INTO THE UNKNOWN
Edith had been sole ruler of an American home and an American father.
Now for the first time in her existence she was deprived of personal
liberty.
During the long hours of a stormy night she was held captive in the
racing cart. The man who sat beside her in the darkness under the hood
only placed his hand upon her when she struggled. Edith could not see
him--except as a vague, cloaked shape during the intermittent flashes
of lightning that cast a lurid half-light into the cart.
Once she screamed vigorously. Only once, because a heavy wad of felt
was thrust against her mouth and kept there. The girl could not loosen
the grasp that held it, and the overpowering scent of grime and mutton
tallow gradually nauseated her. Her dainty lips and teeth never had
been so outraged before. When her head drooped and a despairing murmur
escaped her, the felt was removed and the solitary guardian resumed his
vigil.
Twice when the cart first started its journey she had tried to rise
and spring out. She was by no means a weakling. An active and athletic
life had made her muscles supple and firm. Each time, however, the
watcher as if guessing her intent had pushed her back upon the cushions
in spite of kicks, scratches, and vigorous blows against his bony face.
Edith wondered if he were made of iron.
After the second attempt she lay quiet, panting and furious. At
intervals the cart stopped briefly while voices sounded obscurely by
the horses; chains jangled and horses neighed near by. Then they went
forward at a faster pace. Edith guessed that fresh horses had been
harnessed to the _ekka_--the native cart.
Plainly, they were traveling swiftly. But in what direction she could
not know. Had there been a mistake? She felt not. The men in the cart
must have seen her face by lantern light before they seized her.
Was Monsey responsible for the whole thing? She thought he was capable
of it. Who else would dare to lay hand on her? For a fleeting moment
she considered the native visitors at the palace, even the raja. But it
did not seem reasonable that they would try to abduct her--especially
at the palace.
Where was Rawul Singh? Why had he not answered her? She dismissed the
suspicion that the message delivered by the Garhwali had been a pretext
to make her leave the ball. Rawul Singh was faithful, and he must have
been near her when she had been carried off. Why had he made no effort
to help her?
It was impossible for her to understand yet that she was leaving her
father, Major Fraser-Carnie, and Aunt Kate.
Every sense, however, told the girl that the hooded cart was pelting
through the rain-driven night at a reckless pace. Its sway and lurch
shook her roughly, dulling her perceptions. She found it almost
impossible to think. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. Until
then she had not noticed that she was shivering. "I'm so thirsty," she
murmured petulantly.
A figure on the driver's seat stirred. There was a movement, a gurgle
of liquid, and a cup was thrust against her lips.
Edith tasted its contents suspiciously. Then she took the cup and
drank. It was good water, rather musty. "Some more," she commanded.
She had emptied the cup a second time before she reflected that some
one in the cart must understand English. Edith sat up and looked over
her shoulder, hugging the blanket to her.
"Who are you?"
Like the glimmer of a will-o'-the-wisp, the lightning flickered,
revealing two huddled shadows on the driver's seat. They had not moved
at the question. Her voice rose angrily, almost hysterically.
"Take me back to the major-sahib--at once. You must take me to
Srinagar! You must----"
A lump rose in her throat. Edith began to cry, overmastered by sheer
helplessness.
By degrees the rain ceased. A fresh, cold wind sprang up, shaking the
hood of the _ekka_. The thunder had rolled away, like some sportive,
muttering giant betaking himself to distant skies. The blackness around
Edith changed to a somber gray. She could make out the cloaked form of
her guard, a massive bulk wrapped in sheepskin. She sat up, peering at
him.
The scarred face of the native of Baramula met her eyes.
Dawn flooded the interior of the hood suddenly. Edith could hear the
twittering of birds near by. And the cart jolted to a halt, while the
heavy breathing of spent horses reached her ears.
A voice close at hand was repeating unknown words monotonously,
sonorously. The girl stirred her numbed limbs and climbed stiffly
forward upon the empty driver's seat.
She looked out upon a verdant mountain slope. The level light of new
day revealed towering mountain peaks snow-capped. A flock of sheep were
feeding about a broken-down hut that looked for all the world like a
_chalet_ of Switzerland. Steaming horses hung their heads over a muddy
road that was more like a trail. Beside the road two small carpets were
placed and on them turbaned figures raised lean arms. The driver and
his companion were praying. It was this prayer Edith had heard.
The taller of the two men rose to his feet, and, seeing her watching,
salaamed.
"Iskander!" she cried.
The seller of rugs inclined his head respectfully; his elegant attire
seemed none the worse for the bad night. "Good-morning, _khanum_,"
he said quietly. Edith stared at him. She wondered if she looked as
disordered as she felt. She was trying to read his face, but found the
task singularly difficult.
"Madame will have her breakfast," observed Iskander in his excellent
English. The girl saw that the other native--a withered satyr of a
man--was building a fire. Edith was hungry. The smell of boiling coffee
attacked her with a vital pang. Thus, she resolved to breakfast before
speaking her mind to Iskander.
Heated _chupatties_, fruit and coffee refreshed her. Her chin rose a
notch and she summoned Iskander with purposeful calm. Her gray eyes
were coldly alight The storm was about to break.
