CHAPTER XIV
THE BRONZE BOWL
"Dono-van Khan lies in a stupor," explained Iskander, "and Mahmoud knows that he must be aroused, so that he will exert his strength—the strength of the iron body—to live. When he wakens you must speak to him, and make him understand."
Edith nodded. She had often heard physicians discuss the benefits derived from the determination of a patient to recover, in a dangerous stage of weakness. She watched curiously while Mahmoud pottered about his bowl.
She had always fancied that Arabian physicians and Hindu yogis—she was somewhat vague as to the difference—practiced by means of native spells and incantation and such things. Now she learned from Iskander that the bronze bowl contained merely a heart stimulant.
To Iskander, however, the arts of Mahmoud were little short of miraculous. Later, Edith came to understand that the physician's name was feared even in Kashgar as being connected with the caravan that had become a superstition in these regions.
While the Arab chieftain raised the head of the sick man from the bed, Mahmoud calmly adjusted the lamp to throw a strong light on Edith. Following out his directions, she seated herself on the bed, taking Donovan's hands in hers.
"When Dono-van Khan drinks," added Iskander, "he will waken. Then you must speak, so that he will desire to live."
Edith assented, appreciating the necessity for rousing the patient. She watched Mahmoud turning the bowl of brown liquid in his fingers that were so thin the wrinkled skin seemed stretched tight over the bones. She held her breath as he pushed open the lips of the unconscious man. Then, taking a strip of clean cotton from his girdle, he dipped it in the bowl, squeezing drops of the liquid through the set teeth.
Undeniably, she thought, the man was skillful. She wondered faintly at the assurance of this wrinkled man of medicine who used remedies not in the pharmacopœia of European doctors; the conviction grew on her that Mahmoud, not Iskander, was master in Yakka Arik. The other native had left the room.
Mahmoud uttered a low exclamation as Donovan's teeth parted, and straightway fell to stroking the throat and eyelids of his patient Edith saw a flush come into Donovan's cheeks and perspiration start on his brow.
The eyelids flickered and Mahmoud drew back with a sign to Iskander. "Dono-van Khan sees you," whispered the latter to Edith. "Now you must speak to him."
Gazing full into the blue eyes, heavy with fever, that wavered as they sought her, the girl fumbled for words.
"John Donovan!" she said faintly. "John Donovan!"
The eyes of the sick man fixed upon hers and she thought his lips framed an exclamation. A sudden impulse drew the girl nearer to her patient
"Please," she breathed anxiously, "please hurry up and get well. I am going to nurse you."
Iskander touched her arm.
"Say that you need his protection, Mees Rand," he whispered. "Then the spirit of Dono-van Khan will feel the spur."
"I want you to help me, Donovan Khan," she cried. "You will help me, won't you?"
Donovan raised his head slowly and looked around inquiringly at Mahmoud and Iskander, his gaze returning to the girl. After a moment he closed his eyes. At this, the physician motioned her away and Iskander murmured.
"Inshallah!"
Edith was aware that Mahmoud worked steadily over Donovan, rubbing his limbs skillfully, and moistening his brow. Some of the candles had gone out, leaving the stone chamber in semi-gloom except for the couch. Time passed slowly while the physician hovered over the couch and Iskander remained sunk in thought. Outside the curtained entrance she heard the footfalls of some one, perhaps a guard. But no one entered. Presently Mahmoud covered the sick man very warmly with thick woolen robes and beckoned her.
"Sit by the bed," instructed Iskander, "and when the white man arouses, speak to him again. Do not leave him. If he wakens and looks for you and sees you not, he will believe that what has passed has been a dream, what you call a vision, Mees Rand."
Mahmoud glanced at her warningly.
With that the two left her in the stone chamber. Edith did as she had been told, perching herself on a carved tabouret to watch and wait. She saw that Donovan was breathing very slowly and weakly. He seemed unconscious. One hand lay outside the coverlet. Edith regarded it tentatively, then took it in her clasp.
Very insufficient and hesitating she felt, watching the wasted face of the white man. She distrusted her own ability to help in any way. But she had come to believe in Mahmoud's skill.
Hope was arising within her. Before her eyes Donovan had emerged from the last stage of exhaustion. She prayed that he would live.
The light across the bearded face before her was changing. Looking up, Edith perceived that the embrasures of the room had turned from black to gray. The room grew colder. Then she started upright.
So near it seemed almost over her head came the blast of the trumpets.
The clarion note rose and fell, now beating at her senses, now dwindling away into space.
The half light of early dawn was creeping into the stone chamber. And Donovan's eyes had opened and were fastened on her.
Edith caught her breath, uncertain whether to remain where she was or to call Mahmoud. She decided to remain. Iskander had been positive. But the girl was troubled by the great need to serve the sick man. Mechanically, she patted the hand she held.
Donovan looked at her steadfastly, at her face, and the hand that stroked his gently. Soon she saw that his lips were moving, and bent nearer to listen. Her quick ears caught the words.
"Who—are—you?"
Edith wondered what to say, her pulse quickening as she hesitated.
"Miss Rand," she ventured finally, and felt that it was absurdly formal and purposeless. Donovan appeared to ponder it. She wondered if he had heard. When his eyes closed she was alarmed, and tugged at his hand. At this he looked up and she sighed with relief.
"Please don't go to sleep again," she cried softly. "Don't you understand? You must get well—to help me."
He was silent at this, as if the words had been too much for his weakened comprehension.
"Help you?" he murmured, eyes closed.
"Yes," she breathed
Silence followed, but she knew now that he was awake, groping slowly for thoughts, striving to connect ideas with a kind of patient, dogged determination. Edith understood now why Iskander had remarked upon the strength of John Donovan.
"You must rest," she warned.
He was quiet for a long time. Chin on hand, she gazed out into the circle of the window over the bed. No glass was in the embrasure, and the morning breeze swept mildly into the room. She could see the red flame of sunrise painted on the shape of a wandering cloud. The sky was fast becoming blue. Edith was cold and very tired.
"Help you," the murmur reached her again. So faint that she wondered if she really had heard it. The brow of the man was puckered as if in an effort of the mind. Edith realized that this must not be permitted. So she began to stroke his forehead with her free hand. This seemed to calm him. Before long Donovan's breathing was regular and she knew that he slept. But she did not leave his side nor release his hand.
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."