The Voice of Mahmoud
slept for nearly forty-eight hours. It was Donovan's return that roused her from her stupor.
He spoke grimly.
"I must tell you this, Edith. Monsey's men are piling timbers and firewood under the entrance hole of the tower—throwing the stuff in from the door. He says that he will burn us out, if we don't surrender."
"Oh!" Edith sat up with sudden dread. "He wouldn't do that!"
Donovan did not answer at once. "He would, dear, to save his own skin. I wonder if it's come to that? Somehow, I don't think so. Of course, if I were alone here he'd jolly well start a bonfire at once"
"Then we won't surrender, not a bit. And I'll stay right here, so there will be no bonfire, as you say," she responded promptly. She knew Monsey better than to ask—although she wanted to—whether Donovan could be released, unhurt, if she gave herself up. She dreaded parting with Donovan, even for a moment.
"You must think of yourself a little" he protested.
"I am. And I don't want you to talk to him any more."
This ended the conference. Donovan reflected that the danger of fire was the one that must have occurred to Aravang. The Englishman and Aravang could not prevent the piling up of wood. A large blaze started under the entrance to the tower would soon catch in the ruins of the staircase and the tower itself would serve as a chimney for the draft. Nevertheless, he fancied that this was Monsey's last card.
With Donovan's arm around her once more, the girl subsided into the drowsiness she was powerless to fight She tried vainly to keep her eyes open.
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