“Is it old?”
“Of the 13th century. There were few Buddhist bells in Yian then. It is Lamaism that has destroyed the Mongols and that has permitted the creed of the Assassins to spread—the devil worship of Erlik.”
He looked at her, not understanding. And she, pale, slim prophetess, in the moonlight, gazed at him out of lost eyes—eyes which saw, perhaps, the bloody age of men when mankind took the devil by the throat and all Mount Alamout went up in smoking ruin; and the Eight Towers were dark as death and as silent before the blast of the silver clarions of Ghenghis Khan.
“Something is stirring in the forest,” whispered Tressa, her fingers on her lips.
“Damnation,” muttered Recklow, “it’s the wind!”
They listened. Far in the forest they heard the clatter of palm-fronds. They waited. The ominous warning grew faint, then rose again,—a long, low rattle of palm-fronds which became a steady monotone.
“We hunt,” said Recklow bluntly. “Come on!”
But the girl sprang from the hammock and caught her husband’s arm and drew Recklow back from the hibiscus hedge.
“Use me,” she said. “You could never find the Yezidee. Let me do the hunting; and then shoot very, very fast.”
“We’ve got to take her,” said Recklow. “We dare not leave her.”