CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: With Annette limp across his saddle, Casim Ammeh sped

away.]

A SON OF THE SAHARA

BY

LOUISE GERARD

_With Illustrations from the Photo-Play_

"A FIRST NATIONAL ATTRACTION"

_Produced by_ EDWIN CAREWE,

_Featuring_ BERT LYTELL AND CLAIRE WINDSOR

NEW YORK

THE MACAULAY COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1922,

BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

TO

MY FRIEND

DOROTHEA THORNTON CLARKE

WITHOUT WHOSE HELP AND CONSTANT ENCOURAGEMENT

NEITHER THIS NOR ANY OF MY BOOKS

WOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

PREFACE

A beach of white sand, the whisper of palms answering the murmuring

moonlit sea, the fragrance of orange blossoms, the perfume of roses and

syringa,--that is Grand Canary, a bit of Heaven dropped into the

Atlantic; overlooked by writers and painters in general. Surely one

can be pardoned a bit of praise and promise for this story, laid, as it

is in part, in that magic island.

The Canaries properly belong to the African continent. That is best

proven by their original inhabitants who were of pure Berber stock.

The islands are the stepping stone between Europe and the Sahara.

Mysterious Arabs and a continual stream of those silent men who come

and go from the great desert tarry there for a while, giving color and

romance to the big hotels.

The petty gossip, the real news of the Sahara "breaks" there.--Weird,

passionate tales; believable or not, they carry an undercurrent of

reality that thrills.

From such a source came this story. Unaltered in fact, it is given to

you, the life story of a man and a woman who turned their backs on

worldly conventions that they might find happiness. If it is frank,

forgive it. Life near the Equator is not a milk and water affair.

THE PUBLISHERS.

CONTENTS

PART I

PART II

PART III

ILLUSTRATIONS

With Annette limp across his saddle, Casim Ammeh

sped away . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

He had come to the harem to say farewell

For sale as a common slave at the Taureg auction block

"Let us both dance for you, so that you may judge between us"

PART I

A Son of the Sahara

CHAPTER I

In the days when France was pursuing a vigorous forward policy in

Africa, a policy started by General Faidherbe and carried on by

subsequent governors, one of the bravest among her pioneer soldiers was

Colonel Raoul Le Breton.

He was a big, handsome man with a swarthy complexion, coal-black hair

and dark, fiery eyes, by nature impetuous and reckless. With a trio of

white sergeants and a hundred Senegalese soldiers, he would

attempt--and accomplish--things that no man with ten times his

following would have attempted.

But there came a day when even his luck failed.

He left St. Louis, in Senegal, and went upwards to the north-east,

intending to pierce the heart of the Sahara. From that expedition,

however, he never returned. The Government at St. Louis assumed that

he and his little pioneer force had been wiped out by some hostile

negro king or Arab chief. It was but one of the tragedies attached to

extending a nation's territory.

When Raoul Le Breton went on that ill-fated expedition, he did what no

man should have done who attempts to explore the Back of Beyond with an

indifferent force.

He took his wife with him.

There was some excuse for this piece of folly. He was newly married.

He adored his wife, and she worshipped him, and refused to let him go

unless she went also.

She was barely half his age; a girl just fresh from a convent school,

whom he had met and married in Paris during his last leave.

Colonel Le Breton journeyed for weeks through an arid country, an

almost trackless expanse of poor grass and stunted scrub, until he

reached the edge of the Sahara.

Annette Le Breton enjoyed her travels. She did not mind the life in

tents, the rough jolting of her camel, the poor food, the heat, the

flies; she minded nothing so long as she was with her husband. He was

a man of rare fascination, as many women had found to their cost; a

light lover until Annette had come into his life and captured his

straying heart once and for all.

On the edge of the Sahara Le Breton met a man who, on the surface at

least, appeared to see even more quickly than the majority of negro

kings and Arab chiefs he had come in contact with, the advantages

attached to being under the shadow of the French flag.

It would be difficult to say where the Sultan Casim Ammeh came from.

He appeared one afternoon riding like a madman out of the blazing

distance; a picturesque figure in his flowing white burnoose, sitting

his black stallion like a centaur.

He was a young man, perhaps about twenty-four, of medium height, lean

and lithe and brown, with fierce black eyes and a cruel mouth: the

hereditary ruler of that portion of the Sahara. His capital was a

walled city that, so far, had not been visited by any European. In his

way he was a man of great wealth, and he added to that wealth by

frequent marauding expeditions and slave-dealing.

With a slight smile he listened to all the Frenchman had to say.

Already he had heard of France--a great Power, creeping slowly

onwards--and he wondered whether he was strong enough to oppose it, or

whether the wiser plan might not be just to rest secure under the

shadow of its distant wing, and under its protection continue his wild,

marauding life as usual.

As he sat with Colonel Le Breton in the latter's tent, something

happened which caused the Sultan Casim Ammeh to make up his mind very

quickly.

It was late afternoon. From the open flap of the tent an endless,

rolling expense of sand showed, with here and there a knot of coarse,

twisted grass, a dwarfed shrub, or a flare of red-flowered, distorted

cacti. The French officer's camp was pitched by an oasis; a little

group of date palms, where a spring bubbled among brown rocks, bringing

an abundance of grass and herbs where horses and camels browsed.

As the two men sat talking, a soft voice said unexpectedly:

"Oh, Raoul, I'd no idea you had a visitor!"

All at once a girl had appeared in the entrance of the tent She was

small and slim, with two thick plaits of golden-brown hair reaching to

her knees; a beautiful girl of about eighteen, with wide grey eyes and

a creamy white skin.

Her voice brought Le Breton to his feet.

"What is it, Annette?" he asked.

"I thought----I'll come later," she said; the blushes mounting to her

cheeks.

The Sultan Casim Ammeh got to his feet also. Not out of any sense of

deference; he had none where women were concerned, but drawn there by

the beauty of the girl.

"You needn't mind what you say in front of this man," her husband

remarked. "He doesn't understand a word of French.

"Ill tell you later, Raoul, when there's nobody here." She would have

gone, but Le Breton called her forward and, in Arabic, introduced her

to his visitor.

Annette bowed to the lean, lithe, brown man in the white burnoose, and

her eyes dropped under the fierce admiration in his.

The Sultan looked at her, all the time wondering why the white man was

such a fool as to let this priceless pearl, this jewel among women, go

unveiled, and allow the eyes of strange men to rest upon her with

desire and longing.

Annette said she was pleased to meet him: a message her husband

translated, and which brought a fierce smile to the young Sultan's face

and made the wild desire in his savage heart suddenly blossom into

plans.

So she, this houri from Paradise, was pleased to meet him! This fair

flower from a far land! But not so pleased as he was to meet _her_.

And her husband let her say such things to strange men! What a fool

the man was! Not worthy of this houri! He could not appreciate the

treasure he possessed. Not as he, the Sultan, would, were she his.

Casim Ammeh despised Colonel Le Breton utterly.

As soon as the introduction was over, Annette would have gone.

"Don't run away, my pet," her husband said fondly. "I shall soon have

finished."

But the girl went, anxious to get away from the Arab chief who watched

her with such covetous desire and smouldering passion in his fierce

black eyes.

When she had gone, the two men seated themselves again. But the Sultan

gave no thought to the business in hand. He only wanted one thing

now--the girl who had just gone from the tent.

Soon after Annette's departure he left, promising to visit Le Breton

again within the course of a few days.

He kept his word.

Five days later he swept out of the desert with a horde of wild

horsemen. And in less than half an hour there was only one of Raoul Le

Breton's ill-fated expedition left alive.

The next day, with Annette limp across his saddle, the Sultan Casim

Ammeh set off with his following to his desert stronghold.

CHAPTER II

The city of El-Ammeh lies about a hundred miles within the Sahara

proper. It is a walled town of Moorish aspect, built of brown rock and

baked mud. Within the walls is a tangle of narrow, twisted, squalid

lanes--a jumble of flat-roofed houses, practically devoid of windows on

the sides overlooking the streets. Here and there a minaret towers,

and glimpses of strange trees can be seen peeping over walled gardens.

Along one side stands a domed palace; a straggling place, with

horse-shoe arches, stone galleries and terraces. In front of it a blue

lake spreads, surrounded by fertile gardens and groves of fruit trees.

And the whole is encircled by the desert.

Annette Le Breton remembered nothing of her journey to El-Ammeh. Her

life was a nightmare of horror that held nothing but her husband's

murderer, whom she could not escape from. She was taken to the palace,

and placed in the apartment reserved for the Sultan's favourite. A big

room with walls and floor of gold mosaic, furnished with ottomans, rugs

and cushions, and little tables and stools of carved sandalwood inlaid

with ivory and silver.

On one side of the apartment a series of archways opened on a screened

and fretted gallery, at the end of which a flight of wide, shallow

steps led down into a walled garden, a dream of roses.

But it was weeks before Annette knew anything of this.

All day long she lay, broken and suffering, on one of the ottomans, and

dark-faced women fawned upon her, saying words she could not

understand; women who looked at her queerly, jealously, and talked

about her among themselves.

A strange girl, this new fancy of the Sultan's! Who wanted none of the

things he piled upon her--not even his love. A girl who looked as

though life were a mirage; as if she moved in bad dreams,--a listless

girl, beautiful beyond any yet seen in the harem, who seemed to have

neither idea nor appreciation of the honour that was hers; who lay all

day in silence, her only language tears. Tears that even the Sultan

could not charm away.

In fact they seemed to fall more quickly and hopelessly when he came to

see her.

Yet he did everything that mortal man could do to comfort her.

Jewels were showered upon her; jewels she refused to wear, to look at

even; casting them from her with weak, angry hands, when her women

would have decked her with them for her master's coming.

And never before were so many musicians, singers, dancers, and

conjurors sent to the women's apartments. Hardly a day passed without

bringing some such form of diversion; or merchants with rare silks,

perfumes and ostrich feathers. The harem had never had such a

perpetual round of amusements.

All for this new slave-girl. And she refused to be either amused or

interested. She would look neither at the goods nor the entertainers.

She just stayed with her face turned towards the wall and wept.

One day when the Sultan came to the harem to visit his new favourite,

some of the older women drew him aside and whispered with him.

They suspected they had found a reason for the girl's strange behaviour.

Their words sent the Sultan from the big hall of the harem to the

gilded chamber set aside for Annette, with hope in his savage heart,

and left him looking down at her with a touch of tenderness on his

cruel face.

He laid a dark hand on the girl, caressing her fondly.

"Give me a son, my pearl," he whispered. "Then my cup will be full

indeed."

Annette shuddered at his touch.

She had no idea what he said. He and his language were beyond her.

As the long weeks ground out their slow and dreary course, Annette grew

to suspect what her attendants now knew.

The weeks became months and Annette languished in her captor's palace;

her only respite the times he was away on some marauding expedition.

He loved rapine and murder, and was never happy unless dabbling in

blood. Sometimes he was away for weeks together, killing and stealing,

bringing slaves for the slave-market of his city, and fresh women for

his harem.

During one of his absences Annette's baby arrived.

The child came a week or so before the women had expected it.

"The girl has wept so much," they said, "that her son has come before

his time, to see what his mother's tears are about. And now, if Allah

is kind, let us hope the child will dry them."

For a fortnight Annette was too ill to know even that she had a son.

When the baby was brought to her, she hardly dared look at it, not

knowing what horror might have come from those ghastly nights spent

with the Sultan Casim Ammeh.

But when she looked, it was not his face, dark and cruel, that looked

back at her.

In miniature, she saw the face of Raoul Le Breton!

This son of hers did not owe his life to the Sultan. He was a legacy

from her murdered husband. Something that belonged to her lost life.

With a wild sob of joy, Annette held out weak arms for her baby.

Weeping she strained the mite to her breast, baptizing it with her

tears. Tears of happiness this time.

Light and love had come into her life again. For Raoul was not dead.

He had come back to her. Weak and tiny he lay upon her heart, hers to

love and cherish.

She was lying on her couch one day, too absorbed in tracing out each

one of her dead lover's features in the tiny face pillowed on her

breast, to notice what was happening, when the voice she dreaded said

in a fierce, fond manner:

"So, Pearl of my Heart, you love my son, even if you hate me."

Annette did not know what the Sultan said. But she held her child

closer, watching its father's murderer with fear and loathing; afraid

that he might put his dark, defiling hands upon her treasure.

But he did not attempt to touch either her or the child.

Seating himself at her side, he stayed watching her, tenderness on his

cruel face, for the first time having pity on her weakness. The

weakness of the woman who had given him the one thing his savage heart

craved for, and which, until now, had been denied him--a son.

CHAPTER III

By the time Annette knew enough Arabic to make herself understood, and

to understand what was said around her, she realized that if the Sultan

learnt her boy was not his, this one joy of her tragic life would be

taken from her. He would murder the son as he had murdered the father.

As the baby grew, her one idea was to keep its true parentage from her

savage captor. If she could have done so, she would have kept his

dark, blood-stained hands from touching her son. But this was

impossible. When in El-Ammeh, the Sultan came every day to see the

child, often sitting with it in his arms, watching it with an air of

proud possession.

And fearsomely Annette would watch him, wondering why he never

suspected. But he was too eaten up with his own desire for a son ever

to give a thought to her dead husband.

The baby was given the name of Casim Ammeh. But Annette always called

her boy by another name, "Raoul Le Breton."

And at the age of five he said to her:

"Why do you always call me 'Raoul,' not 'Casim,' as my father does?"

His father!

Annette's heart ached. His father had been dead these long years,

murdered by the man her son now called by that name.

"The Sultan and myself are of different races," she said. "He calls

you by his name. I, by one of my own choosing, Raoul Le Breton.'"

"Why do you always say 'the Sultan,' and never 'your father'?"

Sadly she smiled at her small questioner.

"Some day, my son, I'll tell you. When you are a man and understand

things."

At five, Raoul Le Breton was a big, handsome boy, spoilt and pampered

by the whole harem, and spoilt most of all by the man he proudly called

"Father."

The Sultan in his flowing white robes, with his half-tamed horses, his

horde of wild followers and barbaric splendour, was a picturesque

figure, one to capture any brave boy's heart.

Annette did all she could to counteract her captor's influence, but, as

the child grew, he was more with the Sultan than with her. What was

more, he craved for men's company.

He soon tired of the amusements the harem could offer. He much

preferred to be on his own horse, galloping with the Sultan or some of

his men along the desert tracks about the city. And knowing Annette

loved her son, and hated him, despite their years together, the Sultan

did all he could to win the boy's affection and wean him from his

mother.

He might have succeeded, except for one thing. The boy loved learning,

and to hear of the great world that his mother came from; a world that

seemed as remote from El-Ammeh as the paradise his Moslem teachers

spoke of.

The Sultan was not averse to the mother teaching her son. He was a

shrewd man, if savage and cruel. And that France from where the girl

came was growing ever more powerful. It would be to the boy's

advantage to learn all the arts and cunning of his mother's people.

The Sultan Casim gave Annette but one present that she took from him

willingly; a sandalwood bureau with shelves and drawers and little

sliding panels, an elaborately carved and handsome piece of furniture;

stocked with slate and pencil, paper, quills and ink--such as the

priests at the mosques used themselves. For this strange girl who

hated him had more learning than all the priests put together.

But, for all that, the youngster had to sit at their feet at appointed

times, and be taught all the Sultan had ever been taught, to read and

write, and recite scraps from the Koran, and to be a true Moslem.

Annette hated this wild, profligate religion, and into her son she

tried to instil her own Roman Catholic faith.

But at eight years, although he learnt with avidity all her other

teachings, he laughed at her religion.

"Yours is a woman's religion, little mother," he said one day. "It's

all right for you--a religion that prays to a woman, but it is not

suitable for men. Give me my father's religion. A religion where men

rule. In that, one does not bow the knee to a woman. A good religion,

my father's, fierce and strong, of love and fighting, not a puling

thing where one prays to a woman and a babe. No, little mother, keep

your religion, and be happy with it. I prefer my father's and my own."

"Raoul, my son, you mustn't forget the white side when you are with the

Sultan," she said gently, a touch of chiding in her sad voice.

The boy looked at her speculatively, knowing already that his mother

had no affection for the man he called "father."

"You should be proud, not sorry, to be the Sultan's wife," he remarked.

"It is an honour for any woman to be loved by the Sultan. Even a woman

as lovely and learned as you, little mother."

At twenty-seven Annette was even more beautiful than on the day the

Sultan Casim Ammeh first saw her; but more fragile and ethereal.

Although her captor's fancy often strayed to other women, he never lost

his passion for her.

"Oh, my boy, you don't understand," she said sadly. "When you are a

man I'll tell you, and then perhaps you'll think differently."

"When I am a man, I shall be like my father, but richer and more

powerful, because I shall have more knowledge, thanks to you, my

mother."

"I hope you will be like your father, Raoul, I ask for nothing better."

When her boy reached manhood Annette intended to tell him the truth,

and to leave him to deal with the situation as he would.

At ten years, her son had as much general knowledge as the average

French boy of his age, thanks to his mother's teachings. And he knew,

too, a great deal more than she taught him.

He was a big lad for his years, handsome and quick-tempered, the

Sultan's acknowledged heir. On every side there were people anxious to

spoil him and curry favour with him. In the scented, sensual

atmosphere of the harem, he learnt things his mother would have kept

from him. But she was powerless among so many, all ready to flatter

her boy and gain his good graces.

"When I grow up," he said to her one day, "I shall have a hundred

wives, like my father."

"In the France I come from a man has but one. You must always remember

that, Raoul."

"Only one! Then, mother, I call that a poor country. How can a man be

satisfied with one woman? My father has promised me wives of my own

when I am sixteen."

It seemed to Annette that in this profligate atmosphere her boy was

drifting further and further away from her and his own nation; becoming

daily more akin to the barbaric people around him.

Every day she felt she must tell him the truth. Yet every day she put

it off. For her boy was only a child still, and in his anger and rage

he would not be able to keep his knowledge from the Sultan; then evil

would befall him.

It was written that many years were to pass before Raoul Le Breton

learnt the truth about himself.

Soon after this episode the Sultan took the boy with him on some

thieving expedition.

Whilst they were away, one of the deadly epidemics that occasionally

visited El-Ammeh swept through the city, claiming among its many

victims Annette Le Breton.

CHAPTER IV

With the passing years, the Sultan Casim Ammeh increased in wealth and

power. He gave very little thought to France now. It was a vague

power, too far away to trouble him, and only once had it really sent a

feeler in his direction; that ill-fated expedition headed by Colonel Le

Breton.

Emboldened by his success, he had extended his marauding. But, if he

heard nothing more of France, France occasionally heard of him, in the

form of complaints from various parts of the Protectorate, from other

chiefs whose territory he had raided. The Government knew his name but

it had no idea where he came from.

On one occasion the Sultan and his robber horde swept down to within a

hundred miles of St. Louis. But there he met with a severe defeat. He

retired to his desert stronghold, deciding not to adventure in that

direction again. And he owed his defeat to strange guns such as had

not come into his life before. Guns that fired not a couple of shots,

but a whole volley; an endless fusillade that even his wild warriors

could not face.

He went back to El-Ammeh determined to get hold of some of those

wonderful guns.

Obviously it was out of the question to attack St. Louis where they

came from. If they were to be obtained, they must be searched for in

some other direction.

Sore with defeat, he brooded on the strange guns. And very often he

talked of them to the boy he called his son.

Raoul Le Breton was about thirteen when the Sultan met with his first

rebuff at the hands of France. And he had the welfare and prestige of

the desert kingdom at heart, and was as anxious as the Sultan to

possess this new weapon.

Far away in the south was the outpost of another European power; just a

handful of white men struggling to keep a hold on a country an

indifferent and short-sighted government was inclined to let slip.

Round and about the River Gambia the British had a footing. Among the

men most determined to keep a hold on this strip of territory was

Captain George Barclay.

He was a man of about twenty-eight, of medium height and wiry make,

with a thin face and steady grey eyes where tragedy lurked. His

confreres said that Barclay had no interests outside of his work. But

they were wrong.

He had one thing that was more to him than his own life; a tiny,

velvety-eyed, golden-haired daughter.

He had come out to North-West Africa in quest of forgetfulness.

At twenty-three, although he was only a penniless lieutenant, the

beauty of the London season, the prospective heiress of millions, had

thought well to marry him. It was a runaway match. For his sake Pansy

Carrington had risked losing both wealth and position. She was only

nineteen, and her guardian and godfather, whose acknowledged heiress

she was, had disapproved of George Barclay; gossip said because he was

madly in love with her himself, although he was nearly thirty years her

senior.

However, whether this was so or not, Henry Langham had forgiven the

girl. He had taken her back into his good graces, and, in due course,

had become godfather to the second Pansy. "Grand-godfather," the child

called him as soon as she could talk.

It had seemed to George Barclay that no man's life could be happier

than his. Then, without any warning, tragedy came upon him after five

years of bliss. For one day his girl-wife was brought back to him

dead, the result of an accident in the hunting-field.

With her death all light had gone out of his life. To escape from

himself he had gone out to Gambia; and his tiny daughter now lived, as

her mother had lived before her, with her godfather, Henry Langham.

But it was not of his daughter Barclay was thinking at that moment;

other matters occupied his mind.

He stood on the roof of a little stone fort, gazing at the landscape in

a speculative manner.

The building itself consisted of four rooms, set on a platform of rock

some three feet from the ground. All the windows were small, and high

up and barred. One room had no communication with the others: it was a

sort of guardroom entered by a heavy wooden door. To the other three

rooms one solid door gave entry, and from one of them a ladder and

trap-door led up to the roof which had battlements around it.

Below was a large compound, rudely stockaded, in which half a dozen

native huts were built.

In that part of Gambia Captain Barclay represented the British

Government. He had to administer justice and keep the peace, and in

this task he was aided by a white subaltern, twenty Hausa soldiers, and

a couple of maxim guns.

On three sides of the little British outpost an endless expanse of

forest showed, with white mist curling like smoke about it. On the

fourth was a wide shallow valley, with dwarf cliffs on either side,

alive with dog-faced baboons. The valley was patched with swamps and

lakes, and through it a river wended an erratic course, its banks

heavily fringed with reeds and mimosa trees; a valley from which, with

approaching evening, a stream of miasma rose.

Barclay's gaze, however, never strayed in the direction of the shallow

valley.

He looked to the north.

A week or so ago word had come through that a notorious raider was on

the move; a man whom the French Government had been endeavouring to

catch for the last five years or more. What he was doing so far south

as Gambia, the district officer did not know. But he knew he was there.

Only the previous day news had come that one of the villages within

his, Barclay's, jurisdiction had been practically wiped out. A similar

fate might easily fall to the lot of the British outpost, considering

that the Arab chief's force outnumbered Barclay's ten to one.

From the roof of his quarters the Englishman saw the sun set. It

seemed to sink and drown in a lake of orange that lay like a blazing

furnace on the horizon; a lake that spread and scattered when the sun

disappeared, drifting off in islands of clouds, gold, rose, mauve and

vivid red, sailing slowly across a tense blue sky, getting ever thinner

and more ragged, until night came suddenly and swallowed up their

tattered remains.