"I have you to thank for the cup of water--last night?" she observed.
Iskander bowed.
"Then," she went on, "you heard me call to you. Why did you not turn
back at once to Srinagar?"
Again the Arab bent his head His aristocratic features were inscrutable.
"I regret," he said, "it could not be."
"You will do it now--at once!"
The gray eyes were tempestuous, the beautiful face flushed. Not many
women could have passed through such a night and looked as attractive
as Edith Rand. The discreet gaze of the Mohammedan seemed to suggest as
much.
"I am sorry," he responded politely, almost absently.
Edith flared into angry scorn. She stormed, threatened, abused. She
warned Iskander that Major Fraser-Carnie would most certainly avenge
the insult to her. The Arab's dark face was blank under the lash of
words. Edith checked herself suddenly, realizing that she was making no
progress.
"My father will shoot you for this, Iskander," she said slowly.
The man's brown eyes sought hers curiously.
"A life already has been spent," his voice was stern.
The girl caught her breath, wondering what he meant. Abruptly Iskander
stepped from her view and the powerful native climbed back into the
cart. A lurch, and the _ekka_ started again upon its course--away from
Srinagar.
Throughout tormented hours of a long day Edith was jolted ceaselessly
upon the floor of the cart. She lay passive, white-lipped. Resolutely
she fought off weariness, determined not to sleep.
It was evening when the cart at last halted again. Edith was weak with
hunger and fatigue. Iskander's bearded face peered in at her keenly and
the Arab gathered her up bodily in his arms. When she pushed away from
him and gained her feet on the ground, he spoke gently.
"Madame must have a bath. Then dinner will be served."
Bewildered by the ordeal of the day and night, Edith saw that she was
being led to a small, whitewashed _dak_ bungalow. It was evening and
she could barely make out her surroundings; but in a neat room stood a
tin tub filled with warm water. Iskander pointed to a pile of clothing
on a chair.
"It would be well to change," he suggested respectfully. "The night in
the upper Hills will be cold, very cold. We cannot stay here."
With that he left her, closing the door after him. Edith's woman soul
yearned for the tub, but she was resentfully unwilling to bathe. She
took up the clothing and was surprised to see a stout walking suit of
her own, with shoes and woolen stockings. Her tam-o'-shanter was there,
as well as a linen waist.
Edith appreciated the advantage of changing from the flimsy ball gown
to a serviceable attire. Feeling utterly weary, she even indulged in a
hasty wash--and donned the other suit.
Iskander smiled approval when he saw her changed dress. He did up the
discarded gown skillfully and announced that dinner waited in the main
room of the bungalow. Food and the warmth of a fire at her back brought
irresistible drowsiness. Reaction claimed her at last. As she stared
at the white figure of the Arab, it seemed to grow until it filled the
room. Iskander's eyes peered into hers.
"You will sleep, madame," she heard him saying. The outlines of
the room faded. She felt herself slipping into a comfortable void,
deliciously restful.
"You will not need opium--to-night," Iskander was murmuring. Edith
lifted her head in an effort to shake off the overpowering drowsiness.
And the Arab again picked her up in his lean arms, carrying her out
into the cold night air to the waiting cart.
Powerless, the girl subsided on the cushions, pillowing her head on her
arm. Again the native tucked the blanket about her, and once more she
felt the familiar shaking of the _ekka_. Edith tried desperately to
collect her thoughts.
The last thing she had seen was--she was certain--the medicine pail of
her aunt, as it was placed beside her in the cart.
Surely she had been mistaken. She almost laughed at the thought. Poor
Aunt Kate without her medicines! Why, she would be positively ill if
they were not returned to her. She must speak to Iskander about it.
Then he would go back ... back ...
She slept.
It was long before she wakened. Dimly she was conscious of daylight
and the monotonous rumble of wheels. Edith asked for water sleepily.
Instead, a cup of cold coffee was presented to her lips. Strong coffee,
she thought, for it tasted bitter and made her head swim. Swiftly,
without effort, she slipped off again into stupor.
Vague impressions crowded in on her. Always the cart raced forward.
She saw the scarred face bending over her--heard the musical voice of
Iskander. Once she looked out into a sea of mist. She was very cold ...
Another time the cart was standing still in what seemed a red inferno.
Demoniac forms peered at her from the walls of the inferno. Her lungs
labored for air. Edith hid her face, not knowing that she was in a
valley walled with red sandstone from which the glare of the sun was
reflected from rock pinnacles and grotesque shapes carved by the
erosion of water throughout innumerable years.
She did not know that she was passing through a lofty altitude where
breathing was difficult, and that the snow peaks she had once seen from
a distance were close overhead----
Iskander understood well the uses of narcotics, and was aware that
sleep alone would retain the strength of the woman through the
continuous stages of a racking journey.
When Edith climbed at last from the _ekka_, assisted by Iskander, she
saw that the cart was drawn up beside the kneeling forms of a long line
of camels. Near the shaggy beasts stood natives staring at her. In the
hand of one she recognized the familiar black medicine pail.
"So it wasn't a dream after all," she thought. "Poor Aunt Kate. She
will have to do without her medicine pail!"