdle in his hand gently. "It does not avail. Others you will perhaps love. It is written that a strong man shall have many wives."
"Not a white man, Mahmoud. This is a matter beyond even your knowing. I shall love no woman but Miss Rand. Her life is more than my life."
"Nay, for you have a mission to fulfill in Yakka Arik. If she lives, she could reveal the site of Yakka Arik to our enemies outside. Aye, and the hatred of the wolf for the wolfhound is not greater than the hate of the orthodox Mohammedans for us—who worship the sun. She must be silenced, so that Yakka Arik will be inviolate."
"The wolfhound hunts," smiled Donovan, "and he has need of one who will put him upon the scent of the wolf. The falcon is loosed—but a hand must first release him. I am your friend, and the hour is near when you will hunt. Without me your plans will be like water cast upon the hot sand at midday. You need me." Donovan turned to Mahmoud. "You know that a bargain between two righteous men is like a signed bond. Very well. I will make a bargain. ​Let Miss Rand live, and I will pledge my honor as surety that she will never speak of Yakka Arik outside the valley. It is in my heart to marry Miss Rand if she will consent."
The Sayak chief shook his head.
"It is not enough. We are no more than servants of him"—he pointed to the curtain into which the hadji had retired—"and the law of Yakka Arik is binding. Miss Rand must die."
Donovan looked up at the circle of sky framed in the dome-opening. He drew a long breath and his shoulders stiffened. He had lost his point.
He knew that there was no hope in resistance. Hidden eyes were watching from behind the great curtain. Iskander and the chief were armed. A cry from Mahmoud would bring a dozen Sayak guards from the barred door. Even if he could account for the three Sayaks,—and, weaponless, this was impossible—he could not leave the mosque with the girl. Fleetingly he thought of seeking the hadji, as a last card to be played in the face of the Sayaks' will.
But, knowing the settled purpose of these men, he did not dare leave Edith's side even for a moment. Instead he turned swiftly upon the silent Iskander.
"Scion of Tahir," his words came with the ring of command, "you have drawn sword in the army that once was mine. You have shared the bread and salt of the English. Will you remain passive and see this woman slain?"
The Arab bent his handsome head; his thin fingers plucked at his beard
"Effendi, it is written and what is written will come to pass."
"Iskander, you are my brother in arms. Once I ​saved your life in battle, when we followed the trail of him who killed your wife and daughter. Is the mirror of your honor clouded? Or will you grant me the request that I will ask—the one thing I will ask of you?"
Iskander plucked forth his sword; his dark eyes roved and the veins stood out on his forehead.
"Speak!" he moaned. "I will obey. May Allah, the Generous, forgive!"
At this the Sayak chieftain glared, and gripped his dagger in a powerful fist. So deep was the mosque in shadow, so quiet the group by the vapor gate, they might have been five worshipers gathered in prayer—except for the veil that bound the limbs of the woman. Edith was watching Donovan steadfastly, biting her lips to quiet their trembling.
A slight breeze passed through the shadows, cooling the damp foreheads of Donovan and Iskander and touching the yellow curls of Edith Rand.
The white man put hand to belt. But, as the Sayak chief looked up intently, he slipped loose the leather strap at his waist and held it out to Iskander.
"Man of Tahir," he said, "here is a cord to bind me. If they lay Miss Rand upon the vapor gate, you must bind me and put me beside her. This is the thing I ask of you. I will not live if she dies."
Iskander drew back as though a snake had coiled in front of him. Donovan waited, his tall figure erect, the strap in an open hand. While four men kept silence, the balance of judgment was poised. Then some one spoke.
"The white woman must live."
In front of the damask curtain stood the priest of Yakka Arik. His haggard face, veiled by a venerable ​beard, was almost invisible under the loose folds of a white turban. He looked from one to the other and nodded slowly.
"I have heard—I have seen."
The chief and Iskander released their weapons. Donovan drew a deep breath.
"I have seen the life of a man offered with that of the woman," went on the hadji, his sonorous voice awaking echoes under the dome. "A life for a life. It is sufficient. It fulfills the law, which is not alone of revenge, but of mercy."
Edith fancied that he smiled.
"O, my foolish children! Did you think that the peace of Yakka Arik and its mosque rested upon the tongue of one woman? Let the white man and the woman go free from the mosque."
With that he turned, to disappear through the curtain, and the Sayaks bent reverent eyes to the floor. The master of Yakka Arik had spoken.
At the door Iskander touched Donovan on the arm.
"Do not forget the pledge," he whispered. "Miss Rand must not attempt to leave the valley."
"I will not forget," said Donovan.
They found Aravang striding up and down outside the guards, his broad face harassed. At sight of them, he ran forward.
"Take the white woman to her house," commanded Donovan. "I must go with the Sayaks. There is much to be done."
Edith, once more in possession of her veil and slippers, lingered. Her eyes sought those of John Donovan. "Tell me," she begged. "I know we were—in danger."
"Perhaps." He laughed, at the proscribed word. ​"After all, the mosque is not a safe place for inquisitive young women."
"I will never do anything you forbid again, Donovan Khan," she promised contritely. "Never. What did the hadji say?"
"He said——" Donovan paused. "Well, for a heathen, he said a rather fine thing. Now, you must go with Aravang. Lunch is waiting——"
"Not," responded Edith firmly, "until you assure me that you are perfectly safe. And promise to come right away and tell me everything."
His glance rested long on her anxious face. He wanted to take her in his arms, to feel that she was still whole, to press his lips against the tangle of her hair. Edith did not look away. So, Donovan Khan laughed just a little unsteadily.
"'Everything' may mean more—than you think," he whispered.
Not until she had passed across the open space with burly Aravang at her heels, both looking back at him more than once where he stood among the Sayaks, did he realize that he was trembling.