A dense, purple darkness fell upon the land, soft and velvety, that

reminded Barclay of his little daughter's eyes. And in a vault as

darkly purple, a host of great stars flashed. Away in the forest an

owl hooted. From the wide valley came the coughing roar of a leopard.

Every now and again some night bird passed, a vague shadow in the

darkness. In silver showers the fireflies danced in the thick, hot

air. Down in the compound glow-worms showed, looking like a lot of

smouldering cigarette ends cast carelessly aside.

Upon the roof, with gaze fixed on the misty, baffling darkness that

soughed and hissed around him, Barclay stayed, until the gong took him

down to dinner.

There his junior waited, a round-faced youngster of about nineteen.

The meal was a poor repast of tinned soup, hashed tinned beef, yams and

coffee, all badly cooked and indifferently served.

During the course of the meal the youngster remarked:

"What a joke if we nabbed the Sultan Casim Ammeh, or whatever he calls

himself, and went one better than the French johnnies."

"It would be more than a joke. It would be a jolly good riddance,"

Barclay responded.

"It's queer nobody knowing where he really comes from."

"You may be sure he doesn't play his tricks anywhere near his own

headquarters. More likely than not, he and his cut-throat lot start

out disguised as peaceful merchants, in separate bands, and join up

when they reach the seat of operations. There are vast tracts of

Senegal practically unexplored. They would give endless cover to one

of his kidney."

"If you had the luck to bag him, what should you do?"

"Shoot him straight off, knowing the earth was well rid of a villain."

"But what's his idea in coming as far south as this? He's never been

heard of on this side of the Senegal River before."

"Plunder. Guns, most likely. He's heard we're none too welcome, and

hardly settled here, and thinks we shall prove an easy prey."

However, the little English force was not to prove quite the easy prey

the Sultan had imagined when he came south in quest of new weapons.

The next night, without any warning, he attacked Barclay's headquarters.

He struck at an hour when all was darkest; not with his usual swoop of

wild horsemen, but stealthily.

Unchallenged and unmolested, he and his following scaled the stockade

and crept towards the tiny fort, vague shadows moving silently in the

purple darkness.

But each night Barclay had laid a trap for his expected foe.

He knew the enemy force outnumbered his, and that his little handful

could be starved out within a week, if the Arab chief wanted to make a

siege of it.

Barclay had no intention of letting this come to pass.

He did a bold thing.

Each night, after dark, the little British garrison divided into three

units. A Hausa sergeant and fifteen men were left on the roof of the

fort. Barclay, two soldiers and one maxim gun, his junior, with two

more soldiers and the other gun, crept out from the place, and hid in

the dense undergrowth, at different points outside of the stockade;

first removing a plank here and there in the enclosure to enable them

to work their guns through.

Barclay's ruse succeeded.

Whilst the Sultan and his followers were busy trying to scale the fort

and get at the handful of men peppering at them from its roof, without

any warning there came an unexpected fusillade from, the rear. He

turned and attacked in that direction, only to find a further fusillade

pouring in on him from another point.

The Sultan sensed that he had fallen into a trap; that he was

surrounded on all sides. Sore and furious he turned to go, more

quickly than he had come. But before he had reached the stockade, the

world slipped from him suddenly.

CHAPTER V

When the skirmish was over, Barclay and his junior, with half a dozen

Hausas and a lantern or two, made a round of the compound, counting the

dead and attending to the wounded.

His own garrison was practically unscathed, but his guns had played

grim havoc with the attacking party; fully fifty dead and wounded lay

within the stockade.

Barclay went about his task cautiously. He knew Arabs and their little

ways. Giving no quarter themselves, they expected none, and would sham

death and then stab those who came to succour them.

Among the prisoners was a lean, lithe man of about forty, who appeared

more stunned than hurt from a bullet that had grazed his forehead.

Barclay came across the wounded man just when the latter was coming

back to consciousness. Although in dress he differed in no way from

the rest of his following, the knives in his belt were heavily

jewelled, and gems flashed on his brown fingers.

By the light of a lantern the Englishman scanned him, noting his array

of jewels and his cruel, arrogant, commanding face, the face of a

savage leader.

"My son," he said to the subaltern, "I believe your joke has come to

pass."

"My joke!" the youngster repeated blankly.

Then the light of understanding came to his face.

"You don't mean to say this cruel-looking cuss is the Sultan Casim

Ammeh!"

"I'd be surprised to hear he wasn't," Barclay responded.

Suspicious of his man, and knowing him to be no more than stunned, the

captain had him handcuffed and locked up in one of the inner rooms of

the fort.

When the wounded had been attended to they were left in the guardroom,

and the little garrison retired once more within the fort.

The enemy had had such a thorough beating that Barclay did not expect

another attack. For all that, he was taking no risks.

Just before daybreak, when the world was a place of curling white mist

and greyness, there came a stampede of horses. And, above the thunder

of hoofs, the wild Mohammedan war-cry.

"Deen! Deen Muhammed!"

That wild swoop and yell was the Sultan's usual way of attacking.

"It seems we didn't get our man last night," Barclay remarked, as the

guns were trained in the direction of the sound. "According to report,

this is his usual method of attack."

Out of the greyness of approaching morning a melee of wild horsemen

appeared. Their leader was hardly the man Barclay had pictured to

himself as the blood-stained Arab chief, but a smooth-faced youth in

white burnoose, mounted on a huge black stallion.

More than this Barclay did not wait to see. He opened fire on the

massed horsemen, his guns playing deadly havoc. Within a few minutes

their ranks broke. In wild disorder they turned and stampeded back,

soon to be lost in the screening mist.

"I don't think they'll face another dose," the junior remarked.

However, he was wrong.

Presently from out of the fog came the same wild war-cry and the

thunder of hoofs. There was another charge with sadly depleted numbers.

For reckless courage Barclay had never seen anything to equal their

youthful leader. Again and again he rallied his men and brought them

on, until finally, with only about a dozen men, he swept through the

deadly zone and on towards the fort.

In the very teeth of the Maxims his black horse literally flew over the

high stockade. But the youngster was the only one who faced the guns.

His following broke up and turned back under the fierce fusillade.

Although the leader got over the stockade alive, his horse did not. It

crashed and fell dead beneath him. With a quick side spring--a

marvellous piece of horsemanship--he avoided injury and, with drawn

sword, rushed on towards the little fort.

The Hausas would have shot down the reckless youngster, but Barclay

stopped them.

"We don't make war on children," he said in their dialect.

A closer inspection showed the leader of the Arab horde to be hardly

more than a child; a handsome boy of about fourteen who, suddenly,

realising that his followers had deserted him, now stood gazing round

in a fierce, thwarted fashion.

On finding he was alone he did not retreat, although Barclay gave him

every opportunity. Instead, he stood his ground and hurled a challenge

in Arabic at the men clustered on the top of the fort.

Since there was no reply to that, he shouted again, this time in French.

"Who and what is the youngster?" Barclay asked. "He doesn't look any

more Arabian than I do. And now he's yelling at us in pure Parisian

French."

However, nobody could find any reply. So Barclay descended alone to

interview the one remaining member of the Sultan Casim's forces.

He was hardly out in the compound before he wished he had not gone.

He had just time to draw his sword when the boy fell upon him.

Barclay was a skilled duellist, but in this wild youth from the desert

he met his match.

For all his finesse and superior height and weight, the Englishman had

his cheek laid open and his arm ripped up in the course of a minute.

Things would have gone badly with him, except that a shot from his

junior put the boy's sword arm out of action.

With a rattle his weapon fell to the ground, his arm useless at his

side.

But, even then, there was no plea for mercy. With a proud gesture he

threw up his head, facing his enemy in arrogant fashion.

"Kill me," he said in French, "but let my father live."

"Who is your father?" Barclay asked, as with a handkerchief he tried to

stop the blood gushing from his cheek.

"The Sultan Casim Ammeh," the boy answered proudly.

The reply told Barclay that the man he had under lock and key really

was the marauding Arab chief.

He scanned the boy closely.

Except for his coal-black hair and eyes and fierce, arrogant

expression, there was no resemblance between father and son. If he had

not heard to the contrary, he would have said the boy was as French as

the language he spoke.

"I've no intention of killing _you_," Barclay remarked. "On the

contrary, young man, I'm going to have your arm set and bound up before

you bleed to death."

The blood was dripping from the boy's fingers, making a pool on the

ground. But he paid no heed to his own hurt. All his thoughts were

for the Sultan Casim.

"I'm not asking mercy for myself, but for my father," he said haughtily.

"I'm afraid that's useless, considering two Governments have condemned

him."

"You will dare to kill him?"

Barclay said nothing. But his very silence was ominous.

A dazed, incredulous look crossed the boy's face.

As the Englishman watched him it seemed that, blood-stained murderer as

the Sultan was, at least this big, handsome son of his loved him.

Like one stunned, the youngster submitted to being led into the fort,

where his arm was set and his wounds bound up.

When this was done he said to Barclay:

"I'll give you wealth in jewels that will amount to three hundred

thousand francs in French money if you will let my father go free and

take my life instead."

Barclay made no reply.

"You will murder my father?" the boy went on, dreading the worst from

Barclay's silence.

The word made the Englishman wince. For it did seem like murder with

this fierce, handsome boy pleading desperately for his father's life.

Again he said nothing.

To escape from the sight of the pain and anguish his silent verdict had

aroused, Barclay went from the room, leaving the youngster in the

charge of a couple of soldiers.

About noon that day, at the hands of the British Government, the Sultan

Casim Ammeh met a well-deserved end. He met it bravely, (refusing to

be blindfolded), with a slight, cruel smile facing the guns levelled at

him.

It was evening before Barclay summoned up enough courage to meet his

youthful prisoner. And when he did, it seemed he had never seen so

much concentrated hatred on any face.

"So, you shot my father?" the boy said in a slow, savage manner.

Barclay had not come to discuss the dead malefactor. He wanted to

learn more about the son--where he had learnt his excellent French; how

he came to differ so in appearance from the Arab chief and his wild

following.

"Your father has paid the penalty of his crimes," he said quietly.

"And you shall pay the penalty of yours!" the boy cried passionately;

"for I shall kill you as you have killed my father. Your daughters I

shall sell as slaves. Your sons shall toil in chains in my city. Your

wives shall become the bondswomen of my servants. Remember, white man,

for I do not speak lightly. I will be avenged. I, Casim Ammeh, whose

father you have thought well to murder!"

The savage threats of a wild, heart-broken boy did not trouble George

Barclay much. But his mind did go to his tiny four-year-old daughter,

and he was glad she was safe in England and not within reach of this

savage lad.

At that moment he was more worried about his youthful captive than the

latter's wild threats.

He did not want to make a criminal of the boy; for, obviously, whatever

wrong he had done was done under the influence of his savage father.

And there looked to be the makings of a fine man in him, if only he had

good guidance.

Barclay decided to put the case before the French Government, together

with a suggestion of his own--that the youngster should be sent

somewhere where he could be brought up to be of use to the country, not

a constant thorn in its flesh, as his father had been.

But Captain Barclay need not have troubled himself with making plans

for the future of the youthful Sultan of El-Ammeh, for that night the

boy escaped, and his future was left in his own hands.

CHAPTER VI

After some two years out in Gambia, George Barclay returned to England.

He returned with a scar across his right cheek.

That scar was the first thing his little daughter remarked upon when

the excitement of reunion had died down.

Perched on his knee, she touched it with gentle little fingers and

kissed it with soft lips.

"Who has hurt my nice new Daddy?" she asked distressfully.

Then there followed the story of the youthful Sultan Casim Ammeh.

"Oh, what a wicked boy!" she exclaimed.

Then she glanced across at her godfather who was sitting near.

"Isn't he a bad, naughty boy, Grand-godfather, to want to kill my Daddy

and sell me as a slave?"

Henry Langham had listened to the story with interest, and very

heartily he agreed with her.

"I shall tell Bobby," the little girl went on indignantly, "and he'll

go and kill the Sultan Casim Ammeh."

"Who's Bobby?" her father asked.

"My sweetheart. Master Robert Cameron."

"So in my absence I've been cut out, have I?" her father said

teasingly. "I'm dreadfully jealous."

But Pansy snuggled closer to him, and her arms went round his neck in a

tight hug.

"There'll never be anyone as nice as my Daddy," she whispered.

George Barclay held the tiny girl closer, kissing the golden head.

Often during his months in England, Pansy would scramble on his knee

and say:

"Daddy, tell me the story of Casim Ammeh. That naughty boy who hurt

your poor face."

To Pansy it was some new Arabian Nights, vastly interesting because her

father was one of the principal characters. Although she had heard it

quite fifty times, she was ready to hear it quite fifty times more.

"But, my darling, you've heard it scores of times," Barclay said one

day.

For all that he told the story again.

Quietly she listened until the end was reached. Then she said:

"I don't like him. Not one little bit. Do you like him, Daddy?"

"To tell you the truth, Pansy, I did like him. He was a very brave

boy."

"I shall never like him, because he hurt you," she said firmly, her

little flower-like face set and determined.

"Well, my girlie, you're never likely to meet him, so it won't make

much difference to him whether you like him or not."

But--in the Book of Fate it was written otherwise.

CHAPTER VII

Somewhere off the Boulevard St. Michel there is a cabaret. The big

dancing hall has red walls painted with yellow shooting stars, and,

overhead, electric lights blaze under red and yellow shades. There is

a bar at one end, and several little tables for the patrons' use when

they tire of dancing. In the evenings a band, in seedy, red uniforms

with brass buttons, fills, with a crash of sound, an atmosphere ladened

with patchouli and cigarette smoke, and waiters, in still more seedy

dress-suits, attend to the tables. Never at any time is the gathering

select, and generally there are quite a few foreigners of all colours

present.

One night, the most noticeable among the patrons was an Englishman,

well-groomed and tailored, and a big youth of about eighteen in a

flowing white burnoose.

They were in no way connected with each other, but chance, in the shape

of their female companions, had brought them to adjacent tables.

The girl with the youngster was very pretty in a hard, metallic way,

with the white face and vivid red lips of the Parisienne, and brown

eyes, bright and polished-looking, that were about as expressionless as

pebbles. She was attired in a cheap, black evening dress, cut very

low, and about her plump throat was a coral necklace. Her hair was

elaborately dressed, and her shoes, although well worn, were tidy.

By day, Marie Hamon earned a meagre living for herself in a florist's

shop. At night, she added to her earnings in the recognized way of

quite a few of the working girls of Paris. And this particular cabaret

was one of her hunting grounds.

As Marie sat there "making eyes" at the youth in the white burnoose,

the man at the next table remarked in French, in an audible and

disgusted tone:

"Look at that girl there making up to that young nigger. A beastly

spectacle, I call it."

Before his companion had time to reply the youth was up, his black eyes

flashing, and he grasped the Englishman's shoulder in an angry,

indignant fashion.

"I am no nigger!" he cried. "I'm the Sultan Casim Ammeh."

"I don't care a damn who you are so long as you keep your black paws

off me!"

The youth's hands were not black, but deeply bronzed like his face,

which looked darker than it really was against the whiteness of his

hood.

"Take back that word," he said savagely, "or, by Allah, it shall be

wiped out in blood!"

He drew his knife. The girls screamed. Excited waiters rushed towards

the table. The mixed company stopped dancing and pressed forward to

watch what looked like the beginning of a royal row. Such incidents

were by no means unusual in the cabaret.

Only the Englishman remained calm. He grasped his opponent's wrist

quickly.

"No, you don't," he said. "You damned niggers seem to think you own

the world nowadays."

There was a brief scuffle. But the Englishman was big and heavy, and

half a dozen waiters were hanging on to the enraged and insulted youth.

His knife was wrested from his hand. He was hustled this way and that;

and, finally, worsted and smouldering, he retired, to be led to another

and more distant table by his female companion.

The episode was over in a couple of minutes. Disappointed at the lack

of bloodshed, the spectators returned to their dancing. Relieved, the

waiters went back to their various spheres. The Englishman seated

himself again as if nothing had happened. At a distant table the youth

sat and glowered at him.

"Who is that man?" he asked presently, pointing a lean forefinger at

his late opponent.

Marie shrugged her plump shoulders.

"I've never seen him here before. He looks to me like an Englishman."

With renewed interest the youth studied the distant figure, hate

smouldering in his black eyes.

So he was one of the nation who had murdered his father! This man who

had insulted him.

But, for all his hatred of the Englishman, reluctantly he admired his

coolness and his clothes.

The world had enlarged for Annette Le Breton's son since his first

experience with the English.

On escaping from Barclay, with the remaining handful of the defunct

Sultan's following, he had returned to El-Ammeh, at the age of fourteen

its recognised ruler.

The boy was not lacking in sense. Defeat at the hands of both British

and French made him decide to give up what had been the late Sultan's

chief source of income--marauding. With a wisdom beyond his years,

Casim Ammeh, as he was now always called, decided to go in for trading;

and before many years had passed he saw it was a better paying game

than marauding, despite its lack of excitement.

Then he extended his operations.

There were always caravans coming to his desert city, and a great

demand for articles that came from the Europe his mother had told him

of.

With one or two of his principal merchants he went down to St. Louis,

but he did not go as the Sultan Casim Ammeh; that name was too well

known to the French Government. Instead, he went under the name his

mother used to call him, Raoul Le Breton. And under that name he

opened a store in St. Louis.

There was a new generation in the town since his real father's day, and

the name roused no comment. It was an ordinary French one. In St.

Louis there were quite a few half-breed French-Arabs, as the youth

supposed himself to be, living and trading under European names.

His business ventures were so successful that he opened several more

stores at various points between St. Louis and his own capital; but the

whereabouts of his own city he did not divulge to strangers.

At sixteen it had seemed to the boy that St. Louis was the hub of the

universe; but at eighteen a craving that amounted to nostalgia drove

him further afield--to Paris.

And he went in Arabian garments, for he was intensely proud of his

sultanship and the desert kingdom he ruled with undisputed sway.

To his surprise, he felt wonderfully at home in his mother's city. It

did not feel as strange as St. Louis had felt, but more as if he had

once lived there and had forgotten about it.

He had been a couple of days in Paris, wandering at will, when on the

second evening his wanderings had brought him in contact with Marie

Hamon. She was by no means the first of her sort to accost him, but

she was the first he had condescended to take any notice of. She had

smiled at him as, aloof and haughty, he had stalked along the Boulevard

St. Michel, and had fallen into step beside him. He had looked at her

in a peculiar manner that was half amusement, half contempt, but he had

not shaken her off.

She had suggested they should have dinner together, and he had fallen

in with her suggestion; not exactly with alacrity, but as if he wanted

to study the girl further. For all her plump prettiness and

profession, there was a shrewd, sensible air about her. Afterwards, at

her instigation, they had repaired to the cabaret.

As the youth continued to scowl at the distant Englishman, with the

idea of preventing further trouble, Marie tried to get his mind on

other matters.

"Casim, let's have a dance?" she suggested.

"I can afford to pay for hired dancers, so why should I posture for the

benefit of others?" he asked scornfully.

She tittered.

"Well, get me another drink instead, then."

He beckoned a waiter and gave a curt order. However, he did not touch

the cheap champagne himself. Instead, he kept strictly to coffee.

"Have a drop of cognac in it to cheer you up a bit," Marie said. "You

make me feel as if I were at a funeral."

"I'm a Mohammedan, and strong drink is forbidden."

"You are the limit! I shouldn't quarrel with the good things of this

life even if I were a Mohammedan."

"By my religion women have no souls," he replied in a voice that spoke

volumes.

But Marie was not easily abashed.

"The lack of a soul doesn't trouble me in the least," she responded

lightly. "A pretty body is of greater use to a woman any day. Do you

think I'm pretty, Casim?" she finished coquettishly.

"I shouldn't be with you unless you were," he replied, as if her

question were an insult to his taste.

For some minutes there was silence. As the girl sipped her champagne

she watched her escort in a calculating manner.

"You've got lots of money, haven't you?" she said presently.

"Not as much as I intend to have," he replied.

"But enough to buy me a new frock?" she questioned.

"Fifty, if you want them."

Marie threw her arms around his neck.

"You nice boy!" she cried, kissing him soundly.

He resented her attentions, removing her arms in a none too gentle

manner.

"I object to such displays of affection in public," he said, with an

air of ruffled dignity.

"Come home with me, then," she suggested.

"Home" to Marie was an attic in a poor street. There Casim Ammeh went,

not as a victim to her charms, as she imagined, but seeing in her a

means to his own end.

The next morning as he sat at breakfast with the girl--a meagre repast

of black coffee and rolls--from somewhere out of his voluminous robes

he produced a string of pearls and dangled it before his hostess.

Marie looked at them, her mouth round with surprise, for they were real

and worth at least ten thousand francs.

"If I give you these, Marie, will you teach me to become a Frenchman?"

he asked.

"Won't I just!" she cried enthusiastically, and without hesitation

continued: "First of all we must get an apartment. And, _mon Dieu!_

yes, you must cut your hair short."

The youth wore his hair long, knotted under his hood in the Arab

fashion.

It was three months before Casim Ammeh left Paris. And he left it in a

correctly cut English suit and with his smooth, black hair brushed back

over his head. In the spick-and-span young man it would have been

difficult to recognise the barbaric youth who had come there knowing

nothing of civilised life except what his mother had told him and what

he had seen in St. Louis; and, what was more, he felt at ease in his

new garments, in spite of having worn burnoose and hood all his life.

The day before he left, Marie sat with him in the _salon_ of the pretty

flat they had occupied since the day they struck their bargain. And

she looked very different, too.

Her evening frock was no longer of shabby black. It was one of the

several elaborate gowns she now possessed, thanks to the young man.

And she no longer wore a string of coral beads about her pretty throat,

but the pearl necklace.

Although Marie had taken on the youth as a business speculation, within

a few days she loved him passionately. She was loath to let her

benefactor go, but all her wiles failed to keep him.

"When you're back in Africa you won't quite forget your little Marie

who taught you to be a man, will you?" she whispered tearfully.

Her remarks made him laugh.

"I've had women of my own for at least a year before I met you," he

replied.

It seemed to Marie she had never really known the youth who had come to

her a savage and was leaving her looking a finished man of the world.

He never talked to her of himself or his affairs. Although kind and

generous, he demanded swift obedience, and he treated her always as

something infinitely inferior to himself.

"Say you love me," she pleaded. "That you'll think of me sometimes."

"Love!" he said contemptuously. "I don't love women. I have them for

my pleasure. I'm not one of your white men who spend their days

whining at some one woman's feet pleading for favours. Women to me are

only toys. Good to look upon, if beautiful, but not so good as horses."

"Oh, you are cruel!" she said, weeping. "And I thought you loved me."

"It is the woman's place to love. There are other things in a man's

life."

Marie realised she had never had any hold on her protege. She had been

of use to him, and he had paid her well for it, and there, as far as he

was concerned, the matter ended.

Being sensible, she sat up and dried her tears, gathering consolation

from the fact that he had been a good speculation. There would be no

immediate need to return to the florist's shop when he had gone. In

fact, if she liked to sell the necklace, she could buy a business of

her own.

"Shall you come to Paris again, Casim?" she asked.

"Oh yes, often. It's a good city, full of beautiful women who are easy

to buy."

But he made a reservation to himself.

When he came again he would come under the name his mother used to call

him--Raoul Le Breton, and he would come in European clothes. Then the

English he hated would not be able to hurl that detestable word

"nigger" at him.

