Page:Harold Lamb--The House of the Falcon.djvu/101

 By this Edith was reasonably sure that Monsey had had no hand in her abduction. At his ease, the liquid-tongued Oriental baffled her; provoked, Iskander was an open book to the quick-witted girl.

If not Monsey—who? Who was the one that awaited her? Iskander? Hardly. In spite of his boast she felt that the Arab was the agent of another man. Once, when she had overslept—the exertion in the high altitude always made her intensely drowsy from sunset to sunrise—he had upbraided her vehemently through the tent.

"Are you a sultan's favorite, to linger in this manner? By the honor of Tahir—uprise and haste! On the sword of my fathers have I sworn that I would bring you, in time. We are late—late. If we are too late you shall know sorrow."

It was the inborn arrogance of the Mohammedan, who is monarch of his womenfolk, breaking through the studied courtesy with which Iskander had sought to ease her journey. And it stirred a thrill of revolt in Edith's breast. She had remained where she was, lying in the blankets.

Iskander's will matched her own. He had ordered Aravang to take down the tent and to pack it; then to remove her outer garments from her side.

Edith had watched this, dangerously quiet.

"Now," he had said calmly, "you will clothe yourself in garments of my choosing. If you refuse, you will ride as you are—tied to a camel's humps. Decide!"

The girl had stood up, in petticoat and underclothing, her long hair whipping about her in the wind and the sun beating against her flushed face. Iskander studied her with the measured glance of the