Edith sat on the small balcony overlooking the valley, chin on hand. Her thoughts strayed willfully. Detail by detail the scene at the mosque repeated itself before her fancy; the impress of the light veil still lingered on her limbs; she visioned the flash of Iskander's melancholy eyes—remembered the tranquil words of the priest—words that she could not understand.
"It was some kind of a benediction, I think," she mused.
What had it all been about? Edith was aware that she had been an onlooker at a grim struggle, the meaning of which she would not know until Donovan ​explained. In the conflict Donovan had emerged victorious. But—so thought the girl—he must have paid some price for his success.
Why did he not come? She wanted him to tell her everything.
"Everything," she repeated, and the watching Aravang saw her face brighten.
The sun declined behind the ridge that backed the house. The coolness of its shadow recalled Edith to herself. She went below and for the second time that day changed her attire.
When she emerged from her curtained compartment she wore the ball dress that had come with her from Kashmir. A scarf covered her bare shoulders. Her cheeks were rosy with the touch of the afternoon sun, and the tawny hair was dressed low on her neck in the manner Donovan admired.
Aravang gaped; then grinned delightedly. His goddess had robed herself in a new aspect of divinity. He announced importantly by signs that he had prepared dinner—an excellent dinner. Edith shook her head.
"Donovan Khan," she ordered. "Find him. Say that I want him to come to me."
The servant hesitated, pretending that he did not understand. But Edith knew better, and waved him away on his mission. Experience had taught Aravang the advisability of obeying her; nevertheless, he went slowly.
Meanwhile Edith bethought her that her hair would need a flower to set it off. She had made her toilette as anxiously as a débutante at a first dance. It was her wish that John Donovan should think her fair when he came to the house.
​"The house of the Falcon," she repeated, and rather liked the sound of it.
Smilingly she reflected how once she had dreaded the thought of coming to the house. Now the tiny stone edifice, with its tinier kiosk, seemed to beckon her. It was Donovan's.
It was a poor kind of garden, after all, the roses thin and fast falling to the earth. Weeds overgrew the paths and the stone walls. Edith knew, however, where certain blue grass-flowers were still to be found. She sought for them in the swiftly gathering twilight that falls upon the valleys when the sun is obliterated behind the mountains. That morning she had read Donovan's love in his eyes—truthful eyes that could not lie.
Edith was stooping over a verdant tangle in a corner of the wall when she saw a tall, white-clad figure moving toward her. With her flowers firmly grasped, she rose and extended a hand, smiling not altogether steadily. She had not expected Donovan so soon. Then the blue blossoms fell at her feet, and the hand dropped to her side.
The man was Monsey.
Edith watched, bewildered, as he hastened to her, stooping as he did so under the wall.
"Miss Rand," he said quickly under his breath, "I did not mean to startle you. We must be very quiet. We must leave at once." He was breathing heavily as if he had been running and a muscle twitched persistently in his cheek.
Surprised, she faced him, trying to account for his appearance. Monsey had come from the direction of the small gate through which she had passed to the mosque. She saw him glance toward it anxiously.
​"I have been watching you through glasses all this afternoon. Yes, Miss Rand—from the hill behind the hut. Now is our chance. The native guard in the ravine behind the mosque has been slain, but the devils are thick on the mountain side——"
Edith would have given much to read his face. Monsey's coming had at first filled her with expectation. Had aid from Kashmir reached Yakka Arik?
"Your father sent me." The man spoke impatiently. "I have risked much to come here to-night. Do not wait to get any other clothing. I have horses and men up the mountain. We came through—along a goat path."
He did not tell her of hours spent spying from the heights upon Yakka Arik, or of men slain in a silent struggle where he penetrated the concealed ravine through which he had once before entered the valley—or of the fear that clung to him, close as his own shadow.
"My father? Is he here?"
Monsey swore under his breath and leaned nearer.
"No! He is sick. Come! You do not understand. You must go or these devils will see us, and that will be the end of us all. Nom d'un nom!"
Edith strove to think, to decide. She had no reason to doubt that Arthur Rand had sent the Russian. The man's presence in the garden, which must be decidedly dangerous to him, was evidence to back his words. It was her instinctive distrust of Monsey that made her pause—that, and another thought. Donovan had told her of his pledge that she would not leave Yakka Arik without the consent of the Sayak chiefs.
"Your father will be at my camp soon," he urged.
"I have a friend," she said quickly. "He should ​be here any minute. I will not leave without him. He has given his parole for me."
"A friend!" Monsey hissed angrily. "Some native. Have I come here to risk my neck for any one but you? The valley is guarded——"
Like a clarion from the skies, the long trumpet blast of Yakka Arik devastated the twilight quiet Monsey started, and caught the girl's wrist.
"You hear? Ah." He fancied that he saw a movement on the terrace overlooking the garden. "You must come, before the guard is changed—now——"
"Let me think." Edith was trying to grasp the situation. Reason told her that John Donovan, alone, would find it easier to win free from Yakka Arik than if burdened with her. Because they trusted him, the Sayaks obeyed him. But the girl found that she did not want to leave the valley without John Donovan.
"No," she said, "I can't explain it all"—she was a trifle breathless with the urgent need of the situation—"Donovan Khan will soon be here. I will not do anything without him——"
"A khan?" Monsey, intent on the balcony that was shrouded in gloom, caught only vaguely the name. "Edith, do you want them to find me here?" Under his breath he muttered: "Don't think, young lady, that I also am a fool."
He stepped nearer, his hand rising suddenly to her face. He had caught the silk shawl in his fingers. The girl, startled and suspicious, tried to draw away. But Monsey wrapped the shawl quickly about her head, holding it fast with an arm that he passed around her shoulders. The other arm caught her close to him, lifted her from the ground.