CHAPTER VIII

In a select French boarding-school a girl sat reading a letter. She

was about fifteen years old, a slender, lovely child, light and

graceful, with a cascade of golden curls reaching to her waist, and

wide, purple eyes. Her complexion was perfect. She had a vivid little

red mouth, impulsive and generous, and a pink rose on each cheek.

On reading the letter, sorrow clouded her face. For it ran:--

"My Dear Little Pansy,

When you get this letter I shall be with your mother. I am leaving you

the money she would not have. And it was worth having, you will agree,

for it will bring you in about L60,000 a year. The only condition I

make is that you take the name your mother refused, your own second

name. And my one hope is that you will be more successful in love than

I was.

Your affectionate 'grand-godfather,'

Henry Langham."

For some minutes Pansy sat brooding on her godfather's end. The poor

old boy had been awfully ill for a long time, and now he was dead.

She blinked back a couple of tears. Then her thoughts went to the

fortune she had inherited.

Presently she crossed to the mirror and looked at herself.

"No, old girl," she said to her reflection, "your head isn't turned."

Then she slipped the letter into her pocket and made straight for her

great friend and confidante.

To the average eye there was nothing about Miss Grainger to attract a

vivid, beautiful girl like Pansy Barclay--Pansy Langham as she would be

now. Miss Grainger was middle-aged, grey-haired, thin and

depressed-looking: the down-trodden English mistress, with no

qualifications except good breeding.

She was poor and friendless, and life had gone hard with her, but these

facts were sufficient to fill Pansy's heart with a warmth of generous

affection and sympathy.

The girl's principal thought as she went along was not so much of the

millions she had just inherited, but that she had always wanted to do

something for Miss Grainger, and now she saw a way of doing it.

She entered the room that served the English mistress as bedroom, study

and sitting-room, disturbing the latter in the midst of correcting an

accumulated pile of exercise books.

"What is it, Pansy?" she asked, smiling at her favourite.

"Miss Grainger, you'll be pleased to hear I'm a millionaire."

The English mistress put down her pen carefully, and then sat staring

at the child.

"Really, my dear," she said in a bewildered tone, "you have a way of

saying the most surprising things in the most matter-of-fact manner.

But, since you're saying it, it must be true."

"That's a character in itself," Pansy remarked, smiling, a smile that

brought to view several bewitching dimples.

She produced the letter and handed it to her friend.

The English mistress read it through.

"Sixty thousand pounds a year!" she exclaimed. "It makes my head reel."

"Then yours can't be so firmly screwed on as mine. Mine isn't turned

one little bit. I looked at myself in a glass to see."

"But what are you going to do with it all?" the governess asked

helplessly.

"Spend it, of course. I take after my father and never shirk an

unpleasant duty," she went on, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "To

begin with, you, Miss Grainger, are going to be my companion, and we'll

have a yacht and go all round the world together, and see and do

everything that can be seen and done."

"You'll get married, Pansy," the governess said, looking lovingly at

the beautiful flower-like, little face.

"Not much! You dear old antiquated thing. I'm not going to be tied by

the leg in that fashion."

"As the English mistress, I must remind you that 'tied by the leg' is

slang."

"When you're my companion you'll be talking slang yourself. I'm not so

sure I won't make that one of the stipulations," the child went on

teasingly. "It'll be such a change for you after thirty years of

correcting stupid exercises."

"It will be rather," Miss Grainger said wistfully.

"And I shall come out at seventeen," Pansy went on. "I must start as

early as possible if I'm to spend all that money. I shall write and

ask my father if I may come out at seventeen. Do you think he'll

refuse?"

"No man will ever refuse you anything, Pansy. You're too sweet and

good and beautiful."

"And rich. Don't forget the rich. That'll be a tremendous draw."

Miss Grainger smiled at her favourite.

"I hope the man who marries you will pick you for your good heart and

generous nature, not your looks and money," she remarked.

"Still harping on that old string, Mrs. Noah. Women don't get married

nowadays if they can afford to stay single."

Then the school dinner-bell ringing sent Pansy from the room, but not

before she had given an impetuous hug and kiss to her friend.

CHAPTER IX

Paris always has a welcome for millionaires. And it always had a

specially warm welcome for Raoul Le Breton, the African

merchant-prince. Not only was he fabulously rich, but he was young and

remarkably good-looking. It was whispered that he had Arab blood in

his veins, but he was wealthy enough for the majority to overlook this

drawback.

Like many modern Frenchmen, he dabbled in "le sport." He was a

brilliant tennis player, a worthy opponent at billiards, and he kept a

stud of race-horses. There was hardly an actress of any repute and

with any pretence to youth and beauty who had not had his patronage at

one time or the other. Match-making mothers with marriageable

daughters laid snares about his feet. With surprising agility he

avoided their traps. None of the daughters proved sufficiently

tempting to turn him from the broad, smooth way of gay Parisian

bachelorhood to the steep and jagged path of matrimony.

Raoul Le Breton was about twenty-five when he paid his sixth visit to

Paris. He came now for about three months every year. And he always

came in style, with a whole retinue of Arab servants--silent, discreet

men who never gossiped about their master. It was whispered also that

out in Africa he had a whole harem of his own; moreover, that he was

some big chief or the other. In fact, many things were whispered about

him, for, on the whole, Paris knew very little except that he was

wealthy and wild.

His French acquaintances tried to learn more of his doings through the

medium of his own private doctor, a stout Frenchman who accompanied the

young millionaire to and fro. But Dr. Edouard refused to gossip about

his friend and patron.

In spite of his success, the young Sultan of El-Ammeh had not forgotten

George Barclay.

On getting more in touch with civilisation and its ways he had tried to

find out the name of the man who was responsible for the death of his

supposed father. It was not an easy task. George Barclay had left

Gambia five years before Raoul Le Breton set about his investigations.

There had been a succession of men since Barclay's time, and the

shooting of a native malefactor was not a matter of great note in the

annals of a Government.

However, eventually Le Breton managed to establish the identity of the

man he looked upon as his father's murderer.

But to trace George Barclay in England proved an even more difficult

task than tracing him in Africa.

The Englishman had not stopped long in his country. In search of

forgetfulness, he had gone from one place to another, holding posts in

various parts of the Empire.

The Sultan Casim Ammeh was twenty-five when he heard that Barclay was

in the Malay Straits.

The news came to him in Paris just when he was setting out for an

evening's amusement in company with Dr. Edouard. The letter was

brought to him as he stood in dress-suit, opera hat in hand, in his own

private sitting-room at the palatial hotel he always patronised when in

Paris.

On perusing it he turned to his companion, and said, with an air of

savage triumph:

"Well, Edouard, I've managed to trace my man at last."

The doctor knew who the man in question was, for he, Edouard, was the

Sultan Casim's one confidant. Rather uneasily he glanced at his

patron. He wished the young man would be content with money and the

many joys and pleasures it could buy--for Casim Ammeh was no longer a

strict Mohammedan--and would not be always hankering after vengeance, a

vengeance that might embroil him with England and bring his wild and

brilliant career to an abrupt close.

"Where is George Barclay?" Edouard asked uneasily.

"In the Straits Settlements."

The doctor experienced a feeling of intense pleasure on hearing Barclay

was in so remote a spot.

"It'll be difficult for you to get hold of him there," he remarked,

trying to keep out of his voice the relief he was feeling.

"He won't stay there for ever. I've waited eleven years for my

vengeance. I can go on waiting a little longer, until Fate thinks well

to place him in a more accessible position."

With a savage expression Le Breton turned to a desk. Sitting down, he

wrote to his agents telling them to keep him informed of George

Barclay's movements.

PART II

CHAPTER I

The harem in the palace of El-Ammeh led into a large hall with carved

doors and tiny arabesque windows, fretted and scrolled, with no one

spot big enough to squeeze more than a hand through.

Generally speaking, the women of the harem preferred the large hall,

where they could gossip among themselves and with their attendant

women, to the little rooms that were their own private quarters.

But there was one special apartment that they all in turn had striven

after and, in turn, had failed to attain. No one in the harem had seen

the room except old Sara, and she had plenty of tales to tell about its

magnificence. It was a big gilded chamber, with a ceiling like the sky

on a desert night, and great golden, jewelled lamps. There was a

wonderful bathroom, a fretted gallery that gave a wide view of the

desert, a walled garden full of roses, and, above all, a door that led

into the Sultan's private suite. The room had had no occupant since

the days of the Sultan's mother, the Lady Annette, the first wife and

favourite of his father. And Sara had been her special slave and

attendant.

It could be reached from the harem. At one point behind the silken

curtains a narrow stairway led upwards, and ended in a scented,

sandalwood door. But the door was always locked, and only the Sultan

had the key. It was common harem gossip that in that room he would

place the one among his slaves whom he deigned to make his first wife.

Although the law allowed him four, and as many slaves as he fancied, so

far he had no legal wife. It was strange, considering he was nearly

thirty. But, in many ways, he differed from all the previous Sultans.

According to old Sara, it was because his mother belonged to quite

another race, and had come from a land as remote from El-Ammeh as

Paradise, where the women were all white, a land that the Sultan now

visited yearly.

For that land he was starting to-morrow.

He had just been to the harem to say farewell to the half-dozen girls

there, departing with promises of new jewels and novelties to please

and amuse these toys of his on his return. And now he lingered with

his newest slave and favourite, Rayma, the Arab girl he had bought but

six weeks ago.

[Illustration: He had come to the harem to say farewell.....]

Envious glances were cast towards the door behind which the Sultan

Casim Ammeh and his new slave, Rayma, took farewell of one another.

One girl more than the others watched the door with hurt, angry,

jealous eyes.

She was about twenty-three, with a full figure, a creamy skin, a

profusion of long black curls, and great soft, languid eyes--a

half-breed Spanish-Moorish girl of the true odalesque type.

Her attire was scanty. A red silk slip draped her from shoulder to

knee, held on by ribbon straps; and on her hands and wrists and neck a

quantity of barbaric jewelery flashed.

"I pray to Allah that on his travels our Sultan will find some woman he

loves better than Rayma," she said, spite and jealousy in her soft

voice.

"No, I don't pray that, Leonora," one of her companions remarked. "For

_you_ took him from _me_, and what am I now? Like you, a scent that

has lost its savour; for it is but a shred of love that the Lord Casim

has now for me. No; I pray may _he_ know what it is to love and be

denied, for too easily do women's hearts go to him. And no man values

what comes to him cheaply. Our day is done, mine and yours, Leonora,

as Rayma's will be when another woman takes his fancy. No, pray as I

do, that he may love a woman who has no desire for him, who spurns his

love--a woman whose people will not sell her, who is no slave put up

for auction, as we were. May his heart ache, as mine has ached. May

passion keep him sleepless, with empty arms and craving desire. May

love prove to him a mirage that he can see yet never grasp!"

Unconscious of these wishes, the Sultan Casim Ammeh and the slave girl

Rayma lingered together behind closed doors.

The moon shone into the little apartment, showing a big man in a white

burnoose, and at his side a girl lay, looking at him with tearful,

love-laden eyes.

She was about seventeen, with an amber skin and a cloud of straight

black hair that reached to her heels. A cloud out from which looked a

little oval face, with great black eyes and a small red mouth, a

perfect type of Arab beauty.

"My Lord Casim, beloved, my heart breaks at the thought of your going,"

she said tearfully.

Smilingly he watched her, caressing her in an indulgent fashion.

"But, my desert flower, I shall come back again."

"But it is so far. And in that Paris there are so many women. I know,

because Sara has told me. And all their arms will be stretched out to

keep you there."

"No arms have kept me there for longer than three months," he replied.

"And mine! Mine are not strong enough to keep you here?" she sobbed.

He drew the sobbing little beauty into his embrace, and kissed her

tear-stained face.

"Tell me, my jewel, what favour can I grant you before I go?"

"I want nothing but just to rest upon your heart for ever."

With a tender hand he stroked her long black hair, and tried to soothe

away the tears; flattering tears, resulting from his coming departure.

"Don't go to Paris, Casim, beloved," she whispered. "Stay in El-Ammeh.

Paris is so far, and I am so ignorant of all outside of the desert.

Ignorant of everything except love and you. Think, my lord, only six

weeks have we been together, and now you would go! Only six weeks

since my father brought me from the desert to sell me to the Sultan

Casim Ammeh. How afraid I was until I saw you. And then I was afraid

I might not find favour in your sight. For my heart was yours the

moment our eyes met. Only six weeks ago! Casim, don't go," she

implored. "Stay with me, for my heart is breaking."

"Little one, there is business as well as love," he said gently.

"I think of nothing but love."

"Love is quite enough for any girl to think of."

"And those women in Paris, do they think only of love?"

"No; they think of money as well. That's why I prefer you."

She slipped her slim arms about his neck, pressing, her slight form

against him, kissing him passionately.

"Let me live in the gilded chamber until you come back," she whispered,

"and then I should feel the most honoured among your slaves."

However, he avoided this suggestion.

"We'll see about that when I return," he answered with an amused,

indulgent air.

Then he held the girl closer.

"Now, before I go, Rayma, is there nothing you want? Nothing I can do

for you?"

"There is one thing, my Sultan. Sell Leonora. I hate her. She's a

great fat toad, always plotting and planning to steal your heart from

me."

"I couldn't do that. I'm not quite like your desert men, remember. I

can't sell a woman who has once pleased me. But, on my return, I'll

find her a nice husband, if that will satisfy you."

There was a note in his voice that brooked no argument; and the girl,

reared for the harem, was quick to notice it.

She gave a sharp glance at her owner. It seemed that a man she did not

know stood behind her Sultan, indulgent master as he had proved. A man

she had no hold over.

CHAPTER II

In one of the hotels in the Island of Grand Canary dinner had just been

served. Around the door of the large dining-hall the manager, the head

waiter and several underlings hovered, with an air of awaiting the

arrival of some important personage.

Presently two people appeared in the doorway.

One was a middle-aged woman with grey hair and a prim expression. She

was wearing a plain black silk evening dress, and she had the look of a

retired governess. Her companion was of quite another type. She was a

slender, graceful girl of medium height, with a mop of short, golden

curls dancing round a small, frank face, that gave her the look of some

lovely, delicate schoolboy. She wore a simple white silk frock, and

her only mark of wealth was a large diamond hanging from a thin

platinum chain about her slender neck; a gem in itself worth a fortune.

Evidently she was the personage expected. As she appeared the manager

went forward to meet her. She smiled at him in a friendly, affable

manner. With him at her side, she and her companion went up the big

room, towards a specially reserved table, the head-waiter and a little

group of others following behind.

As she came up the room, a man seated at one of the tables in the

center of the room said to his neighbour:

"Who is that girl? The whole hotel is falling over itself to wait on

her."

The speaker was a short, thick-set man, with a red face and fishy eyes.

"That's Pansy Langham, the millionairess," his neighbour replied. "She

came over in her yacht from Teneriffe this afternoon. Barclay her name

was before she came into her money."

"A millionaire, is she? That's the second one of the species in Grand

Canary then. For there's a French millionaire staying in a villa at

the back here. Le Breton, his name is. But what's brought the girl to

these parts? There's not much here to attract a woman with money."

"She's here for her health, I believe."

"Not lungs, surely! She looks healthy enough."

"No, she had an accident about a couple of months ago. Some half-mad

horse mauled her horribly, all but killed her. I remember reading

about the case in the papers. They say she's a very decent sort, in

spite of her millions. Gives an awful lot away in charity."

As the girl approached the table, the red-faced man screwed an eyeglass

into one fishy eye and surveyed her from head to foot.

"She's not bad looking," he said in a condescending manner, as if it

were his prerogative to criticise every woman who crossed his horizon.

"But she's not a patch on the red-haired woman in the villa at the back

here. Now, she's what I call a beauty."

He did not trouble to lower his voice, and his words reached Pansy.

She glanced in his direction and wrinkled her pretty nose, as if she

were smelling a bad smell. And with no more notice than that, she

passed on to her own table.

CHAPTER III

Just off the main road between the Port and the city of Las Palmas,

Grand Canary, a villa stood. It was situated on a hill; a white,

flat-roofed building, set in a pleasant garden. Long windows opened on

a lawn surrounded by trees.

Out from one of the windows a flood of light streamed and mingled with

the silver of the night. The apartment it came from was elaborately

furnished, in an ornate French style, with gilded furniture, bevelled

mirrors, and satin-covered chairs and lounges.

On one of the latter a woman lolled back amongst an array of soft

cushions. She was big and voluptuous-looking, with a dead-white skin,

a mass of flaming red hair, and eyes green as the emerald necklace she

wore.

She had on an extremely low-cut, black satin dress, that suited her

style and colouring. And she made a striking, if somewhat bizarre,

picture.

But attractive and unique as she looked, the man sitting with her

appeared more interested in the view from the window than in his

companion.

From there, a glint of moonlit sea showed between the vaguely moving

trees; a peaceful stretch that spread away to the purple, misty horizon.

He was a big man of about thirty, well groomed and handsome, with

smooth black hair, close-clipped moustache, and dark, smouldering eyes

that had a latent searching look at the back of them. He was in

evening attire, with black pearl studs in his pleated dress shirt.

For some time the two had been sitting in silence; the man's gaze on

the sea; the woman's on the man, in a hungry, anxious manner.

"You've got one of your restless moods on to-night, Raoul," she said

presently.

"I get them frequently nowadays. Nothing ever satisfies me for long."

She smiled at him, a soft, slow smile.

"Yet I have satisfied you longer than most, for you are still here with

me."

"It's not you so much, Lucille, as business that keeps me here."

"I believe you have no heart at all," she cried, a catch of pain in her

voice. "You look upon all women as animals."

"You are a most handsome animal, you must agree," he replied.

"You talk as if you'd bought me."

"I don't know that I ever put it quite so crudely as that."

"Put it as crudely as you like," she cried in a sudden gust of temper.

"You have taken all from me and given me nothing in return."

He made no reply. In a slightly amused manner his glance rested on her

emerald necklace.

"You may look," she went on passionately. "But I want more than gifts.

I want love, not just to be the creature of your passions."

"Then you want too much. There's no such thing as love between men and

women. There's only passion."

"You are cruel," she moaned.

"Cruel! Merely because I refuse to be enslaved by any one woman, eaten

up in mind and body and soul, as some of the men I know are? I wasn't

brought up to look upon women as superior beings, and I've never met

one yet to make me want to change my sentiments. They are here for my

convenience and pleasure, and nothing more."

There was silence again.

Lucille sighed.

She knew she had no hold over him other than her sex, and never had

had. Heroics, temper and entreaties had no effect on him whatsoever;

he remained always unmoved and indifferent.

With a shrug she picked out a chocolate from a large box at her side.

Then she changed the conversation.

"What's the business, Raoul? I'd no idea you had any here. I thought

ours was a pleasure trip, purely--or impurely."

"The business is strictly private," he replied, a savage note in his

voice.

A month before, on leaving Paris, when Le Breton had asked Lucille

Lemesurier, the actress, to accompany him on his yacht and spend a week

or so in Grand Canary, it had been for pleasure solely.

But a few days ago a letter had reached him.

A letter to the effect that his enemy, now Sir George Barclay, had been

appointed governor of Gambia. The Sultan Casim Ammeh was waiting in

Grand Canary until certain that his man was _en route_ for his new post.

CHAPTER IV

On the balcony of her bedroom Pansy Langham stood, slim and

boyish-looking in a suit of silk pyjamas.

Beneath, the hotel grounds spread, running down to the shore. Beyond,

the sea stretched, a silver mirror, away to the sparkling, frosty mist

of the horizon. In the milky sky the moon soared, a molten globe,

touching the drooping palms and making their quivering fronds look like

silver fountains. A little line of waves lapped murmurously on the

shore, in a running ridge of white fire. The stone wall edging the

garden was turned into marble. Here and there across the beach the

taller trees threw thick, ebony shadows.

On the whole expanse of silvered sea, only one mark showed like a black

dot in the distance.

Pansy had seen the mark when it had been much nearer the shore; a man's

dark head. He had swum out and out, away into the mist and moonlight.

It was long after midnight. In the whole white world there was no sign

of life except that dark head and the girl on the balcony who was

watching the swimmer.

The black dot grew bigger, as, with powerful overhand strokes, the man

made his way shorewards.

When about two hundred yards away from the beach the strong ease of his

limbs altered suddenly. They grew contorted. He threw up his arms,

and a moment later vanished completely.

Pansy gave a quick gasp of alarm.

But the man appeared again, trying to float, as a level-headed swimmer

does when cramps seize him, in order to get air between the spasms that

send him writhing under water; a hopeless task usually, unless aid is

quickly forthcoming.

For just one second Pansy watched with horror and distress on her face.

Then she turned sharply and vanished into her bedroom. A moment or so

later she was out of the hotel and running swiftly through the silent

garden towards the shore.

To Le Breton out there with the water choking his powerful lungs,

gasping and fighting for his life against a death that only his own

nerve and wit kept at bay, that struggle seemed an eternity.

All at once, he was caught and held from behind, just on the surface of

the water; a slight support, but sufficient to keep him from going

under when the spasms were on.

Unlike the average swimmer in difficulties, he did not snatch at his

unseen rescuer. For all his dire straits he had the presence of mind

to let his preserver alone.

For another ten minutes or more the attack lasted. Then his muscles

unknotted and strength came back to his limbs.

He turned himself over to see who had come to his aid.

Out of the misty moonlit sea a young face looked at him from under a

mop of short curls.

"You didn't come a moment too soon, my boy," he said.

There was a tired look about Pansy, but that did not prevent her

dimpling in an effort not to smile. And to hide her mirth she dived

suddenly and struck out towards the land.

Le Breton struck out too. He reached the shore first.

Pansy, however, did not go in his direction. She turned off and landed

where the shadows were the thickest.

From where the man stood, he saw what looked to be a slim, fragile boy

of about fourteen, who staggered slightly with fatigue as he made

towards the most shadowed pair of steps leading into the hotel grounds.

Quickly Le Breton went towards his rescuer, with the idea of lending a

hand, for it looked as if the boy were thoroughly worn out.

By the time he reached her Pansy was leaning against the wall under

cover of the thickest shadows.

"I'm afraid you've over-exerted yourself on my account," he said in a

solicitous way.

"I don't usually get knocked out so quickly," she replied. "But I had

a nasty accident some weeks ago, and I've not quite recovered yet."

The answer was in French, as fluent and Parisian as his own.

"You must let me help you back to the hotel," he said.

"Oh no, it's not necessary. I shall be all right in a moment."

"What you need, my boy, is a dose of brandy," he remarked. "That would

soon put you right."

Pansy put her hand to her mouth to hide her smiles. Her short hair,

pyjamas, and the shadows had deceived him completely.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," she replied; "but I don't happen to have

any."

"Ring for some, then, when you get back to the hotel."

"I wouldn't dream of disturbing people at this hour of the night," she

said in an indignant tone of voice.

"What else are the servants there for?" he asked in a surprised and

peremptory way.

"They're not there for me to root out of bed at two o'clock in the

morning."

He laughed in an amused manner.

"I'm not so considerate of menials as you appear to be. But tell me

the number of your room and I'll bring you some."

There was a brief pause.

