The Sayak Fury
"For the men of faith a fitting grave is dug," he murmured. "But for some there is no grave.… Their seats are empty, in which they shall ride … The master of the caravan calls, and they will come … when what is written will come to pass"
Edith could see Mahmoud now. Wrapped in his long cloak, the hakim moved through the moonlight like some disembodied spirit. His lean arms were raised. His voice shrilled into the air.
Owing to the waning moon and the shadows cast by the moving forms of the camels, the appearance of Mahmoud, as he shifted from shadow to shadow, from place to place, was illusory. Long watching had strained Edith's sight so that she experienced the phenomenon known to those who have centered their faculties of attention throughout a night vigil—a blurring of outlines and a disturbance of vision that cloaked the vista of the plain with the aspect of a mirage. But the caravan was no mirage.
Edith was not the only one in the Kurgan to be bewildered.
Flashes from the rampart lanced into the murk; shattering reports assailed her ears. The firing grew heavier—became thunderous. A camel squealed; the voice of Mahmoud, heard in the brief intervals between shots, went on, although the cloaked figure seemed to have sunk to the ground.
Donovan laughed through set teeth.
"So Monsey's men have nerves," he cried, "even as you and I. That shooting is out of hand."
He watched the scene under them keenly, hands cupped beside his eyes. Swirling smoke eddied across his vision, veiling the courtyard except for the rifle
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