The Bronze Bowl
The struggle of the past night had wrought upon her strongly. The reality of John Donovan was becoming part of her life. A deep, contented glow was in her breast, arising from the consciousness that she had helped him. She had done what Mahmoud had asked of her. She already felt a sense of ownership in the sick man.
She did not hear Mahmoud and Iskander approach when the sun was well up. Mahmoud stood beside his patient and peered long into the lean face of the white man. Edith waited, with all the anxiety of a novice nurse in the presence of a noted surgeon.
Presently Mahmoud glanced at her, gestured idly, almost contemptuously at the pail of medicines that still rested by the bed, exchanged a few words with Iskander, and walked from the room.
"Dono-van Khan is in your care," interpreted the other. "And you may use the remedies of the white men. Now you must eat and then sleep. Dono-van Khan will live."