Out from the shadows Pansy scanned the man. She could not see much,

except that he was big and of splendid proportions. But he had a

well-bred air, and his deep voice, if imperious, was pleasant and

cultured.

Then her eyes started to sparkle with mischief.

"My room is number three on the first floor," she said. "Don't knock;

come straight in. I'll leave the door ajar. I don't want to disturb

my neighbours with my midnight prowls."

"Very well. I'll be there in ten minutes or so,"

They parted company, Le Breton going along the shore, Pansy up the

shadowed steps.

On reaching her own room she switched on the light.

Slipping off her sodden garments, she dried herself quickly and put on

a low-necked, short-sleeved, silk nightgown embroidered with purple

pansies. Giving a quick, vigorous rub to her curls, she opened the

door an inch or so. Then she skipped into bed and sat there,

bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, delighted with the surprise she had

prepared for the man.

Unaware of what was in store for him, Le Breton returned to the hotel.

Knowing the place well, he made his way noiselessly along the dim,

deserted corridor towards a door that stood slightly ajar, letting out

a sharp knife of light. He was in shirt and trousers, and in his hand

he carried a small jewelled flask.

Without any preamble he went into the room.

The apartment he entered was a sumptuous one to average eyes, the best

the hotel boasted.

On the wide dressing-table was a litter of silver toilet appointments,

each with a pansy in purple enamel on it.

Le Breton did not give the room a glance.

He had eyes for nothing but the figure sitting up in bed. A figure no

longer in pyjamas--they lay in a wet heap in the middle of the

floor--but in a pretty nightgown; and from beneath a flood of golden

curls wide, purple eyes looked at him, sparkling with innocent mischief.

It was no boy who had come to his assistance, but a girl! A lovely

girl with a full, perfect mouth, vividly red, a milk-white skin and

cheeks where roses bloomed.

He backed slightly and locked the door, as if the situation were one he

was quite accustomed to and equal to dealing with.

"There's no need to lock the door," Pansy said.

"It's on your account, not mine. A little incident of this sort won't

damage my reputation."

"I'd forgotten about my reputation," she said, a note of concern in her

voice. "I only thought about giving you a surprise."

"It is. A most delightful one, too. In fact, I don't think I've ever

experienced anything quite so delightful and unexpected," he responded

drily.

He crossed to the bed, and stood looking at the girl with a critical,

appreciative air. And Pansy looked at him with candid, friendly gaze,

taking stock of him equally.

He struck her as being remarkably good-looking, but his expression was

too arrogant, his mouth too hard; it even had a suspicion of cruelty.

He had an air, too, of having ridden rough-shod over people all his

days. In spite of his well-groomed, well-bred appearance, there was a

suggestion of the wild about him, as if he had never been properly

broken in.

There was a brief silence as the two surveyed one another.

Le Breton was the first to speak, and his remark was of a critical

nature.

"Why do you wear your hair short? It would suit you far better long,

as a woman's hair ought to be."

"I like it short. It's less trouble."

There was a note in her voice as if his or any man's opinion about her

appearance did not worry her in the least; an air of thorough

independence, out of keeping with her years, that he was quick to

notice.

"Do you always do as you like?" he asked.

"Always. It's an excellent habit to cultivate, and one you've

cultivated to the fullest by the look of you, since criticism is the

order of the day," she replied.

Le Breton thought of the desert kingdom he had ruled with undisputed

sway for sixteen years.

"I dare say I do as I like more than most people you've come across,"

he answered with emphasis.

Pansy dimpled.

There was an air about her visitor as if he expected and were

accustomed to people standing in awe of him. However, he did not

inspire her with this feeling, only with a desire to tease and plague

him; he was so big and masterful looking, as if he thought himself

"monarch of all he surveyed," even herself, at that moment.

"Are you in the habit of asking strange men to your bedroom?" he asked

suddenly.

"If I remember rightly, you volunteered to come."

"And now I'm here, what am I supposed to do?"

"To be _most_ surprised. To give me a drink of brandy; and then go,

nicely and quietly, like a good 'boy.'"

An amused look crossed Le Breton's face. Innocent mischief had not

come into his life before.

"I am most surprised," he said. "I flattered myself I could tell a

woman anywhere."

"I'm not a woman, not until next year. So that must account for your

deplorable mistake."

"You look even younger than twenty. Are you English or American?"

"Why can't I have a choice of being either French or Russian or Italian

or Spanish or German?"

"Only an English or an American girl would play this sort of a trick.

Not that I've had any dealings with either. I'd like to hear you were

American."

"What's wrong with being English?"

"I dislike and despise the English," he replied, a latent note of

savagery in his deep voice.

"Then you'll have to dislike and despise me, because I'm one of them."

Pansy stretched out her hand. The action brought into view a network

of disfiguring red ridges and scars on her upper arm, marring an

otherwise perfect limb.

"Please give me a drink," she finished.

The excitement of the surprise she had prepared was dying down, leaving

her looking what she really was--worn out with the exertion of saving

him.

Crossing to the wash-stand, Le Breton picked up a glass. Pouring a

small dose of brandy into it, he added the requisite water and brought

it back to the girl.

Then he seated himself on the bedside, watching her as she drank it.

"What a nasty scar you have on your arm," he remarked, is if any flaw

on such perfection annoyed him.

"I've worse scars here and here," she replied, touching her side and

thigh; "and they don't look at all pretty. 'The Sultan' did them."

He started slightly.

"The Sultan! What Sultan?"

"A brown Sultan. A very nice Sultan, but we understand one another

now."

Le Breton took the girl's arm into his grip with the light, firm,

careful touch of a man who is used to handling women.

"They're the marks of a horse's teeth," he remarked after a brief

survey.

With an air of relief, Pansy held the empty glass towards him.

"Thank goodness that's finished. Now, with your permission, I'll go to

sleep."

He took the glass, placing it on a table near; but he did not move from

his seat on the bedside.

"You must tell me your name," he said.

"You'll find out quite soon enough without my telling you. It's not at

all necessary for me to advertise myself nowadays."

"Won't you tell me?" he asked in a cajoling tone.

Pansy shook her head.

"Then I must find a name for you," he said. "A flower name would suit

you admirably. Let me see, what do you call the flower in English?"

He hesitated.

"Pansy," he finished, after a moment's thought.

"But why 'Pansy' specially?" she asked, smiling at him. "Why not Lily

or Rose or May, since I'm to be given a stupid flower name?"

"There are pansies in your eyes, on your nightgown, on the appointments

of your dressing-table, on your handkerchief here."

With a deeply bronzed hand he touched a scrap of embroidered muslin

that peeped out from beneath her pillow and which had a pansy worked on

it in one corner.

Pansy laughed, amused at his perception.

"Now, I'm too tired to entertain you any longer," she said. "Good

night, and thank you for bringing the brandy."

Le Breton was not accustomed to being dismissed when he was prepared to

stay.'

"Are you really anxious to get rid of me?" he asked.

"Most anxious. I'm dying to go to sleep."

In a reluctant manner he got to his feet.

Stooping over the bed, he gave a caressing pat to the tired, small face.

"Good night, Pansy, little flower," he said softly. "I'll go if you

really want me to, but I'm not in the habit of going unless _I_ want

to."

"What an autocrat you sound! And please--don't forget my reputation.

I can't afford to lose it so early in life."

There was anxiety in the girl's voice, for all her light tone.

"Your reputation will be quite safe with me," he said.

He stood for a moment watching her, an amused expression lurking in his

dark, fiery eyes. Then he turned and, switching off the light, went

noiselessly from the room.

It was not until he had gone that Pansy recollected that he had touched

her twice and she had not minded or reproved him, and usually she very

strongly resented being touched by men. And it was not until Le Breton

reached his villa that he remembered the girl had not even troubled to

ask his name. In fact, once the trick had been played, her only desire

had been to get him out of the room.

CHAPTER V

In one of the private sitting-rooms of the hotel, Miss Grainger was

lolling back in a comfortable wicker chair reading a newspaper.

The door opening made her look round.

A slim, boyish figure entered the room, clad in a well-cut white riding

suit, the neatest of brown boots and leggings, and a white felt hat

pulled well on to a mop of curls.

"You're late starting this morning, Pansy."

"I am. But--last night I saved a man's life."

"Saved a man's life! Really, my dear, what a way you have of springing

surprises on one."

Teasingly Pansy glanced at her old governess.

"Miss Grainger, I must remind you that 'springing surprises' is slang."

Miss Grainger ignored the reprimand.

"But what man did you save, and how did you save him?" she asked in a

slightly bewildered manner.

"I forgot to ask his name. I fished him out of the sea. He had

cramps."

"But he might have dragged you under!" her companion said in a

horrified voice. "I should have thought that last experience of yours

with that awful horse would have taught you not to go diving headlong

into danger."

"'The Sultan' isn't awful. You know it was all a mistake on his part.

Besides, nothing will keep me from 'diving headlong into danger,' as

you call it, when I see things being hurt. It's all part of my silly,

impetuous nature."

"Well, I hope the man was grateful."

"He never even thanked me."

Such gross ingratitude left Miss Grainger aghast.

"My dear!" she exclaimed.

"He thought I was a boy, and when he found I was a girl he was too

astonished to remember his manners," Pansy explained. "But don't say

anything about it to anybody. You know I hate a fuss."

"What was he like?"

"Big and dark and awfully good-looking, with an arrogant, high-handed

manner. He badly needed taking down a peg or two."

"Quite different from Captain Cameron," Miss Grainger suggested.

"Oh, quite. Bob's a kid beside him."

There was a brief pause.

Miss Grainger glanced at the girl.

"Do you know, Pansy, I'm sorry for Captain Cameron."

"So am I," the girl replied, a touch of distress in her voice. "But my

sorrow refuses to blossom into love."

"He's a very good sort."

"I know; but then I'm not given to falling in love."

"Some day you'll find yourself in love before you know it."

Pansy smiled at her old governess in a merry, whole-hearted fashion.

"What a persistent bird of ill-omen you are!" she said.

Then she glanced at the clock.

"Now I'm off. I shan't be back for lunch. So-long," she finished.

She went, leaving Miss Grainger with the feeling of a fresh, sweet

breeze having been wafted through the room.

CHAPTER VI

In the large palm-decked patio of the hotel, Le Breton sat sipping

coffee as he went through the newspapers solicitous waiters had placed

on a table at his elbow. It was not often he came to the hotel, but

when he did the whole staff was at his disposal, for he scattered

largess with a liberal hand. He had lunched there, his gaze wandering

over the crowded dining-room as if in search of someone; and afterwards

he had stayed on.

It was now about three in the afternoon, an hour when the patio was

practically deserted.

As he sat there reading, Pansy entered the big hall, still in breeches

and leggings, just as she had returned from her ride. She would have

passed through the patio without coming within his vision, except that

something about the smooth black head was familiar.

So she changed her route and went in Le Breton's direction instead.

"Have you gotten over your disappointment?" she asked.

In an unperturbed manner he looked round. Then he got to his feet

leisurely, surveying the slim, boyish figure with disapproval.

Pansy stood with her hands deep in her pockets, smiling at him, a smile

that deepened under his lack of appreciation of her attire.

"What disappointment?" he asked.

"Of finding I was a girl you had to be polite to instead of a boy you

could bully."

"I'm inclined to go back to my first impression," he said.

"Don't you like my get-up?"

"Decidedly I do not. Why don't you wear something feminine? Not go

about masquerading as a man."

Adverse criticism rarely came Pansy's way.

She laughed.

"What a back number you are! All women ride in breeches nowadays.

But, since you don't approve of me, come along and see if you like 'The

Sultan' any better. You were most interested in his mark and seal."

There was an air about her as if she never expected to be gainsaid if

she felt like favouring a man, for she turned at once and led the way

towards the main entrance.

Picking up his hat, Le Breton followed.

Once outside, he said:

"I've not yet thanked you for saving my life."

"I couldn't do less than lend a hand," she replied with a casual air.

"It was a risky thing to do. I might have dragged you under."

"Well, you didn't. And we're neither of us any the worse for the

little adventure."

"I hope we shall be all the better. That we shall be excellent

friends," he replied.

Then he drew a leather case from his pocket and held it towards her.

"I've brought you a little memento," he finished.

With inquisitive hands Pansy took the case and snapped it open. Inside

was a string of pearls worth at least L500. He watched the girl as she

opened the case, but none of the coos of delight and surprise at his

generosity, that he expected and was accustomed to under such

circumstances, were forthcoming. Instead, she closed the case and

handed it back to him.

"It's very pretty, and very kind of you to think of it," she said.

"But I couldn't keep it."

To have his gift thrust back on him was the last thing Le Breton was

prepared for or desired.

"Why not?" he asked abruptly.

"I never take presents from men, but I appreciate your kindness all the

same."

He glanced at her, a peculiar look at the back of his eyes.

To get off the topic Pansy hurried forward.

From a building close at hand there came a gentle whinny.

"That's 'The Sultan,'" she remarked. "He hears me coming."

When the stables came into view, over the open door of a box a long

brown head and neck were seen stretched towards the approaching girl.

"I'm going to let him out," she said; "but you mustn't come too close.

He hates strangers; and so should I if I'd been through the hell he's

been through."

Le Breton laughed, as if anyone, more especially the slim girl with

him, telling him to be careful of anything in the shape of a horse had

its intensely funny side.

As Pansy opened the door his glance ran swiftly over the animal.

It was a huge, gaunt beast, a chestnut, with wild, roving eyes; a

great, vicious-looking creature, well on in years and undoubtedly an

old race-horse, for speed was written all over it. And on it, too,

were scars and weals that spoke of past ill-treatment.

Pansy kissed its soft nose, and patted and stroked it and pulled its

ears; and the great animal fawned on her.

Then she led it out, keeping a tight grip on its mane. For it bared

its teeth at Le Breton, and stood shivering and expectant, as if

suspecting every man's hand to be against it.

He, however, ignored its attentions and came closer. But it swung

round and lashed at him with iron heels.

"Oh, do be careful! Don't come so close," Pansy cried.

In spite of its snarls and the iron hoofs, she kept her grip on its

mane. But neither teeth nor hoofs, were in her direction.

Ignoring her entreaties, Le Breton came closer, all the time talking to

the horse gently in a strange language.

The animal seemed to recognize a friend. It quietened down suddenly,

and stretched a long neck in his direction. Still talking, he patted

and stroked it. The horse submitted to his attentions, and before many

moments had passed was rubbing its nose against him.

All interest, Pansy watched the two make friends.

"What are you saying to him?" she asked. "Usually he won't let a

stranger near him."

"I was talking to him in the language all race-horses

understand--Arabic," he replied. "But how did you come by such a

brute?"

The animal was of the type only the most hardened of stable-men could

handle; the very last horse for a girl to ride.

"I dropped across him quite by accident."

Le Breton thought of the scars he had seen on the girl's arm, and he

had heard there were others and worse beyond his view.

"I should say it was 'by accident,'" he remarked drily. "I'd like to

hear the story."

Pansy patted the big horse fondly.

"We met in a London slum," she said. "I happened to be passing a

stable yard when I heard a noise like a horse being hurt or frightened,

and men laughing. So I opened the gate and went in. There was poor

old Sultan tied up in one corner and half a dozen roughs baiting him,

all the time taking good care not to get within his reach, for he was

almost mad with terror and rage and ill-treatment. I told them what I

thought, and in the telling I got too close to 'The Sultan,' and he

grabbed me by the arm. In ten minutes he had made such a mess of me

that it took a month to patch me up. And the men were such cowards

that they never tried to rescue me. It was 'The Sultan' himself who

seemed to realise he'd set on his best friend, for he stopped chewing

me, and stood sniffing at me, and let me crawl away. And I didn't

remember anything more until I found myself back home. Then I

remembered the poor horse left to the mercy of those cruel wretches;

and I sent someone along to buy him and take him away from his awful

surroundings. It was so obvious he had known better days, although he

had sunk right down to dragging some East End coal higgler's cart. The

first time I was allowed out I went to his paddock and had a look at

him. And I'm sure he knew me. He stretched his long neck over the

gate and sniffed and snuffed at me and seemed quite

conscience-stricken. At the end of a fortnight I was on his back, and

now I take him everywhere I go, as he gets worried if he doesn't see me

about. He can't believe his awful days are over unless I'm here to

reassure him."

As Pansy told the tale she leant against the big horse; and she told it

as if her own hurts were nothing.

"And you took him into your favour after he had treated you so

abominably!" Le Breton said.

"I couldn't be hard on him for what was the result of his awful

surroundings."

"You are very magnanimous."

Pansy smiled.

"You'll forgive me for not accepting that pretty necklace, won't you?"

she asked.

"Some day, when we know each other better, you'll honour me by

accepting it," he said.

He spoke to the girl now as if she were his equal, not just some pretty

toy he happened to have fancied.

"I never take anything from men--except perhaps a few flowers."

There was a subtle contempt for his sex in her voice which Le Breton

was quick to note.

"So you despise men?"

"Not that exactly, but I've had rather an overdose of them. Since I've

been here, Sultan and I go off early every morning usually, and are

miles away before there are any men about to bother us."

With this Pansy turned and led the horse back to its box.

"Now," she said, when this was done, "I mustn't keep you. Good-bye,

and I'm glad you're none the worse for last night."

Again Le Breton was dismissed when he would have lingered. And on this

second meeting she still had not troubled to ask his name.

There was a curious glint in his eyes as they rested on the slim,

white, indifferent figure of the girl who was making her way back to

the hotel without a further glance in his direction.

CHAPTER VII

At six o'clock in the morning the road that joins the port and the city

of Las Palmas shows very little sign of the peaceful English invasion.

It is given over to the Islanders. To peasant women with baskets of

produce on their heads; to men driving donkeys laden with fruit and

vegetables, and creaking bullock carts.

The early morning was Pansy's favourite time; the world was a place of

dew and brightness with the sun glinting gold on sandy hills and air

that sparkled like champagne.

She trotted along on her big horse towards the white city, its flat

roofs, low houses and palms giving it an oriental aspect. Biding

through the town, she crossed a wide bridge and went upwards through a

grove of palms, past banana gardens, into a deserted world, with a blue

sky overhead and an endless stretch of sea behind.

As she mounted higher, the hill grew vine-clad, and great ragged

eucalyptus trees stood in tatters by the roadside. Here and there was

a stunted pine, the deep green of a walnut tree, a clump of bamboo, a

palm and occasionally, a great patch of prickly cacti, whose flaming

flowers stood out red against a dazzling day.

She rode without spurs or whip, when necessary urging her horse with

hand and voice only.

A village was reached, where black-browed men in slouch hats and

blanket cloaks lounged in groups, smoking and gossiping, and swarthy

women with bright handkerchiefs around their heads stared at the girl

astride the big horse.

In the dust of the road a little group of half-clad, bare-footed

children dragged a trio of unfortunate lizards along by strings around

their necks, and screamed with delight at the writhings of the tortured

reptiles.

The sight brought a look of distress to Pansy's face.

Reining in her horse, she slipped of and went towards the group.

In indifferent Spanish she gave a brief lecture on cruelty. There was

a sprinkling of small coins, and the lizards changed owners.

Pansy stooped. Loosening the strings from their soft throats, she

picked them out of the dust. They were pretty, harmless little things,

each about eighteen inches long and bright green in colour, that hung

limp in her gentle hands, and looked at her with tortured eyes.

Holding them carefully, she went back to her horse, and with the reins

over her arm, made her way through the village.

Once well out of sight of the place, she seated herself on a bank at

the side of the road, and laid the three limp little forms on a warm,

flat, sunny rock. Then she tried to coax them back to life and their

normal state of bright friskiness.

As she sat rubbing, with a gentle forefinger, their soft, panting

throats, crooning over them with pitying words, too intent on her task

to notice what was going on around her, a deep voice said with an

unexpectedness that made her jump:

"They'll do exactly the same with the next lizards they catch."

She looked round quickly.

In the middle of the road, mounted on a huge black horse, was the man

whose life she had saved.

Pansy's gaze rested on him for a moment before she replied. He made

such a picture on the black horse, with his strong, sunburnt face and

well-cut khaki riding suit; the most perfect combination of horse and

man she had ever seen.

"I know they will," she said. "But still, I've done my best for these

three."

"Do you always try to do your best for everything that comes your way,

Pansy?" he asked tenderly.

"Only a few privileged people are allowed to call me 'Pansy,'" she said

tartly.

"What else can I call you, since you refuse to tell me your name?"

"You mean to say you haven't found out yet?" she exclaimed.

"I never gossip," he replied in a haughty tone.

"I don't know yours," she answered, "so we're what is called in English

'quits.'"

"What exactly does 'quits' mean? I don't know much English."

As Pansy petted the lizards she explained the meaning of the word.

During the explanation one of her proteges recovered, and darted off in

a most thankless manner into a crevice in the rocks.

"My name is Le Breton," he said when he had grasped her meaning.

"Raoul Le Breton."

Pansy stared at him.

She had surprised him on the occasion of their first meeting, but he

had turned the tables on her.

During her stay in Teneriffe she had heard of Raoul Le Breton. He was

a French millionaire, an African merchant prince, so rumour said.

She had had a feeling that he had followed her that morning, and she

was inclined to be angry about it. Now she saw that if he sought her

out, it was not from mercenary motives, since he was quite as wealthy

as she was. What was more he had no idea who she was.

"I'm always interested in millionaires," she said, a mischievous glint

in her eyes.

"All women are," he responded grimly.

"But you're not the only millionaire in the islands," she remarked.

"So I've gathered. There is, or was, one here quite recently. An

Englishwoman of the name of Langham. I detest women with money. They

are invariably ugly and conceited."

Pansy laughed--a ripple of sheer enjoyment.

"Perhaps their independence annoys you," she suggested. "I believe

you're what is known as the 'masterful' type."

With that, her attention went back to the lizards.

Dismounting, Le Breton came to her side.

"You speak French remarkably well," he commented, as the moments passed

and no notice was taken of him.

"I was educated in Paris."

She glanced at him, her eyes brimming with mischief, and, as she

glanced, another of her proteges frisked thanklessly away.

"Wouldn't you like to know my name?" she asked.

"At present it's sufficient that you are 'Pansy.' 'Heart's Ease,'

don't you say in English?"

"I wish I could ease this one poor little beast," she said, touching

the remaining lizard. "But I fear it's hurt beyond redemption."

Stooping he picked up the little reptile and examined it. It hung limp

in his grasp; a hopeless case.

"The best thing to do with it is to kill it," he commented.

"Oh, I couldn't," she said quickly.

But it appeared he could. He went some distance away from the girl and

placed the lizard on a flat rock. In a moment he had ground all

tortured life out of it with his heel.

"Thank you," she said gratefully. "I knew it was suffering, but I

couldn't have done that to save my life. As a reward, will you come

and have breakfast with me?"

"There's nothing I should like better," he answered.

Pansy got to her feet.

He helped her to mount. Then he rode at her side up the hill.

"I love the clear heights," she remarked presently.

"I don't know much about them. The miry depths are more in my line,"

he replied.

Critically she surveyed him.

"You don't look so specially muddy."

"No? What do I look like--to you?" he asked, a caressing note in his

voice.

"Very proud, very passionate, very strong, and as if you could be

cruel."

"Then I can't look very attractive," he said, smiling slightly.

"Being proud is all right, so long as it makes you too proud to do mean

things."

"And what about the passionate?" he asked, "since you're making excuses

for me.

"I don't know anything about it."

"Well, what about my being strong then?"

"I don't like men unless they are."

"And the cruelty?"

"I hate it."

"Life sometimes combines to make people cruel who otherwise might not

be," he remarked, as if unaccustomed to finding excuses for himself.

"You can't judge a person fairly until you know all that has gone to

form their character."

Pansy patted her gaunt steed.

"I know that," she said, "that's why I stuck to 'The Sultan' when my

friends tried to persuade me to have him shot. There's a lot in his

life that I don't know. These marks tell me that."

She pointed to the various old scars on the animal.

"Now you shall see what 'The Sultan' can do," she went on. "I'll race

you to the farm over there, where breakfast is waiting," she finished,

pointing to a green patch away in the distance.

A touch of her spurless heel sent the gaunt beast flying along the

dusty, deserted road, in a long, loping gallop that grew more and more

rapid, egged on by the sound of another horse persistently at his heels.

Pansy had not expected that her escort would be able to keep up with

her. No horse she had met could keep pace with her protege. At the

end of half a mile she had been prepared to rein up and wait for Le

Breton.

But at the end of a mile he was a length behind her. And at the end of

two he was there just the same.

Pansy tired before either the man or the horses.

"Oh!" she panted, as Le Breton drew up beside her. "I wasn't trained

as a jockey."

"You didn't get away from me quite so easily as you expected," he

remarked with curious emphasis.

"I didn't know there was a horse in the Islands to touch 'The Sultan,'

in spite of his years."

"This horse I'm on has won several races in Paris. And you challenged

me, Pansy, without pausing to consider what you might be let in for,"

he said, watching her in a fierce, fond manner.

"I always leap before I look. It's my besetting sin," she replied.

Then she pointed to a side track, leading to a low building, half

white-washed mud, half timber.

"That's the way to my farm," she said. "But I don't know that my

breakfast will appeal to millionaires."

"Don't thrust that down my throat just now," he answered. "I want to

see life from your point of view."

The farm they were approaching was a tiny place, with a spreading

garden where orange and fig trees grew. In one corner a little

summer-house stood, wreathed with red roses, that gave a wide view of

the island and a glimpse of the sea.

Evidently Pansy was expected. A coarse white cloth was spread on the

table in the summer-house, and it was set with thick crockery and

leaden-looking forks and spoons.

Leaving Le Breton to attend to the horses, she made her way to the tiny

homestead, to announce her presence and the fact of a guest.

Then she passed on towards the summer-house.

Tossing her hat on a seat, she sat with the light glinting on her

golden curls, her elbows on the table, watching the scene dreamily, in

a frame of red roses.

This vision of her greeted Le Breton as he turned the corner, bringing

a hungry glint to his eyes.

Breakfast proved a simple repast.

There was a thick jug full of coffee, another of milk, a large omelet,

a dish of fruit, rolls, butter and honey.

"Now," she said when it was set before them, "how do you like your

coffee?"

"As it should be according to the orientals--black as sin, hot as hell,

sweet as--love," he finished, lingering over the word.

She poured his out, and handed it to him, black as he desired.

"I can get on very well without either the sin or the love," she

remarked as she helped herself to a cup that was mostly milk, and with

no sugar in it.

"I thought all girls liked sweet things and lived for love," he said as

he set about serving the omelet.

"There's a lot more in life for women nowadays than love."

"Being in love is a woman's normal condition," he said in a forcible,

dogmatic manner.

Pansy smiled.

"I always thought you had come out of the Ark, and now I'm sure of it.

You've got such antiquated, early Victorian ideas about women. They

mustn't wear knickers. They must always be yearning after some mere

male. Very flattering to him, I'm sure," she finished, wrinkling a

disdainful nose.

Le Breton's gaze rested on the vivid, beautiful little face, with the

full, perfect, generous mouth, telling of an unselfish, disinterested

nature that would love swiftly and deeply.

"Some day you'll find yourself in love before you know it," he

commented.

"So other people have said. And it makes me horribly nervous at times.

Like a blind man walking on the edge of a precipice."

"So long as you fell in love with a man who could appreciate you, it

would be all right,--a man sufficiently versed in women to know you

have qualities beyond your beauty to recommend you."

With some surprise Pansy glanced at him.

A soft heart lay beneath her light manner. Quite half her income was

spent for the benefit of others. She wondered how he knew about these

"qualities," considering their brief acquaintance. And she wondered,

too, why she was sitting there discussing love with him; a subject she

never would let any man approach, if it could be avoided. She put it

down to the fact that her identity was unknown to him, and she could

talk to him freely, knowing her millions were no temptation.

"One thing," she said mischievously, "money will never attract me.

I've no expensive tastes. I like views and flowers and sunsets. Moons

and stars and seas and sago pudding. Horses and chocolates and--my own

way. All things that don't require a tremendous income."

There was a brief silence.

In a calculating manner Le Breton watched her. She was a new type to

him; a girl who could not be approached in the way most women could

be--by the easy route of costly presents.

The air was heavy with the scent of roses. In the distance a guitar

was playing; a throb of melody, faint and seductive, that fed the

craving in the man's heart.

Pansy glanced at him.

"How quiet you are all at once. What are you thinking about?"

"Ways and means," he replied, smiling slightly.

"I thought only hard-up people were troubled in that way."

"The trouble with me now is that I want something which I fear can't be

bought with money."

"What an unpleasant position for a millionaire to be in. Still, it

makes you 'realise your limitations,' as an old governess of mine used

to say."

She paused for a moment, watching him with an air of subtle mockery.

"And, Mr. Le Breton, it won't do you any harm to have to go without a

few of the things you want. There's a look about you as if you always

had things too much your own way."

"I'm not so sure yet that I'm going to do without it. Fortunately I

have two other courses left open to me--persuasion and power," he

replied.

"Power! I thought that was the prerogative of kings."

Le Breton said nothing. He knew if this English girl had any idea who

he was, she would not be sitting there talking to him so freely.

Although he was the Sultan of El-Ammeh, in the eyes of her nation he

was a "nigger."

There was a further silence which Pansy broke.

"What made you swim out all those miles the other night?" she asked.

"I get moods when I want to lose the earth and find a heaven to my own

liking."

"What sort of heaven would that be?"

"Where there would be only one houri, and she all-sufficing."

"A houri? Why that's a sort of Mohammedan angel-woman."

Evidently Le Breton was in a confessional mood, for he said:

"Nowadays I often wonder what use my life is. There's no pleasure in

it except, perhaps--women."

"So long as it's 'women,' it's all right. The trouble starts when it

comes to--'woman.'"

These words from the innocent girl's lips made him laugh.

"Who told you that?" he asked.

"Captain Cameron. He likes to pose as an authority on such subjects."

"And who is Captain Cameron?"

There was a suspicion of jealousy in Le Breton's voice.

"At present he's possessed with a demon of tennis. But when the devil

has been cast out, he's my father's secretary."

"And how can the devil be cast out?"

"There's no really permanent cure, but it can be assuaged _pro tem_, if

he meets someone who can beat him. In Teneriffe, he carried all before

him. And he's coming over here to-morrow to beat all the local

champions. He's one of the few people I really like. I've known him

all my life."

These remarks of hers had the effect of reducing Le Breton to silence

again.

CHAPTER VIII

In the library of the villa, Le Breton sat alone. The hour was late,

getting on to midnight. He was stretched in a deep chair smoking, his

gaze fixed on a desk close by, on which was a wide, shallow, crystal

bowl full of water where half a dozen purple pansies floated.

As he sat there indulging in some dream of his own, a door opened and

he looked round sharply, by no means pleased at being roused from his

reverie. The room was his special sanctum; no one was supposed to

enter without his permission.

In the doorway Lucille stood, in a foamy white dressing-gown, her

wealth of red hair in two thick ropes down her back.

On seeing her, a look of suppressed annoyance crossed his face.

"What is it?" he asked in a none too cordial tone.

She crossed to his side, and stood looking down at him anxiously.

"What has happened to you the last two days?" she asked.

"Happened to me! What do you mean?"

"You've been so very indifferent."

"Was I ever particularly effusive?"

She laid her hand on his sleeve with a lingering, caressing touch.

"I see nothing of you now except at meals," she said.

With an impatient gesture he drew his arm away.

"I'm not always in the mood for women," he said coldly.

"Perhaps it would be nearer the truth if you said some other woman has

taken your fancy," she suggested.

There was no reply.

Le Breton got to his feet and crossed to the desk, standing there with

his back to her as if he resented her presence.

It was most obvious to Lucille that she was not welcome.

"What is this new fancy of yours like?" she asked in a hurt, jealous

tone.

He made no answer, but his very back oozed annoyance.

"What's her price, Raoul?" she asked in a wild manner. "Is it emeralds

or pearls or diamonds? Or is she one whose price is above rubies?"

He faced round suddenly, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Be quiet, woman!" he said savagely.

She laughed hysterically.

"So she's something too good for me to talk about, is she? Does she

know of all your gay doings in Paris?"

"Oh, you women!" he ejaculated contemptuously. "Can you never learn

the virtue of silence?"

In an angry manner he went from the room, leaving Lucille in

possession. She watched him until the door closed. Then she sank down

into the chair he had vacated and stayed there with bowed head, weeping

bitterly.

CHAPTER IX

At a spot about ten miles away from Las Palmas there are some

well-known orange groves. Stretch upon stretch of scented trees, they

made a lattice-work of smooth boughs and shiny leaves overhead, with a

glint of blue sky here and there. The ground was strewn with white

petals, and clusters of white blossoms made fragrant the gilded

greenness. A glimpse of the sea could be had, and the waves filled the

air with a constant, soft, distant murmur.

At one spot in the scented grove preparations had been made for an

elaborate picnic. Piles of soft silk cushions were set upon the

ground. On a cloth of finest linen was spread an array of frail china

and heavy silver, with here and there some golden dish holding dainties.

Two impassive men with lean, brown faces, clad in flowing white robes,

stood near. Beyond all view of the feast came a faint rattle of pots

and pans, and a little wavering column of smoke rose from a fire where

breakfast was being prepared.

When Pansy had come down the hotel steps for her usual early morning

ride she had not been very surprised to find Le Breton there waiting

for her.

She had had a wide experience of men and their ways, and she knew what

she called "the symptoms." Generally "the symptoms" annoyed her; she

felt they had more to do with her money than herself. But Le Breton's

case was different. She knew who he was, but he had no idea of her

identity.

"I'm going to take you out for breakfast this time," he said on seeing

her.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To the orange groves beyond Telde."

They had ridden through the white city, and then on, skirting the

coast, past banana plantations, cindery-looking cliffs and a lava bed

where the poisonous euphorbia grew, ten to twelve feet high, stiff and

straight, like gigantic candelabras.

"I was thinking about you last night," Pansy remarked once, between

their canters. "What you said about the miry depths. And I remember

having read somewhere that water can always reach to the level it rises

from. When people get into the depths they should remember that; it'll

help them to scramble out."

The miry depths of dissipation into which he occasionally plunged had

never troubled Le Breton in the least. He was not actively aware that

they did now, although he hoped that Pansy would not get to hear of

them. But it was all part of the girl's nature to have ready the

helpful hand.

"So, Pansy," he said, "having saved my body, you're now after my soul."

"Oh no, I'm not a missionary! But if you like people, there's no harm

in giving them a word in season."

He brought his horse closer, and bent towards the girl.

"So you like me?" he said in a caressing tone.

"I shouldn't be here if I didn't," she answered candidly.

"And what if I say I like _you_?" he asked, laughing softly.

"I should say it's very nice of you, considering you know nothing at

all about me."

"I can see you are beautiful. I know your heart is kind.

Circumstances have shown me you are not mercenary. What more could I

wish to know about you? Isn't the combination enough to attract any

man?"

"Considering you are French, you've missed the vital point," she said

demurely. "You haven't said anything about a _dot_."

"No man in his senses would want a _dot_ with you."

"He wouldn't get much money out of my father, anyhow," she said. "He's

a poor man who has to work hard for his living; and I love him better

than anyone in the whole wide world."

"I'd like to meet him," Le Breton remarked.

"So you will, if you behave yourself. He's coming out here very soon."

"What constitutes behaving myself?" he asked. "People have never

complained of my behaviour so far."

Pansy knew he was arrogant and overbearing. By his own telling, she

guessed he was inclined to be wild. She suspected him of having little

or no respect for women, although he had been unfailingly courteous to

her.

"I might complain if I had much to do with you, though," she said.

"It would be refreshing, to say the least," he remarked, with a slight

smile hovering on his lips. "And what would you complain of

especially?"

"You need a lot of reforming in quite a few ways."

"Tell me, and I'll endeavour to mould myself according to your ideals,"

he said with laughter.

"You know you're very well pleased with yourself as you are."

"But I'm even better pleased with you, Pansy," he answered, watching

her with glowing gaze.

This Pansy knew quite well. To get off the topic, she touched her

horse lightly and broke into a canter. For it seemed to her "the

symptoms" were coming to a head even more rapidly than she had expected.

When the edge of the orange grove was reached, a couple of white-robed

men came forward to take their horses--dark men, with hawk-like faces,

lean and sun-scorched, who bowed low before her escort with the utmost

servility.

"They look like Arabs," Pansy said.

"They are Arabs; some of my servants from Africa. I generally have

half a dozen with me."

It seemed to Pansy the whole half-dozen were in the grove, ready to

wait on her.

No sooner was she settled among the cushions than one of the servants

placed a little box before her, about six inches long and four wide: a

costly trifle made of beaten gold, inlaid with flat emeralds and rubies.

"Is it Pandora's box?" she asked, picking it up and examining it with

curiosity.

"It and the contents are for you," Le Breton replied.

She turned the tiny golden key. Inside, three purple pansies reposed

on a nest of green moss, smiling up at her with velvety eyes.

"I'll have the contents," she said. "The box you can keep for another

time."

With slim white fingers she picked out the pansies and tucked them into

her coat.

"Still only a few flowers, Pansy?" he said, annoyed, yet pleased that

her friendship was disinterested. "Suggest something else that you

would accept."

"Breakfast," she said promptly. "I'm dying of hunger."

A sumptuous feast was spread for her benefit, served in gold and

jewel-encrusted dishes; an array of the most expensive luxuries. If Le

Breton's idea had been to impress her with his wealth and magnificence,

he failed. It seemed to pass her by unnoticed; for Pansy was much more

interested in his Arab servants, the grove, the distant view of the

sea, than any of the regal extravagance immediately before her.

When the meal was over she sat, wistful and dreamy-looking, listening

to the sigh of the sea.

For some moments Le Breton watched her. Just then her mood appeared

very out of keeping with her boyish attire.

"I'd like to see you dressed in something really feminine," he remarked

presently.

"What's your idea of something 'really feminine?'" she inquired.

"Just one garment, a robe that would come from your shoulders to your

knees, loose and clinging, soft and white, with a strap of pearls to

hold it on."

"It sounds draughty," she commented; "and it might show my horrid

scars."

"It would suit you admirably."

"And, I suppose, it would suit you admirably, too, to be lying about on

cushions with me so attired waiting on you," she said quickly.

"Bringing you sherbet and hubble-bubbles, or whatever you call those

big pipe things that men smoke in Eastern pictures and on cigar-box

lids. And I shouldn't dare call my soul my own. I should tremble at

your look. That one garment would place me at a terrible disadvantage."

"I might not be a severe task-master. I might only ask you to do one

thing."

"And what would that be?"

"In English, I could say it in two words; spell it in six letters."

Pansy darted a quick look at him, and a little mocking smile came and

hovered on her mouth.

She was too accustomed to men and their ways not to guess what the two

words that could be spelt in six letters were.

She sat quiet for a moment or two, an impish look on her face. Then

she rattled off a riddle in English:--

"My first is in apple, but not in pie,

My second is in do, but not in die,

My third is in veal, but not in ham,

My fourth is in sheep, but not in lamb,

My fifth is in morning, but not in night,

My sixth is in darkness, but not in light,

My whole is just a word or two,

Which is known to me as well as to you."

Le Breton knew more English than he pretended, but riddles did not

often come his way.

"Say it again slowly," he requested.

Pansy repeated her composition.

He stored it up in his mind, deciding to go into the matter later on

when there was no lovely little face, dimpled with mischief, looking at

him teasingly from beneath a halo of golden curls.

Soon after this Pansy glanced at her wrist watch.

"I mustn't stay any longer," she said, getting to her feet.

"It's not nine o'clock yet," he remarked. "I didn't hurry away from

you so quickly yesterday."

This Pansy knew quite well.

He had sat on, and on, with her in the summer-house with the red roses,

and she had been pleased to let him stay. In fact, it had been

afternoon before they had come down to earth again.

"Captain Cameron is coming this morning," she said. "And I promised to

be on the quay to meet him."

So saying, she turned towards the spot where the horses were waiting,

leaving him to follow or not as he liked.

Pansy wanted to linger in the grove with Raoul Le Breton as she had

been pleased to stay with him among the red roses on the previous day;

but she decided the mood was not one to be encouraged, especially

considering his desire for the two words, containing in all six

letters, and her own desire for untrammelled liberty.

CHAPTER X

Under the trees that shadowed one corner of the tennis-courts of the

hotel a couple stood. One was a young man of about twenty-four, in

white flannel trousers and shirt-sleeves, who held a tennis racket in

one hand and a couple of balls in the other. He was of medium height,

fresh and fair and boyish looking.

At his side Pansy stood, in short skirt and blouse and Panama hat.

"Well, old pal, is there anything doing yet?" he was asking cheerfully.

"There's nothing doing, Bob, much as I try."

"Anyhow, it's a standing order," he said.

"I know; and I'm doing my best," she said. "I try to go to bed every

night with your name on my lips, but more frequently I go with a yawn.

All for the sake of the 'dear dead days beyond recall.'"

"Which ones especially?" Cameron inquired.

"When I was five and you were nine, and we were all the world to one

another."

"In the days of my 'dim and distant' youth I learnt a rotten poem, from

dire necessity, not choice, you bet. About some bore of a Scotch king

and a spider, and the chorus or the moral, I've forgotten which, ran,

'If at first you don't succeed, try again.' Perseverance, Pansy. It's

a wonderful thing. You'll find yourself there in the end."

Pansy smiled a trifle wistfully at the boy she had known all her life,

who always gave her nonsense for nonsense, and, incidentally, his heart.

"Bob, I wish I could love you," she said, suddenly grave.

Smiling at her, he started juggling with the two balls.

"So the spirit is willing, etc.?" he responded. "Well, I shall go on

hoping for a triumph of mind over matter."

For some reason Pansy felt intensely sorry for her old playmate.

She caught herself making comparisons, and something within her

suddenly whispered that they would never be more than friends,

something she did not quite realise--some change that had taken place

within herself since they had parted in Teneriffe only a week before.

CHAPTER XI

Raoul Le Breton took Pansy's riddle home to solve. He went about it in

his own private sanctum. Seating himself at the desk, he wrote out the

verse, with a French-English dictionary, making sure his spelling was

correct. Then he set out to find the solution.

He was not long in doing so.

Afterwards he sat on, gazing at the pansies in the crystal bowl on the

desk, a tender look on his arrogant face.

A daring little creature, that beautiful English girl, frank as the boy

she looked in her riding suit, with attractions beyond those of her sex

and beauty; a courage that roused his admiration; a kindness that moved

his heart; a disinterestedness sweet as it was novel; an ability to

touch parts of his being no woman had touched before, and with a subtle

something about her that brought him an ease of spirit he rarely

experienced. "Heart's Ease," truly!

As he brooded on Pansy he forgot his vengeance--that he was only

waiting in Grand Canary until quite certain Sir George Barclay was on

his way to Gambia.

He thought only of the velvety-eyed girl who had answered him so deftly

and laughingly.

The riddle had told him the one thing he would ask her to do; his two

words, spelt with six letters:

"Love me."

The fact sent Le Breton to the hotel that evening for an interview with

the verse-maker.

The place was a blaze of light and a crash of music. In the big patio

the usual bi-weekly dance was taking place, and a crowd of people

disported themselves to the strains of a ragtime band.

Le Breton made a striking figure in evening clothes, and more than one

woman glanced at him with invitation. He took no notice of them. All

he wanted was a slim girl with a mop of short, dancing, golden curls.

The room was so crowded that he could get no glimpse of his quarry,

although he altered his point of view several times.

At the end of half an hour he decided to take a turn round the grounds.

The garden was soft with moonlight, filled with a misty brightness, and

the palms hung limp and sighing. From beyond the wall came the murmur

of the sea. Syringa and roses filled the night with perfume. At one

spot a fountain sang sweetly to itself.

There Le Breton lingered with the moonlight and the ebony shadows, the

tropical trees sighing languorously around him.

As he waited there, deep in some reverie of his own, the sound of

footsteps reached him. Then, from an adjacent path, voices talking in

English--a man's thick, low, and protesting, then a girl's clear and

indignant.

"When did I encourage you?" she asked, her voice raised in righteous

anger. "Once you brought me a cup of tea I didn't want. Twice you

mixed my books and papers with somebody else's. I was three times your

partner at Bridge, and that wasn't any fault of mine. I defy you to

mention more encouragement than that. Go to your woman with red hair,

and don't talk nonsense to me."

The man's voice came again. Then there was a little cry of anger and

the sound of a struggle.

The girl's voice brought Le Breton out of his reverie. He knew it,

although he could not follow a quarter of what was said. But the

little cry and the subsequent scuffle sent him quickly in that

direction.

He saw Pansy struggling vainly to get away from a short, thick-set man

with a red face and fishy eyes, who held her by one bare arm.

Le Breton was not long in covering the distance that lay between

himself and the couple. His coming made Pansy's persecutor let go

quickly, and make off. The girl had been struggling with all her might

to escape from his coarse, hot grip. And she was too intent on getting

out of an undesirable situation even to notice that someone's approach

was responsible for her sudden freedom.

The force of her struggles sent her staggering backwards, right on Le

Breton. His arm went round her. He held her pressed against him, his

hand on her heart.

It seemed to Pansy, she had gotten out of the frying-pan into the fire.

Quivering with indignation she looked up. Then she laughed in a

tremulous manner.

"Oh, it's you, is it? I wondered who else was on my trail."

"You ought not to be out at night alone," he said severely. "A

beautiful girl is a temptation to any man."

"I'm no temptation. It's my money. He likes women with red hair."

Le Breton scanned Pansy more closely.

He had noticed she was dressed in white, but with her unexpectedly in

his arms he had not troubled to look further.

She was wearing a dress of chiffon, light as air, vague as moonlight,

that clung about her like a mist, caught up here and there with tiny

diamond buckles which made the garment look as if studded with

dewdrops. And on a thin platinum chain about her neck was hung one

great sparkling drop of light.

Le Breton knew real gems when he saw them, and that one diamond alone

was worth a fortune.

He bent his proud head, until his lips just touched the fluff of golden

curls.

"Who are you really, Pansy?" he asked softly.

"You despise and dislike me already, so why should I get further into

your black books?"

"I, despise and dislike you?"

"You said you disliked all the English."

"I'm quite willing to make an exception in your favour."

"When you learn the truth you'll 'detest' me."

"Never!" he said emphatically.

"Well then, I'm 'that woman of the name of Langham.'"

"You!" he exclaimed.

Then he laughed.

"Pansy, you're a little creature of rare surprises."

The surprise held him silent for some moments. Or else it was

sufficient to have the girl there, unresisting against his heart.

Up till now Pansy had avoided all male arms as far as it was possible

for a girl who was beautiful, wealthy and light-hearted. Whenever

caught she had wriggled out indignantly.

From the arm that held her now she made no attempt to escape. A

fearsome fascination lay within its embrace. It seemed that he would

have but to close the hand that rested on her bosom, and her heart

would be in his grip, snatched out of her keeping before she knew it.

Suddenly it dawned on Pansy that if she stayed there much longer she

would want to stay for ever.

One by one she lifted the sinewy, brown fingers from her dress, holding

them in one hand as she went about her task with the other.

With a slight smile Le Breton watched her. But when the last of his

fingers was removed, she was still a prisoner, held secure within his

arm.

Then Pansy descended to strategy.

"Mr. Le Breton, will you lend me your handkerchief?" she asked in a

mild tone.

"Why do you want it?" the voice of the master demanded.

"To dip it in the fountain there and wash my arm. It feels all horrid

and nasty and clammy where that odious man touched it," she said meekly.

The sentiment was one Le Breton approved of and sympathised with.

Letting her go, he drew out his handkerchief.

Taking it, Pansy turned towards the fountain. He followed and stood

beside her, obviously waiting until her task was finished before

carrying the situation further.

As Pansy scrubbed away at her arm, she kept a rather nervous eye on him.

When the task was completed, she screwed the handkerchief up into a

loose, wet ball. But she did not throw it on the ground as Le Breton

expected and was waiting for her to do, before taking her into his arms

again.

Instead, she threw it into his face.

It took him by surprise; an indignity that had not come his way

hitherto. People were not in the habit of throwing wet handkerchiefs

with stinging force into the face of the Sultan Casim Ammeh.

The force and wetness temporarily blinded him. He was perhaps ten

seconds in recovering his sight and his dignity.

Then he looked for the girl.

She was running as fast as she could away from him, down a misty,

moonlit path, in her chiffon and diamonds looking a shimmer of

moonlight and sparkling dew herself.

Pansy's only desire just then was to get out of the white, romantic

moonlit world with its scents and sighs and seductive murmurs, back to

one of electric light and ragtime, where there was no Raoul Le Breton

looking at her gravely, with glowing eyes.

He had suddenly become a startling menace to her cherished liberty,

this big, dark man with his masterful air and high-handed ways.

Whatever he said she would have to listen to. Perhaps even--agree with!

CHAPTER XII

Le Breton did not run after the girl. He watched her go, with a

feeling that he could afford to bide his time. But at six o'clock the

next morning he was round at the hotel waiting for Pansy to come for

her usual ride.

However, there was no sign of her either that morning or the following.

In fact, it was not until the afternoon of the second day that he saw

anything of her.

A tennis tournament was taking place at the hotel. Le Breton went

feeling sure Pansy would be there, and incidentally, to find out what

Captain Cameron, the local tennis champion, was like.

He saw a fresh-faced youngster, decidedly better-looking than the rest

of the men there, but too much like the girl herself ever to be able to

hold her.

Then he looked for Pansy.

She was seated with a group of acquaintances, awaiting her turn on the

courts.

On seeing Le Breton, she vouchsafed him a smile and a nod, but no

further attention.

After a three days' tournament, Cameron emerged victor, but Le Breton

had managed to get no word with Pansy. Whenever he came within

speaking distance she edged away, taking cover behind someone. To

catch her was like setting a trap to catch a moonbeam.

At the end of the tournament word went round that a rank outsider had

challenged the victor.

"Who is it, Bob?" Pansy asked when the news reached her.

Cameron pointed with his racket across the court, to where Le Breton

stood, in panama hat and grey flannels.

"That big chap over there," he said. "He's got a nerve, hasn't he?"

"And did you accept?" Pansy asked.

"Of course I did. I couldn't let that sort of cheek pass."

Other people had heard what was happening. An interested crowd

collected around the court. For word had gone round that the man who

had challenged the English champion was Raoul Le Breton, the French

millionaire.

Captain Cameron had not been long on the court before he discovered he

had met his equal, if not his superior.

With a long, lithe movement Le Breton was all over the ground,

seemingly unhurried, but always there at the right moment, making his

opponent's play look like a heated scramble. But Le Breton's serving

was his great point; a lightning stroke that gave no hint as to where

the ball would land; sometimes it was just over the net; sometimes just

within the furthermost limits of the court.

Cameron was beaten; a beating he took with a boyish smile, as he

congratulated the winner.

Others crowded round Le Breton, anxious to add their quota to the

praise.

When the crowd dispersed Pansy approached him, as he stood cool and

dignified, despite the strenuous game.

"You never told me you could play tennis," she remarked.

"There are lots of things about myself I haven't told you," he replied

drily.

"What are they?" she asked. "You mustn't rouse my curiosity and then

not satisfy it."

"You needn't worry. I shall tell you some day," he answered.

As Pansy talked to him she played battledore and shuttlecock with her

racket and ball.

"When will that day be?" she asked. "The sooner, the better. It's bad

for my health to be kept in a state of inquisitive suspense."

"The sooner the better will suit me admirably," he said. "For I shall

tell you when we are--married."

Pansy just stared at him.

"Then I shall never hear," she said, when she had recovered her breath.

"For I shall never get married. Never. At least, not before I'm

forty."

There was a brief pause.

"Why are you avoiding me?" he asked presently.

"What a stupid thing to say! Aren't I here talking to you now?"

"With a whole crowd of people round, yes."

She tapped the tennis ball from her racket to his chest, hitting it

back and back again, as if he were a wall. For some minutes Le Breton

watched her in an amused manner, as if she were something so favoured

that she could do what she liked with him. Then he caught the ball and

stopped the game.

"I've a challenge for you, too, Pansy," he said. "Will you meet me

to-night, after dinner, near the fountain?"

"It wouldn't require a great amount of courage to do that."

"Will you come then?"

"You said I wasn't to wander about in the grounds alone at night."

"I'll come for you then, since you're so anxious to comply with my

desires."

"'Comply with my desires,'" she repeated mockingly. "That's a nice

useful phrase to hurl about."

There was an air of unusual and unaccustomed patience about Le Breton,

as he argued with his moonbeam. Curious glances were cast in the

direction of the couple. Miss Langham had never been seen to favour a

man as she was favouring the French millionaire.

"Birds of a feather," someone remarked.

With some surprise young Cameron watched her. Another watched her too.

The red-faced, fishy-eyed man from whose undesired attentions Le Breton

had rescued her a few nights before.

"If you don't come I shall know what to think," Le Breton said. "That

you dare not."

A suspicion of a blush deepened the pink in the girl's cheeks.

"And if I do come, what shall you think then?" she asked him with a

nonchalant air.

"It'll be quite time enough to tell you when that comes to pass," he

answered.

Pansy had no intention that it should come to pass. Raoul Le Breton

might keep the tryst if he liked, but she would not be there.

Not if she could help it--a little voice within her added.

CHAPTER XIII

When night came Pansy tried not to think of Le Breton, but the idea of

him out there in the moonlight haunted her. She wondered how long he

would wait; patience did not look to be one of his virtues.

There was a dance at the hotel again that evening. As she whirled

round and round, slim and light, looking in her chiffon and diamonds a

creature of mist and dew, her thoughts were with none of her partners.

They were out in the garden with the big, masterful man who was so

different from all others of his sex who had come into her life.

By midnight the gaieties were over. Pansy went up to her room. But

she did not go to bed. Dismissing her maid, she went out on the

balcony, and stood there watching the sea, as she had watched it barely

a week before, when Le Breton had come into her life.

The world was as white and peaceful as then; the sea a stretch of

murmurous silver; the garden vaguely sighing; the little, moist, cool

puffs of wind ladened with the scent of roses and the fragrance of

foreign flowers.

As she watched the scene, an overpowering desire to go and see if Le

Breton were still there seized her; a desire that rapidly became an

obsession.

Of course he would not stay from nine o'clock until after midnight!

For all that Pansy felt she must go. That she must linger for a moment

in the spot where he had lingered.

She turned quickly into her room; then out into the corridor; down the

stairs and on towards a door that led out into the grounds.

Once there, the moonlight drew her on towards the fountain.

On reaching the trysting-place there was no sign of anybody there.

With a feeling of intense disappointment Pansy turned towards the

sea-wall, and stood there with the soft light shimmering on her, her

face wistful as she watched the molten sea.

Now that she had come, to find Le Breton gone hurt her.

If he really liked her, he would have stayed all night on the chance of

her coming. She would, if she were really fond of anybody.

A tear came and sparkled on her long, dark lashes.

He could not love her very much, or he would not have left.

A slight movement in the shadows behind made her face round quickly,

her heart giving a sudden bound.

"Well, Pansy," the voice she knew so well said in a caressing tone.

She laughed tremulously.

"I thought you'd gone hours ago," she said.

Le Breton came to her side, a mocking look in his dark, smouldering

eyes as he watched her.

"There are two things a man will always wait for if they cut deeply

enough," he replied. "Love and revenge."

"How dramatic you sound! Which has kept you on the prowl to-night?"

she asked lightly, edging away from him.

But his arm went round her quickly, and she was drawn back to his side.

"No, my little girl, not this time," he whispered.

She tried to free herself from his embrace.

"I didn't mean to come. I really didn't," she said breathlessly.

He laughed in a tender, masterful fashion.

"Possibly not, but since you're here I intend that you shall stay."

"No, no," she said quickly. "Let me go."

Pansy struggled after a liberty that she saw rapidly vanishing. But he

just held her, firmly, strongly, watching her with an amused air.

"I shall spoil my dress if I have to wrestle with you like this," she

panted presently.

"Don't wrestle then," he said coolly. "Stay where you are, little

moonbeam, and no harm will come to the dress."

It was fatal to be in his arms again. She stopped struggling and

stayed passive within his embrace.

With easy strength Le Breton lifted her. Going to a bench, he sat down

with her on his knee.

"Why did you run away from me the other night?" he asked.

A slim finger played rather nervously with a black pearl stud in the

front of his dress shirt.

"I don't know," she said, her eyes avoiding his.

Then she laughed.

"Oh, yes, I do," she went on. "Because I couldn't do as I liked if I

stayed with you."

"I could never be a hard taskmaster. Not with you," he said softly.

"Are you with some people?" she asked.

Le Breton thought of the desert kingdom he ruled alone, and he laughed.

Then he kissed the little mouth so temptingly close to his own; a long,

passionate caress that seemed to take all strength from the girl. Her

head fell on his shoulder, and she lay limp within his arms, watching

him in a vague, dreamy manner.

For a time there was silence. Le Breton sat with her pressed against

his heart, as if to have her there were all-sufficient.

"I feel like Jonah," Pansy said presently. "All swallowed up. There

seems to be nothing in the whole wide world now but you."

With a loving hand he caressed her silky curls.

"And I, Heart's Ease, want nothing but you, henceforth and forever."

Pansy snuggled closer to him.

"To think I'm sitting here on your knee," she whispered. "A week ago I

didn't know there was any you. And now I only know your name and----"

She broke off, a blush deepening the roses on her cheeks.

"And what, my darling?" he asked tenderly.

"Put your ear quite close. It's not a matter that can be shouted from

the house-tops."

He bent his proud head down, close to the girl's lips.

"And that I love you," she whispered.

Then she kissed the ear the confession had been made into.

"And that you will marry me," he added.

"Perhaps, some day, twenty years hence," she said airily. "When I've

had my fling."

Le Breton had never had to wait for any woman he fancied, and he had no

intention of waiting now.

"No, Pansy, you must marry me now, at once," he said firmly.

"What a hustler you are, Raoul. You must have American blood in you."

She said his name as if she loved it: on her lips it was a caress.

With a touch of savagery his arms tightened round the girl. Even with

her in his embrace he guessed that if she knew of the Sultan Casim

Ammeh there would be no chance for him. His dark blood would be an

efficient barrier; one she would never cross willingly.

"Say you will marry me next week, my little English flower," he said in

a fierce, insistent tone.

"I couldn't dream of getting married for ages and ages."

He held her closer, kissing the vivid lips that refused him.

"Say next week, my darling," he whispered passionately. "I shall keep

you here until you say next week."

Pansy looked at him with love and teasing in her eyes. "It's midnight

now, or perhaps it's one, or even two in the morning. Time flies so

when I'm with you. But at six o'clock the gardeners will be here with

rakes and brooms, and they'll scratch and sweep us out of our corner.

Six hours at most you can keep me, but the gardeners won't let you keep

me longer than that. Good-night, Raoul, I'll go to sleep in the

meantime."

In a pretence of slumber Pansy closed her eyes.

With a tender smile he watched the little face that looked so

peacefully asleep on his shoulder.

"Wake up, my flower, and say things are to be as I wish," he said

presently.

One eye opened and looked at him full of love and mischief.

"In ten years' time then, Raoul. That's a great concession."

"In a fortnight. That would seem eternity enough," he replied.

"Well, five years then," Pansy answered, suddenly wide awake. "I could

see and do a lot in five years, if I worked hard at it. Especially

with the thought of you looming ominously in the background."

"In three weeks, little girl. I've been waiting for you all my life."

Pansy stroked his face with a mocking, caressing hand.

"Poor boy, you don't look like a waiter."

He took the small, teasing hand into his own.

"Never mind what I look like just now," he said. "Say in three weeks'

time, my darling."

"Two years. Give me two years to get used to the cramped idea of

matrimony."

"A month. Not a day longer, Heart's Ease, unless you want to drive me

quite mad," he said, a note of desperate entreaty in his voice.

Suddenly Pansy could not meet the eyes that watched her with such love

and passion in their smouldering depths.

This big, dark man who had come into her life so strangely, seemed to

leave her nothing but a desire for himself. At that moment she could

refuse him nothing.

"In a month then, Raoul. But it's very weak-minded of me giving in to

you this way."

He laughed in a tender and triumphant manner.

"My darling, I promise you'll never regret it," he said, a slight catch

in his strong voice.

Then he sat on, with Pansy pressed close against him. And the latent

searching look had gone from his eyes, as if the girl lying on his

heart had brought him ease and peace.

And Pansy was content to stay.

Just then it was sufficient to be with him; to feel the tender strength

of his arms; to listen to the music of his deep, caressing voice; to

have his long, passionate kisses. Nothing else mattered. Even liberty

was forgotten.

CHAPTER XIV

The next morning the sun streaming into Pansy's bedroom roused her.

She awoke with the feeling of having indulged in some delightful dream,

which, like all dreams, must melt with the morning.

She thought of the episode with Le Breton in the garden. A gentle look

lingered on her face. He was a darling, the nicest man she had ever

met; the only one she had ever liked enough to let kiss her; the only

one in whose arms she had been content to stay. But about marrying?

A frown came and rested on her white brow.

Marrying was quite another matter. In a month's time, _impossible_. A

thing not to be contemplated.

Pansy sat up suddenly, hugging her knees as she gazed thoughtfully at

the brilliant expanse of dancing, shimmering sea that sparkled at her

through the open bedroom window.

She, engaged to be married! She who had vowed never to fall in love

until forty!

It was love Pansy had wanted in the moonlit garden with Le Breton's

arms about her. But it was liberty she wanted now, as she sat hugging

her knees, amazed at herself and her own behaviour.

She had bartered her liberty for a man's arms and a few kisses!

Pansy could hardly believe herself capable of such folly.

She had been swept off her feet--over her depth before she knew it.

By daylight her freedom and independence were as sweet to her as Le

Breton's love had been by the romantic light of the moon. In the sober

light of morning she tried to struggle back to where she had been

before the hot flood of love he had poured over her had made her

promise more than she was now prepared to fulfill.

"It's a woman's privilege to change her mind."

Pansy grasped at the old adage; but to her a promise was a promise, not

lightly given or lightly snatched away. So she did not derive much

comfort from dwelling on the old saw.

She was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees and frowning in dire

perplexity when her maid came in with the early morning tea. And the

frown was there when the woman came to say her bath was ready.

A thoughtful mood enveloped her during her dressing. And out of her

musing this note was born:--

"My Dearest Raoul,

I can call you that because you are dearer to me than any one on this

earth, dearest beyond all things except my liberty. Do not be horrid

and cross when I say I cannot marry you, in spite of all I promised

last night. Not for ten years at least. And even then I cannot bind

myself in any way, for I might be still hankering after freedom. I do

love you really, more than anything in the whole wide world except my

independence.

You must not be too hard on me, Raoul. I am not quite the same as

other women. It is not every girl of twenty who is her own mistress,

with L60,000 a year to do what she likes with. It has made life seem

so vast, matrimony such a cramped, everyday affair. And I do not want

to handicap myself in any way.

This letter sounds awfully selfish, I know. I am not selfish really.

Only I love my liberty. It is the one thing that is dearer to me than

you.

Always your loving

PANSY."

When the letter was written, Pansy suddenly remembered she did not know

his address.

Once satisfied that he was disinterested, she had bothered about

nothing else. And after that one day spent among the red roses he had

become something quite apart from the rest of the world, not to be

gossiped about to mere people.

However, she knew that twenty pesetas given to the hall-porter would

ensure the note reaching its destination. The hotel staff would know

where he was staying, even if she did not.

Because the note was to Le Breton, Pansy took it down herself and gave

it to the hall-porter. When this was done she wandered as far as the

spot where she had made her fleeting vows, to see how it looked by

daylight.

She lingered there for some minutes, and then returned to her suite.

In the interval a message had come from Le Breton.

It stood on one of the little tables of her sitting-room--a huge gilded

wicker basket full of half-blown, red roses. In the midst of the

flowers a packet reposed, tied with red ribbon.

Pansy opened the package.

Inside was the gold casket she had once refused. It was filled with

purple pansies, still wet with dew. On them a ring reposed, with one

huge sapphire, deeply blue as her own eyes.

There was a note in with the flowers, written in a strong masculine

hand.

With a flutter about her heart, Pansy picked it out and read it:--

"Heart's Ease, My Own Dear Little Girl,

This little gift comes to you with all my love, my heart, my soul, my

very life indeed, given forever into your keeping.

A week ago, if anyone had told me I should write such words to a woman,

I should have laughed at them. Until meeting you I did not know what

love was. I had no idea one woman could be so satisfying. In you I

have found the heaven I have been searching for all my life. My one

houri, and she all-sufficing--my little English flower, so sweet and

winsome, so kind and wayward, so teasing and yet so tender, who has

brought a new fragrance into my life, a peace my soul has never known

till now, a love and gratitude into my heart that will keep me hers for

ever.

Your devoted lover now and through all eternity.

RAOUL LE BRETON."

As Pansy read the note her lips trembled.

She wished she had never tasted of the sweets of liberty and

independence; that the grand-godfather had not left her his millions.

She wished she was Pansy Barclay again, a mere girl, not one with

enormous riches luring her towards all sorts of goals where love was

not. Just Pansy Barclay, who could have met his love with kisses and

not a cruel counter note.

CHAPTER XV

Considering it was nearly two in the morning before Le Breton would let

Pansy out of his arms, he did not expect her to be out and about at six

o'clock for her usual ride. Nevertheless, he looked in at the hotel at

that hour and then rode on, indulging in blissful daydreams.

He knew Pansy had no idea who he really was. He was prepared to marry

her according to her creed, for her sake to put aside the fierce

profligate religion the late Sultan Casim Ammeh had instilled into him.

And he was prepared to do very much more than this.

In spite of his colossal pride in his sultanship and his desert

kingdom, he knew that if Pansy got an inkling of that side of his life

his case would be hopeless. His one idea was to keep all knowledge of

the supposed Arab strain in him from her. The sultanship could go, his

kingdom be but a source of income. He would buy a house in Paris.

They would settle down there, and he would become wholly the European

she imagined him to be.

Full of a future that held nothing but the English girl to whom; he was

betrothed, and a desire to keep from her all knowledge of his dark,

savage heritage, at least until it would be too late for her to draw

back, Le Breton rode on, rejoicing in the early morning freshness that

reminded him of the girl he loved.

On returning to the villa he interviewed the head gardener. Then he

went to the library to write a note and tie up the package he was

sending to Pansy; and from there down to breakfast, a solitary meal

with no companion save a few purple pansies smiling at him from a

crystal vase.

As he sat at his light repast one of his Arab servants entered with a

note on a beaten-gold salver.

Le Breton took it.

On the envelope was just his name, written in a pretty, girlish hand.

Although he had never seen Pansy's writing before, he guessed it was

hers. A tender smile hovered about his hard mouth as he opened it.

What had she to say to him, this slim, winsome girl, who held his

fierce heart in her small white hands? Some fond reply, no doubt, in

return for his gifts and flowers. Thanks and words of love that she

could not keep until he went round to see her.

There were many things Le Breton expected of Pansy, but certainly not

the news the note contained.

He read it through, unable to believe what he saw written before him.

And as he read his face lost all its tender, caressing look and took

on, instead, a savage, incredulous expression.

Women had always come to him easily, as easily as Pansy herself had

come. But they had not withdrawn themselves again: he had done the

withdrawing.

For some moments he just stared at the note.

He, flouted and scorned and played with by a girl! He, to whom all

women were but toys! He, the Sultan of El-Ammeh!

Le Breton was like one plunged suddenly into an icy cold bath.

The unexpectedness of it all left him numb. Then a surge of hot rage

went through him, finally leaving him cold, collected, and furious.

She had dared to scorn him, this English girl! Dared to hurl his love

and protestations back into his teeth. Protestations such as he had

made to no other woman.

It was the greatest shock and surprise Le Breton had had during the

course of his wild life of unquestioned power and limitless money.

He was in no mood to see the love her note breathed. He saw only one

fact--that he had been cast aside.

A woman had dared to act towards him as he had often acted towards

women.

As he brooded on the note, trying to grasp the almost incredible truth,

the cruel look about his mouth deepened.

Putting the note into his pocket, he poured himself another cup of

coffee. Then he sat on, staring at the purple pansies, no longer lost

in dreams of love and delight, where his one aim was to be all the girl

imagined him to be; but in a savage reverie that had love in it,

perhaps, but of quite another quality than that which he had already

offered.

Full of anger and injured pride as Le Breton was, it did not prevent

him going over to the hotel and inquiring for Miss Langham.

He learnt that she was out, on board her yacht. And it seemed to him

that she had fled from his wrath.

But he was wrong.

Pansy had gone there knowing he would be sure to come and inquire into

the meaning of her note. On board her yacht there was more privacy; a

privacy she wanted for Le Breton's sake, not her own. Considering his

fiery Latin temperament, he might not take his _conge_ in the manner of

her more stolid nation. There might be a scene.

She never imagined he would take her decree calmly. There was an air

about him as if he had never been thwarted in any way. She was

prepared for some unpleasant minutes--minutes, nevertheless, that she

had no intention of shirking, which she knew she had brought upon

herself by her impetuous promises.

She was sitting alone in her own special sanctum on the yacht.

It was a large saloon--boudoir, music-room, and study combined; white

and gold and purple, like herself, with a grand piano in one corner,

deep chairs upholstered in yellow with purple cushions, a yellow carpet

and white walls and ceiling.

In the midst of it she sat cool and collected, in a simple white

yachting suit.

As Le Breton entered she rose, scanning him quickly. She had never

seen him so proud and aloof-looking, his face so set and hard. But

there was a look of suppressed suffering in his eyes that cut her to

the quick.

Neither said a word until the door closed behind the steward.

Then Le Breton crossed to the girl's side.

"What nonsense is this?" he asked in a cold, angry voice, holding her

note towards her. "You promised to marry me, and you must carry out

your promise. I'm not going to be put lightly to one side in this

manner."

"I haven't put you lightly to one side," she answered. "I think I

explained exactly how things were in my note."

"Explanations! I'm not here for explanations," he said, with cold

impatience; "but to insist that you fulfill your promise."

"I couldn't do that," she replied quietly.

With the air of still moving in the midst of some incredible truth, he

stared at her.

"You've been flirting with me," he said presently, a note of savagery

and scorn in his voice. "You are a true English _demievierge_. You

rouse a man without the least intention of satisfying him."

Pansy flushed under his contempt. She hated being called "a flirt";

she was not one. She did not know why she had acted as she had done

the previous night. But once in his arms, she had wanted to stay. And

once he had started talking of love, she wanted to listen. With him

she had forgotten all about her own scheme of life and her cherished

liberty.

She knew she had not played the game with Le Breton. From the bottom

of her heart she was sorry. She did not blame him, but herself.

"I'm not a flirt," she said quietly. "I've never let any man kiss me

before. I'm very sorry for all that happened last night."

He laughed in a harsh, grating manner.

"Good God, Pansy! there are a hundred women and more plotting and

scheming to try and make me feel for them what I feel for you. And you

say you're sorry!"

He broke off, his proud face twisted with pain and chagrin.

Pansy knew his was no idle boast. An army of women must lie in wait

for a man of his wealth combined with good looks and such powers of

fascination.

"I'm only sorry you picked on me," she said, a note of distress in her

voice. "More sorry than I can say. You know I hate giving pain."

Like one dazed, the Sultan Casim Ammeh listened to a woman saying she

was sorry he had favoured her as he had no other of her sex--To an

extent he had never imagined he would favour any woman, so that he was

ready to change his religion, his whole mode of life, for her sake.

"But I couldn't give up my liberty," her voice was saying. "I couldn't

get married. And I've a perfect right to change my mind."

"It's not a privilege I intend to allow you," he said in a strangled

voice.

"Well, it's one I intend to assert," she answered, suddenly goaded by

his imperious attitude.

"You've deliberately fooled me," he said savagely.

"No, I haven't really," she replied, patient again under the pain in

the fierce, restless eyes watching her. "I like you immensely, but not

enough to marry you."

"I suppose I ought to feel flattered," he said cuttingly.

Pansy laid a hand on his sleeve with a little soothing, conciliatory

gesture.

"Don't be so horrid, Raoul. Do try and see things as I see them. I

didn't mean to say 'yes' last night; but when you held me in your arms

and kissed me there was nothing else I could do."

His name on her lips, her touch on his arm, broke through his seethe of

cold anger.

"And if I held and kissed you again, what then?" he asked, suddenly

melting.

"Here in the 'garish light of day' it wouldn't alter my intention in

the least," she said. "There are so many things that call me in the

daytime. But last night, Raoul, there was only you."

He bent over her, dark and handsome, looking the king the Sultan Casim

Ammeh had made him.

"Give me the nights, Pansy," he whispered, "and the days I'll leave to

you."

"Oh no, I couldn't. Before so long you'd have swallowed up my days

too. For there's an air about you as if you wouldn't be satisfied

until you had the whole of me. But I shall often think of last night,"

she went on, a touch of longing in her voice. "In days to come, when

we're thousands of miles apart, in the midst of my schemes, when the

lights are brightest and the bands their loudest and the fun at its

highest, I shall stop all at once with a little pain in my heart and

wonder where the nice man is who kissed me under the palms in the Grand

Canary. And I shall say to myself, 'Now, if I'd been a marrying sort,

I'd have married him.' And twenty years hence, when pleasure palls, I

shall wish I had married him; because there'll never be any man I shall

like half as much as I like you."

As she talked Le Breton watched her, wild schemes budding and

blossoming in his head.

"And I? What shall I be thinking?" he asked.

"You! Oh, you'll have forgotten all about me by next year--Perhaps

next month, even," she replied, smiling at him rather sadly. "One girl

is much the same to you as the next, provided she's equally pretty.

And you'll be thinking, 'What an idiotic fuss I made over that girl I

met in Grand Canary. Let me see, what _was_ her name? Violet or

Daisy, or some stupid flower name. Who said yes in the moonlight, and

no in the cool, calm light of day. Good Lord! but for her sense I

should be married now. Married! Phew, what an escape! For if she'd

roped me in there'd have been no gallivanting with other women'!"

Le Breton laughed.

"Now I'm forgiven," she said quickly.

"Forgiven, Heart's Ease, yes. But whilst there's life in me you'll

never be forgotten."

He paused, looking at her speculatively.

"So far as I see, there's nothing between us except that you're too

fond of your own way to get married," he remarked presently.

"Yes. I suppose that's it really."

"'If I were a king in Babylon and you were a Christian slave,'" he

quoted, "or, to get down to more modern times, if I were a barbaric

Sultan somewhere in Africa and you a girl I'd fancied and caught and

carried off, I'd just take you into my harem and nothing more would be

said."

"I should fight like a wildcat. You'd get horribly scratched and

bitten."

"Possibly, but--I should win in the end."

Pansy's face went suddenly crimson under the glowing eyes that watched

her with such love and desire in their dark depths.

"I think we're talking a lot of nonsense," she remarked.

"What is it you English say? 'There's many a true word spoken in

jest,'" he replied with curious emphasis.

It was not jest to him.

Even as he stood talking to Pansy he was cogitating on how he could

best get her into his power, should persuasion fail to bring her back

to his arms within a week or two.

His yacht was in the harbour. She was in the habit of wandering about

alone. He had half a dozen Arab servants with him, men who would do

without question anything their Sultan told them. To abduct her would

be an easy matter. Once she was in his power, he would take her to

El-Ammeh and keep her there. As his wife, if she would marry him; as

his slave, if she would not.

Le Breton had no desire to do any such thing except as a last resource,

but he had no intention of letting Pansy go.

Her voice broke into his broodings.

"Since you've been so nice about everything, I'm going to keep you and

take you for a cruise round the island. I want to have just one day

alone with you, so that in years to come I shall know exactly how much

I've missed."

He smiled in a slightly savage manner. It amused him to hear the girl

talking as if he were but a pleasant incident in her life, when he

intended to be the biggest fact that had ever been there.

"In your way of doing things, Pansy, you remind me rather of myself,"

he remarked. "You're carrying me off, willy nilly, as I might be

tempted to carry you."

"It must be because we're both millionaires," she replied. "Little

facts of the sort are apt to make one a trifle high-handed."

She touched a bell.

When a steward appeared she put Le Breton into his care. Leaving the

saloon, she went herself to interview the captain about her plans.

She was leaning against the yacht's rail, slim and white, with the

breeze blowing her curls when Le Breton joined her. And she smiled at

him in a frank, boyish fashion, as if their little difference of

opinion had never been.

"What can I do to amuse you?" she asked.

"I don't need any amusing when I'm with you," he said. "You're

all-sufficing."

"You mustn't say things like that, Raoul," she replied; "they're apt to

make one's decisions wobble."

For Pansy the morning sped quickly. For Le Breton it was part of the

dream he had dreamt before her note had come and upset his

calculations, making him rearrange his plans in a manner that, although

it would give him a certain amount of satisfaction, might not be so

pleasing to the girl.

The vessel skirted the rounded island, bringing glimpses of quiet bays

where white houses nestled, rocky cliffs, stony barrancos cut deep into

the hill-side, and pine-clad heights.

There was a lunch _a deux_, with attentive stewards hovering in the

background. Afterwards they had coffee and liqueurs and cigarettes on

deck. An hour or so was dawdled away there, then Pansy took her guest

back to her own special sanctum.

He went over to the piano, touching a note here and there.

"Play me something," she said, for he touched the instrument with the

hand of a music lover.

"I was brought up in the backwoods," he replied, "and I never saw a

piano until I was nearly nineteen. After that I was too busy making

money and doing what I thought was enjoying myself to have time to go

in for anything of the sort. But I'd like to listen to you," he

finished.

Willingly Pansy seated herself at the piano. Le Breton likewise sat

himself in a deep chair close by, and gave himself up to the delight of

her playing. She wandered from one song to another, quick to see she

had an appreciative audience.

In the end she paused and glanced at him as he sat quiet, all his

restless look gone, as if at peace with himself and the world.

"Does music 'soothe your savage breast'?" she asked.

"It could never be savage where you're concerned, Pansy,"

"You talk as if I were quite different from other people."

"So you are. The only woman I've ever loved."

"When you talk like that, the wobbling comes on," she remarked.

To avoid his reply, she started playing again.

Getting to his feet, Le Breton went to the piano. Standing behind her,

his arms encircling her, he lifted the small, music-making hands from

the keys, and holding them, drew her back until her head rested against

him.

"Pansy, suppose I consent to a six months' engagement? The waiting

would be purgatory; but I could do it with paradise beyond."

"I'm not taking on any engagements. Not for the next ten years, at

least."

He laughed softly and put the slim hands back on the piano with a

lingering, careful touch, letting them pursue their way. Whether she

liked it or not, this lovely, wayward girl would be his before many

weeks had passed.

Then he returned to his chair and sat there deep in some reverie, this

time not planning the sort of home he would make for her in Paris, but

how he would have certain rooms in his palace at El-Ammeh furnished for

her reception.

A steward announcing tea brought him out of his meditations.

Tea was served on deck, with the sun glinting on the blue water and

running in golden cascades down the hill-side.

Together they watched the sun set and saw night barely shadow the world

when the moon rose, filling the scene with silver glory.

Its white light led them back into harbour, and in its flood the two

walked to the hotel together.

In the garden Le Breton paused to take leave of his hostess.

"Just one kiss, Heart's Ease, for the sake of last night," he whispered.

Willingly Pansy lifted her flower-like face to his.

"Just one then, Raoul, you darling, since you've been so nice about

everything."

As Le Breton stooped to kiss her it seemed to him that he would not

have to resort to force in order to get the girl. Only a little

patience and persuasion were needed, and he would win her in her own,

white, English way.

CHAPTER XVI

Along the deserted corridor of the big hotel Pansy was hurrying. Her

outing with Le Breton had made her late. By the time she was dressed

and ready dinner was well started. She went along quickly, still

thinking over the events of the day.

Everything had turned out exactly as she had hoped. She wanted to keep

Le Breton's love, and yet not be tied in any way--to have him in the

background to marry if, or when, she felt so disposed.

In the full glare of the electric light, going down the wide stairs,

she entered the large patio, looking a picture.

She was wearing a dress of some yellow, gauzy material that matched her

hair, a garment that clung around her like a sunbeam, bright and

shimmering. There were gold shoes on her feet, and around her neck a

long chain of yellow amber beads.

As she crossed the big, empty hall, making towards the dining-room, a

man rose from his chair--the short, red-faced man from whom Le Breton

had rescued her a few nights before.

There was an air about him as if he had been waiting there to waylay

her.

Pansy saw him and she swerved slightly, but beyond that she gave him no

attention.

However, he was not so easily avoided.

He took up his stand immediately before her, leering at her in a

malicious, disagreeable fashion.

"You're fond of chucking red-haired women in my teeth," he said. "Go

and chuck 'em at the fellow you were spooning with outside just now."

Annoyed that the man should have witnessed her parting with Le Breton,

Pansy would have passed without a word; but he dodged, and was in front

of her again.

"At least, she isn't my fancy woman," he went on. "I don't run a villa

for her, even if I do admire her looks."

The weight of insinuation in his voice brought the girl to a halt.

"What is it? What do you want to say?" she asked coldly.

"You mean to tell me you don't know Le Breton runs that French actress,

Lucille Lemesurier?"

Pansy did not know. Nor did she believe a word the man said.

"How dare you say such things about Mr. Le Breton?" she flashed.

"Hoity-toity! How dare I indeed!"

He laughed coarsely.

"It isn't only me that's talking about it. Everybody knows," he went

on.

Everybody did _not_ know. Pansy among the number.

"I don't believe a word you say," she said in an angry manner.

"Don't you? All right. Trot along then, and ask the manager. Ask

anybody. They're all talking about it. You would be, too, except that

you're so conceited that you never come and gossip with the crowd. Ask

who is running that villa for Lucille Lemesurier, and they'll tell you

it's that high and mighty French millionaire chap, Le Breton, the same

as I do."

For a moment Pansy just stared at him, horror and disbelief on her

face; then she turned quickly away. She did not go towards the

dining-room, but towards the main entrance of the hotel.

She had never troubled to make any inquiries about Le Breton. She had

liked him, and that was enough.

Pansy could not believe what the man said.

For all that, she was going to the fountain-head--to Le Breton--to hear

what he had to say on the subject.

CHAPTER XVII

A flood of light poured out from Le Breton's villa, from wide-open

French windows on to a moonlit lawn. Around the house, palms drooped

and bamboos whispered. The night was laden with the scent of roses and

syringa, and about the fragrant shrubs fireflies glinted like showers

of silver sparks.

In one of the apartments opening on the lawn Le Breton sat at dinner

with Lucille, over a little round table, sparkling with crystal and

gold, where pink-shaded electric lights glowed among banks of flowers.

It was a large room, lavishly furnished, with priceless rugs, and

furniture that might have come out of some Paris museum. There were

three Arab servants in attendance, deft-handed, silent men, well

trained, and observant, who waited upon their master as if their lives

held nothing but his wishes and desires.

Opposite to him Lucille sat, in a white satin gown that left none of

her charms to the imagination, with the emerald necklace flashing

against her dead-white skin.

She was talking in a soft, languid voice, sometimes witty, often

suggestive, but never at a loss for a subject, as women do talk who are

paid well to interest and amuse their masters.

Le Breton did not look either particularly interested or amused. In

fact, he looked bored and indifferent, answering her in monosyllables,

as if her perpetual chatter interrupted some pleasant reverie of his

own.

As he sat, intent on his own thoughts, one of the servants came to his

side. Stooping, he said in a deferential voice in Arabic:

"There is the English lady your Highness deigned to breakfast with in

the orange groves of Telde."

Le Breton started. He glanced round, his gaze following the Arab's to

one of the wide French windows opening on the lawn.

Standing there, light and slight, a graceful, golden reed, was the girl

who was now all the world to him.

But Pansy was not looking in his direction, but at Lucille, as if she

could not believe what she saw before her.

The sight brought Le Breton quickly to his feet.

"Pansy!" he exclaimed.

His voice and action made Lucille glance towards the window.

She looked at the girl standing there; then she smiled lazily, a trifle

maliciously.

Lucille saw before her the rival she had suspected, who had changed Le

Breton's lukewarm liking into cutting indifference. With the

perception of her kind she realised that Pansy was something quite

different from herself and the women Le Breton usually amused himself

with. That slim girl with her wide, purple eyes and vivid, flower-like

face was no courtesan, no toy; but a woman with a spirit and a soul

that could hold and draw a man, apart from her physical attractions;

the sort of woman, in fact, that a man like Raoul Le Breton might be

tempted to marry.

At sound of his voice Pansy came into the room, her eyes blazing, her

breast heaving, her two hands clutching the long amber chain in an

effort to keep herself calm and collected.

So it was true! He was living here with that red-haired creature, this

man who had come to her vowing she was the only woman he had ever

loved! This man whom she had kissed and whom she had allowed to kiss

and fondle her!

Pansy looked at Lucille in her white satin and emeralds--Lucille, big

and voluptuous, her profession written on her face.

"Who is that woman?" she demanded.

Lucille did not wait for Le Breton to answer.

One glance at him told her everything. On his face were concern, love,

and annoyance; the look that comes to a man's face when the girl he

would make his wife and the woman who is his mistress by some

unfortunate circumstance chance to meet.

Her star, never particularly bright, had waned and set within a week,

all thanks to this slim girl in the yellow dress. Any day she,

Lucille, might be shipped back to France, with only the emerald

necklace to soothe her sore heart.

As things were she could lose nothing, and she might have the pleasure

of parting Le Breton from the woman he really loved. The girl looked

one who would countenance no backslidings.

Before he could say anything she said in a languid voice:

"My name is Lucille Lemesurier. I'm an actress. At Mr. Le Breton's

invitation I came here with him from Paris, to stay until he tires of

me or I of him. _Comme vous voulez_," she finished, with a shrug.

For a moment Pansy just stared at the truth confronting her: the truth,

lazy, languid, and smiling, in white satin and emeralds.

There was a little noise, hard and sharp, like a shower of frozen tears

rattling down on the table. The hands clinging to the string of amber

beads clung just a thought too hard, for the necklace snapped suddenly.

The beads poured down like tears--the tears Pansy herself was past

shedding. The knowledge of Le Breton's treachery and deceit had turned

her into ice.

She cast one look at him of utter contempt and scorn.

Then, silently as she had come, she turned and went from the room.

She did not get far, however, before Le Breton was at her side.

Ignoring him, she hurried across the moonlit lawn, her only desire to

escape from his presence.

"Pansy----" he began.

Like a whirlwind she turned on him. With a hand that shook with rage,

she pointed to the open dining-room window.

"Go! Go back to that red-haired creature," she said in a voice that

trembled with anger. "I never want to see or speak to you again.

Never!"

At her words Le Breton's hands clenched and his swarthy face went white.

"Do you think I'm going to be dismissed in this manner?" he asked in a

strangled voice.

Without a further word Pansy would have hurried on; but, before she

knew what was happening, he had taken her into his arms.

"How dare you touch me! How dare you touch me!" she gasped, struggling

furiously after freedom, amazed at his audacity.

But he laughed and, crushing her against him, kissed her fiercely.

Le Breton knew his case was hopeless. No amount of persuasion would

bring the girl back to his arms. He was no longer a polished man of

the world, but the Sultan of El-Ammeh, a barbaric ruler who knew no law

save his own desire.

Pansy was too furious to be afraid. With all her might she struggled

to get away from his arms and the deluge of hot, passionate kisses, not

because of the danger oozing from the man, but because she knew he had

held and kissed that other woman.

But all her struggles were in vain. She was helpless against his

strength; crushed within his arms; almost breathless under the force

and passion of the kisses she could not escape from.

"If you go on behaving in this brutal manner I shall scream," she

panted presently.

Her words sobered him.

The road lay not twenty yards away, and her screams might bring a dozen

people to her rescue. He remembered that he was in Grand Canary, where

even _he_ had to conform with rules, not in El-Ammeh, where none would

dare question his doings.

He let Pansy out of his arms.

"Look what a state you've put me in!" she flashed the moment she was

free, as she endeavoured to tidy her torn and crumpled dress with hands

that shook with anger. "You're a brute. A savage. I hate you!" she

finished.

But Le Breton just stood and laughed.

To-night she might go; but to-morrow----!

To-morrow she would be on his yacht, where she might scream to her

heart's content without a soul coming to her rescue.

His laughter, fierce and fond, followed Pansy from the garden.

CHAPTER XVIII

The hotel patio was full of people just out from dinner. In the midst

of a crowd of acquaintances Captain Cameron stood, laughing and talking

with those around him.

All at once a voice at his elbow said tensely:

"Bob, I want to speak to you alone for a moment."

He turned quickly. Then he stood surveying the speaker with surprise,

for the girl beside him looked very different from the Pansy he knew.

There was an almost tortured air about her. Her face was set and

white; there were deep, dark rings under eyes that were limpid pools of

pain.

"Hello, old pal, what has happened?" he asked, with concern.

Pansy did not stop to answer him. With impatient hands she led him

away from the crowd of listening, staring people into a quiet corner.

"I'm going back to England at once. To-night! Help me to get off,

please," she said.

With blank amazement Cameron stared at her.

"What's got hold of you now?" he managed to ask.

"I'm going home," she said, "at once."

"But I thought you were staying here until Sir George came out?"

"Well, I've changed my mind," she snapped. "And I'm going back, even

if you aren't."

All Pansy wanted now was to get to the one other man she loved, her

father. To get to him as quickly as possible with her bruised and

wounded heart.

"Of course I'll come with you, old girl," Cameron said, a trifle

helplessly. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you in the lurch. But you

have a way of springing surprises on people. I'll send along and tell

the captain to get steam up."

"Yes, do, Bob, please," she said gratefully. "And ask Miss Grainger to

see about the packing. And find out where Jenkins is, and send him

along to the stables. I--I'm past doing anything."

Cameron scanned the girl quickly, suddenly aware that something more

than a whim was at the bottom of her hurried departure.

"What is it, Pansy?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered bravely. "But I get moods when I just feel I

must see my old dad."

She turned away quickly to avoid any further questions, leaving Cameron

staring at her receding back.

CHAPTER XIX

The next morning Le Breton set about his scheme for trapping Pansy.

The task appeared easy. He would get one of his men to note when she

left the hotel and mark which route she took. There were not many

roads in the place, and it would not be difficult to guess where she

was going. He and his men would follow, and waylay and capture her at

some lonely spot. They would take her across the island to a little

port on the far side, where his yacht would be waiting. Once he had

her safely on board, he would start for Africa.

As he sat at breakfast, savage and brooding, craving for the girl who

had flouted him, one of his servants entered.

"Well?" he asked, glaring at the man.

The Arab made a deep obeisance.

"Your Highness, the English lady has gone."

"Gone!" the Sultan repeated in an incredulous tone. "Gone! Where?"

"She left the island last night, in her yacht, about two hours after

she was here."

Like one thunderstruck, Le Breton stared at the Arab. This unexpected

move of Pansy's had upset his calculations altogether.

Without a word he rose from the table. There and then he went over to

the hotel to see the manager, his only idea to find out where the girl

had gone. He could not believe that she had escaped him; yet the mere

thought that she might have done so filled him with a seething passion.

By the time he reached the hotel he had recovered himself in some

degree, sufficiently to inquire in a normal tone for the manager.

He was taken to the latter's office.

"You had an English lady staying here, a Miss Langham," Le Breton said

the moment he was ushered in. "I wanted to see her rather

particularly, but I hear she has left. Can you tell me where she's

gone?"

On seeing who the visitor was, the manager was anxious to give all

possible assistance, but he knew little more about Pansy than Le Breton

did.

"She left rather hurriedly," he said; "and, as far as I could gather,

she was going back to England."

"Do you know her address there?" Le Breton asked.

"No, I don't," the manager said regretfully. "Miss Langham did not

talk much about herself."

This was all Le Breton was able to learn. But he knew one thing--that

the girl his fierce heart hungered for had escaped him.

That morning his black horse had a hard time, for Le Breton rode like a

madman in a vain endeavour to get away from the whirl of wild love and

thwarted hopes that raged within him--the Sultan Casim Ammeh for the

first time deprived of the woman he wanted; wanted as he had never

wanted any other.

He went to the rose-wreathed summer-house where Pansy had been pleased

to linger with him; to the orange groves at Telde where they had

breakfasted together. Night found him in the hotel gardens, near the

fountain where they had met and plighted their troth.

His hands clenched at the thought of all she had promised there.

Phantom-like, she haunted him. Her ghost was in his arms, kissing and

teasing him, a recollection that was torture. The one real love of his

life had proved but Dead Sea fruit.

He would have given his kingdom, all his riches, to have Pansy back in

his arms as he had had her that night, unresisting, watching him with

eyes full of love, wanting him as much as he had wanted her. The one

woman who had ever scorned him!

CHAPTER XX

In his study Sir George Barclay sat alone. Sixteen years had passed

since, in far-away Gambia, he had had to condemn to death the marauding

Arab chief. In a few weeks' time he would be returning to the country,

not in any minor capacity, but as its Governor.

Although his thoughts just then were in Gambia, the incident of the

shooting of the Sultan Casim Ammeh had long since gone from his mind.

And he never gave a thought nowadays to the boy who, unavailingly, had

come to the Arab chief's rescue. But he still carried the mark of the

youngster's sword upon his cheek.

The passing years had changed Barclay very little. His hair was grey,

his face thinner, and a studious look now lurked in the grey eyes where

tragedy had once been. For, in his profession, Barclay had found some

of the forgetfulness he had set out in search of.

As he sat at his desk the door opened suddenly. The manner of opening

told him that the daughter he imagined to be a thousand or more miles

away was home again. For no one, save this cherished legacy from his

lost love, would enter his study with such lack of ceremony.

He looked round quickly, as a slim girl in ermine and purple velvet

entered.

"Why, Pansy, my darling, I thought you were in Grand Canary," he said,

rising quickly to greet her.

"So I was, father, five days ago. And then ... and then----!"

She paused, and laughing in a rather forced manner, kissed him

affectionately.

"Father, will you take me out to Gambia with you?" she finished.

There was very little George Barclay ever refused his daughter. On

this occasion, he did make some sort of stand.

"Gambia is no place for you, my darling. There's nothing there to

amuse and interest a young girl."

"Perhaps not," Pansy said as she took off her hat and gloves, watching

him with a rather set smile. "But I don't care where I go so long as I

can be with you and get away from myself."

Her words made Barclay look at her sharply.

To want to get away from one's self was a feeling he could understand

and sympathise with, only too well. But to hear such a sentiment on

his daughter's lips surprised and hurt him.

"My little girl, what has happened?" he asked gently.

Pansy laughed again, but there was a sharp catch of pain in her mirth.

"I think my heart is broken, that's all," she said with a would-be

casual air.

Barclay did not wait to hear any more at that moment. He drew her down

on to a couch and sat there with his arm about her.

"My poor little girl," he whispered. "Tell me all about it."

Pansy laid her head on his shoulder, and smiled at him with lips that

trembled woefully.

"It's nobody's fault but my own, Daddy," she said. "I brought it on

myself with my silly, impetuous ways. And it serves me right for

hankering after strange men, and not being content with my old father."

For all her light talk Barclay knew something serious had happened. To

him his daughter was but a new edition of a well-read book; the girl

was her mother over again.

There was a brief pause as Sir George sat watching his child, stroking

her curls with a thin, affectionate hand, wondering what tragedy had

come into this bright, young life.

"Hearts are silly things, aren't they?" Pansy said suddenly. "Soft,

flabby, squashy sort of things that get hurt easily if you don't keep a

sharp eye on them. And I'd so many things to keep an eye on that I

forgot all about mine. Hearts ought not to be left without protection.

They should have iron rails put round them to keep all trespassers off,

like the rails we put round the trees in the park to keep the cattle

from hurting them."

There was a further pause, and a little sniff. Then Pansy said:

"Father, lend me your handkerchief, I know it's a nice big one. I

believe I'm going to cry. For the first time since it happened. It

must be seeing you again. And I shall cry a lot on your coat, and

perhaps spoil it. But, since it's me, I know you won't mind."

Sir George drew out a handkerchief.

"I was walking along in heaven with my head up and my nose in the air,"

the sweet, hurt voice explained, "blissfully happy because he was

there. There was a hole in the floor of heaven and I never saw it.

And I fell right through, crash, bang, right down to earth again. A

rotten old earth with all the fun gone out of it. And I'm awfully sore

and bruised, and the shock has injured my heart. It has never been the

same since and will never be the same again, because ... because, I did

love him, awfully."

As she talked Sir George watched her with affection and concern, his

heart aching for this slim, beautiful daughter of his, to whom love had

come as a tragedy.

"Oh, Daddy," she said, tears choking her voice, "why is life so hard?"

Then the storm broke.

Sir George listened to her sobs, as with a gentle hand he stroked the

golden curls. All the time he wondered who was responsible for her

tears, who had broken the heart of his cherished daughter.

He went over the multitude of men she knew. But he never gave one

thought to the savage boy who, sixteen years before, had scarred his

face--the Sultan Casim Ammeh.

CHAPTER XXI

In a fashionable London hotel a little party of three sat at dinner.

The dining-room was a large place, full of well-dressed people. It was

bright with electric light, and under a cover of greenery a band played

not too loudly.

Among the crowd of diners none seemed better known than the girl with

the short, golden curls who sat with the thin, studious-looking man and

the fresh-faced, fair-haired boy. Very often lorgnettes were turned in

her direction; for, when in town, no girl was more sought after than

Pansy Langham.

As Pansy sat with her father and Captain Cameron a man who had been

sitting at the far end of the room came to their table, greeting all

three with the air of an old acquaintance.

Afterwards he turned to Cameron.

"Well, and how's tennis? Are you still champion in your own little

way?" he asked.

"To tell you the truth, Dennis," Cameron answered, "in Grand Canary one

man gave me a thorough licking. And he was a rank outsider too!"

"How pleased you must have felt. Who was your executioner?"

"A man of the name of Le Breton. A French millionaire."

Dennis laughed in a disparaging manner.

"French he calls himself, does he? That's like his cheek. I met him

once in Paris, a haughty sort of customer who thinks the whole world is

run for him. He's a half-breed really, for all his money and his

high-handed ways."

The conversation had taken a turn that held a fearsome interest for

Pansy. But to hear Raoul Le Breton described as a half-breed was a

shock and surprise to her.

"Mr. Le Breton a half-caste!" she exclaimed.

Dennis glanced at her.

"Where did you drop across him?" he asked sharply.

"In Grand Canary also."

"Well, the less you have to do with 'sich' the better," he said in a

brotherly way. "He's a hot lot. The very devil. No sort of a pal for

a girl like you."

"I thought he was French," Pansy said in a strained voice.

"He poses as such, but he isn't. He's a nigger cross, French-Arab.

And what's more he's a Mohammedan."

"You're a trifle sweeping, Dennis," Sir George interposed. "If you'd

dealt with coloured people as much as I have, you'd know there was a

great difference between a nigger and an Arab. An Arab in his own way

is a gentleman. And his religion has a great resemblance to our own.

He is not a naked devil-worshipper like the negro."

Pansy welcomed her father's intervention. At that moment her world was

crashing into even greater ruins around her.

Raoul Le Breton a half-caste! The man she loved "a nigger"!

Pansy did not hide from herself the fact that she still loved Le

Breton, but this last piece of news about him put him quite beyond the

pale.

Also it put a new light on the affair of Lucille Lemesurier.

He was of a different race, a different religion, a different colour,

with a wholly different outlook.

After the first gust of temper was over, Pansy had wanted to find some

excuse for Le Breton over the affair of the French actress.

It is easy to find excuses for a person when one is anxious to find

them. And now it seemed she had one.

He was a Mohammedan. His religion allowed him four wives, and as many

other women as he pleased. No wonder he had been angry at the fuss she

had made over Lucille Lemesurier! According to his code he had done no

wrong.

Now Pansy wanted to apologise for her rudeness in invading his villa;

for her temper, and the scene that followed.

The fault was all hers. She ought to have found out more about him

before letting things go so far. She had liked him, and she had

troubled about nothing else.

She ought never to have encouraged him. For when they had breakfasted

together that morning among the red roses, she knew he was in love with

her.

"There are lots of things about myself I haven't told you."

Le Breton's remark came back to her mind.

No wonder he had wanted to marry her at once! Before she found out

anything about him.

Pansy tried to feel angry with her erstwhile lover. But, phantom-like,

the strength of his arms was around her, his handsome, sunburnt face

was close to her own, his voice was whispering words of love and

longing, his lips on hers in those passionate kisses that made her

forget everything but himself.

Her eyes went round the room, a brave, tortured look in them.

Were there other women there, suffering as she was suffering?

Suffering, and who yet had to go on smiling? The world demanded her

smiles, and it should have them, although her heart was bleeding at the

tragedy of her own making.

Not only her heart, but Raoul's. Because she had encouraged him.

She must not blame him. For the odds were all against him. She must

try and see things from his point of view--the point of view of a

polygamist.

That night when Pansy got back home, she wrote the following note:--

"Dear Mr. Le Breton,

I owe you an apology. Only to-night I have learnt that you are of

another race, another religion than mine. It makes things look quite

different. You see things from the point of view of your race, I, of

mine. I am sorry I did not know all this sooner; I should have acted

very differently. I should not have come to your villa that night and

made a stupid fuss, for one thing. About such matters men of your race

and religion are quite different from men of my own. I am sorry for

all that occurred. For my own bad temper and the annoyance I must have

caused you. But I did not know anything about you then.

Yours regretfully,

Pansy Langham.

P.S.--I shall be calling at Grand Canary in about ten days' time with

my father, Sir George Barclay. I am going out to Africa with him. If

you care to come on board during the evening I should like to see you

and say how sorry I am.

P. L."

CHAPTER XXII

One day when Le Breton returned from one of the mad rides he frequently

indulged in, in a vain effort to assuage the pain and chagrin that

raged within him, he found among a pile of letters put aside for his

inspection, one with an English stamp.

Letters from that country rarely came his way. But it was not the

novelty that attracted him, making him pick it out from the others, but

the writing.

He had seen it once before, on a note that had turned his heaven into

hell, when for the first time he had learnt what it was to be rejected

by a woman.

He tore the envelope open, eager for the contents.

What had the girl to say to him? Why had she written?

With a wild throb of hope, he drew out the message.

Once he had called Pansy a little creature of rare surprises. But none

equalled the surprise in store for him now.

It was not the apologies in the note he saw; nor a girl's desire to try

and see things from his point of view; nor the fact that, despite

everything, she was unable to break away from him.

He saw only one thing.

She was Sir George Barclay's daughter! The girl he loved to

distraction was the child of his father's murderer!

Astounded he stared at the note. He could not believe it. Yet it was

there, written in Pansy's own hand.

"With my father, Sir George Barclay."

Pansy, the child of the man he hated! That brave, kind, slim, teasing

girl, who for one brief week had filled him with a happiness and love

and contentment such as he had once deemed impossible.

As he brooded on the note a variety of emotions raged within him.

A vengeance that had rankled for sixteen years fought with a love that

had grown up in a week.

Then he pulled himself together, as if amazed at his own indecision.

He took the note, with its pathos and pleading; a girl's endeavour to

meet the view of the man she loved, whose outlook was quite beyond her.

Deliberately he tore it across and across, into shreds, slowly and with

a cruel look on his face, as if it were something alive that he was

torturing, and that gave him pleasure to torture.

For Le Breton had decided what his course was to be. The vengeance he

had promised long years ago should be carried out, with slight

alterations. He had a way now of torturing Sir George Barclay that

would be punishment beyond any death. And Pansy was the tool he

intended to use. What was more, she was to pay the penalty of her

father's crime. For he would mete out to her the measure he had

promised sixteen years ago.

However, this decision did not prevent Le Breton from going to Pansy's

yacht the evening of its arrival in Grand Canary.

After dinner he made his way along the quay towards the white vessel

with its flare of light that stood out against the dark night.

Evidently he was expected. On inquiring for Miss Langham, he was shown

into the cabin where he had had his previous interview with her; and

with the feeling that things would go his way, if he had but a little

patience: a virtue he had never been called upon to exercise where a

woman was concerned.

Le Breton's feelings as he stayed on in the pretty cabin would be

difficult to describe. Everything was redolent of the girl, touching

his heart with fairy fingers; a heart he had hardened against her.

But, as he waited there, he despised himself for even having

momentarily contemplated letting a woman come between him and his

cherished vengeance.

Once in Africa Sir George Barclay would prove an easy and unsuspecting

prey. According to custom, the Governor should tour his province.

That tour would bring him within six hundred miles of Le Breton's

desert kingdom. The latter intended to keep himself well posted in his

enemy's movements. And he knew exactly the spot where he would wait

for the Governor and his suite--the spot where sixteen years before the

Sultan Casim Ammeh had been shot.

He, Le Breton, would wait near there with a troop of his Arab soldiers.

Unsuspecting, the Governor would walk into the trap. The whole party

would be captured with a completeness and unexpectedness that would

leave no trace of what had happened. With his prisoners he would sweep

back to the desert.

Once in El-Ammeh, the daughter should be sold as a slave in the public

market, to become the property of any Arab or negro chief who fancied

her. And her father should see her sold. But he should not be killed

afterwards. He should live on to brood over his child's fate--a

torture worse than any death.

"Put your ear quite close. It's not a matter that can be shouted from

the house-tops."

Like a sign from the sea, the echo of Pansy's voice whispered in his

ear, a breath from his one night in heaven.

But he would not listen. Vengeance had stifled love--vengeance he had

waited sixteen years for.

He glanced round with set, cold face.

It seemed to him no other woman could look so lovely and desirable as

the girl entering.

Pansy was wearing a flounced dress of some soft pink silky material

that spread around her like the petals of a flower. The one great

diamond sparkled on her breast--a dewdrop in the heart of a half-blown

rose.

On seeing her Le Breton caught his breath sharply. This girl the

daughter of his father's murderer! This lovely half-blown English

rose! What a trick Fate had played him!

Then, ashamed of his momentary craving, he faced her, a cruel smile on

his lips.

There was a brief silence.

Pansy looked at him, thinking she had never seen him so handsome, so

proud, so aloof, so hard as now. He stood watching her coldly with no

word of welcome, no greeting on his lips.

He was the first to speak. And he said none of the things Pansy was

expecting and was prepared for.

"Why did you tell me your name was Langham?" he asked in a peremptory

manner.

"It is Langham," she answered, with some surprise.

"How is it, then, that you say Sir George Barclay is your father?"

"He is my father. Langham was my godfather's name, my own second name.

I had to take it when I inherited his money. That was his one

stipulation."

Another pause ensued.

There was a hurt look in Pansy's soft eyes as she watched Le Breton.

As he looked back at her a hungry gleam came to his hard ones.

"What have you learnt about me?" he demanded presently.

"That you're half Arab."

He had almost expected her to say she had discovered he was the Sultan

Casim Ammeh, her own and her father's sworn enemy.

"Is that all?" he asked, with a savage laugh.

"It's quite enough to account for everything," Pansy replied.

"Even for your coming into my arms and letting me kiss and caress you,"

he said, with biting sarcasm.

Pansy flushed.

"I didn't know anything about you then. And you know I didn't," she

said with indignation.

"Or you wouldn't have listened to a word of love from me."

Much as he tried to hate the girl, now that he was with her he could

not keep the word "love" off his lips.

Pansy felt she was not shining. She wanted to apologise, but he seemed

determined to be disagreeable. What was more, she had a feeling she

was dealing with quite a different man from the Raoul Le Breton who had

won and broken her heart within a week. She put it down to her own

treatment of him and it made her all the more anxious for an

understanding. She could not bear to see him looking at her in that

hard, cruel way, as if she were his mortal enemy--someone who had

injured him past all forgiveness.

"It's not that I want to talk about at all," she said desperately.

"What do you want to talk about, then?" he asked, his cruel smile

deepening.

"I want to say how sorry I am that I was angry with you that night.

But I ... I didn't know you were ... are----"

Pansy stopped before she got deeper into the mire.

She was going to say "a coloured man," but with him standing before

her, her lips refused to form the words.

However, Le Breton finished the sentence for her.

"'A nigger.' Don't spare my feelings. I've had it cast up at me

before by you English."

"You know I wouldn't say anything so cruel and untrue."

Again there was silence.

Le Breton watched her, torturing himself with the thought of what might

have been.

"If you'd kept your word, you'd be my wife now. The wife of 'a

nigger,'" he said presently.

"Don't be so cruel. I never thought you'd be like this," she cried,

her voice full of pain.

"And I never thought you would break your word."

"In any case, I couldn't have married you, considering you're a

Mohammedan," she said, goaded out of all patience by his unfriendly

attitude.

"Religion is nothing to me nowadays. I was quite prepared to change to

yours."

"You couldn't have done that. There would be your ... your wives to

consider."

"I have no wife by my religion or yours."

"But that woman at your villa, wasn't she----" Pansy began.

"I've half a dozen women in one of my--houses; but none of them are my

wives. You're the only woman I've ever asked for in marriage. You!"

He laughed in a cruel, hard way, as if at some devil's joke.

Pansy's hand went to her head--a weary, hopeless gesture.

He was beyond her comprehension, this man who calmly confessed to

having a half a dozen women in one of his houses, to a woman he would

have made his wife.

"I'm sorry," she said in a dreary tone, "but I can't understand you.

I'd no idea there were men who seemed just like other men and yet

behaved in this ... this extraordinary fashion."

"I'm not aware that my behaviour is extraordinary. Every man in my

country has a harem if he can afford it."

Deliberately he put these facts before the girl in his desire to hurt

and hate her as he hated her father. But the look of suffering on her

face hurt him as much as he was hurting her. And he hated himself more

than he hated her, because uprooting the love he had for her out of his

heart was proving such a difficult task.

"It's a harem, is it?" Pansy said distastefully. "Now I'm beginning to

understand. But I don't want to hear anything more about it. I see

now it was a mistake my asking you here. But I wanted you to know--to

know----"

She floundered and stopped and started again, anxious to be fair with

him in spite of everything.

"I wanted you to understand that the fact of your religion and race

made your behaviour seem quite different from what it would have been

were you a ... a European. I want you to see that I know you have your

point of view, that I can't in all fairness blame you for doing what is

not wrong according to your standpoint, even if it is according to

mine."

With his cold, cruel smile deepening, he watched her floundering after

excuses for him, endeavouring to see his point of view, to be just and

fair.

"You're very magnanimous," he said, with biting scorn.

"And you are very unkind," she flashed, suddenly out of patience.

"You're making everything as hard for me as you possibly can. You're

doing it deliberately; and you look as if you enjoyed hurting me. I

never thought you'd be like this, Raoul. I would have liked to part as

friends since ... since anything else is impossible."

His name on her lips made a spasm cross Le Breton's face.

As he stood there fighting against himself he knew he was still madly

in love with the girl he was determined to hate, and he despised

himself for his own weakness.

Pansy watched him, a look of suppressed suffering shadowing her eyes.

She would have given all she possessed--her cherished freedom, her vast

riches, her life--to have had him as she once thought him, a man of her

own colour, not with this dreadful black barrier between them; a

tragedy so ghastly that the fact of Lucille Lemesurier now seemed a

laughing matter. He was lost to her for ever. No amount of love or

understanding could pull down that barrier.

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm sorry we ever dropped

across one another."

Le Breton made no reply. Cold and unsmiling, he watched her.

There was a brief silence.

Outside, the sea sobbed and splashed like tears against the vessel's

side. But all the tears in the world could not wash the black stain

from him.

As they stood looking at one another, a verse came and sang like a

dirge in Pansy's head:

What are we waiting for? Oh, my heart,

Kiss me straight on the brow and part:

Again! Again, my heart, my heart

What are we waiting for, you and I?

A pleading look--a stifled cry--

Good-bye for ever. Good-bye, good-bye.

"Good-bye," she said again.

Then he smiled his cold, cruel smile.

"No, Pansy. I say--au revoir."

Ignoring her outstretched hand, he bowed. Then, after one long look at

her, he turned and was gone.

As the door closed behind him Pansy blinked back two tears.

It had hurt her horribly to see him so set and cold, with that cruel

look in his eyes where love once had been.

She wished that "The Sultan" had killed her that day in the East End of

London; or that Raoul Le Breton had been drowned that night in the sea.

Anything rather than that they should have met to make each other

suffer.

PART III

CHAPTER I

Over El-Ammeh great stars flashed, like silver lamps in the purple dome

above the desert city. Their light gave a faint, misty white tinge to

the scented blueness of the harem garden. There, trees sighed softly,

moving vague and shadow-like as a warm breeze stirred them. The walled

pleasance was filled with the scent of flowers, of roses, magnolia,

heliotrope, mimosa and a hundred other blossoms, for night lay heavy

upon the garden.

In sunken ponds the stars were mirrored, rocking gently on the surface

of the ruffled water. Close by one of the silvered pools, a man's

figure showed, big and white, in flowing garments. Against him a

slender girl leant.

Rayma's eyes rivalled the stars as she gazed up at her sultan and

owner. Yet in their dark depths a touch of anxiety lurked.

A fortnight ago, the Sultan had returned to El-Ammeh. The first week

had been one of blissful happiness for the Arab girl. For her master

had returned more her lover than ever. But, as the days went on,

doubts crept into her heart, vague and haunting. At times it seemed to

her he was not quite the same man who left her for Paris. For he had a

habit now that he had not had before he went away--a disconcerting

habit of looking at her with unseeing eyes, as if his thoughts were

elsewhere.

This mood was on him now.

Although the night called for nothing but love and caresses, none had

fallen to her lot. Although she rested against him, she might not have

been there for all the notice he took. He appeared to have forgotten

her, as he gazed in a brooding, longing manner at the soft, velvety

depths of the purple sky--sky as deeply, softly purple as pansies.

Rayma pressed closer to her lord and sultan, looking at him with

love-laden, anxious eyes.

"Beloved," she whispered softly, "are your thoughts with some woman in

Paris?"

With a start, his attention came back to her. In the starlight he

scanned her little face in a fierce, hungry, disappointed manner. For

the slight golden girl who now rested upon his heart brought him none

of the contentment he had known when Pansy had been there.

"No, little one," he said gently. "I prefer you to all the women I met

in Paris."

Her slim arms went round his neck in a clinging passionate embrace.

"Oh, my lord," she whispered, "such words are my life. At times I

think you do not love me as you once did. You seem not quite the same.

For, often, although your arms are around me, you forget that I am

there!"

A bitter expression crossed his face.

He did not forget that she was there. Although he had come back to the

desert girl he had once loved, it was not her he wanted, but the girl

who had scorned and flouted him, his enemy's daughter. And he tried to

forget her in the slim, golden arms that held him, with such desire and

passion.

"No, Rayma, I'm not quite the same," he said, stroking the little face

that watched him with such love and longing. "For sixteen years and

more I have waited to avenge my father's death. And now----"

He broke off, and laughed savagely.

"And now--my father's murderer is almost within my grip. Next week I

start out with my men to capture him."

Revenge was a sentiment the Arab girl could understand.

"Oh, my lord," she whispered, "little wonder that your mind wanders

from me, even though I am within your arms. I wept when you went to

Paris. But I would speed you on this quest for vengeance."

The Sultan made no reply.

Deep down in his own heart he knew his excuse was a false one. It was

not vengeance that came between him and Rayma--but Pansy.

And now he hated the English girl, for she had robbed all other women

of their sweetness.