In his tent the Sultan Casim Ammeh was waiting for the return of the
party sent on to the old fort to capture Pansy.
So far there had been no hitch in his schemes. Sir George and his
staff had proved an easy prey. Already one portion of his Arab
following, with Barclay's officers, had set out on the long journey
back to El-Ammeh.
Sir George and Pansy, the Sultan had arranged to take up himself, as
soon as the girl was in his hands. For he had no desire to linger in
British territory.
But it was not the punishment England would dole out to him if he were
caught that filled Le Breton's mind as he sat cross-legged among the
cushions, with the cruel lines about his mouth very much in evidence.
His thoughts were all with Sir George Barclay's daughter.
What desert harem would be her future home? What wild chief would call
that golden-haired girl his chattel?
Casim Ammeh had determined to carry out his vengeance to the letter,
where Pansy was concerned. To sell her in the slave-market of his
capital; and keep her father alive, tortured by the knowledge of his
daughter's fate.
What would the girl say when she saw him? When she recognised him for
the Sultan of El-Ammeh, the man her father had wronged past all
forgiveness. Would that sweet, brave face go white at the knowledge of
the fate before her? Would she try to plead with him or herself and
her father? Would----!
Le Breton pulled his straying thoughts up sharply, lest they should go
wandering down forbidden ways--ways that led to where love was.
He had determined to hate Pansy; a hatred he had to keep continually
before him, lest he should forget it.
The afternoon wore on, bringing long shadows creeping into the glade.
And the Sultan sat waiting for the full fruit of his vengeance. There
might be peace in his heart once the wrong done to his father was
righted. Peace in the restless heart that throbbed within him, that
seemed always searching for a life other than the one he lived; a peace
he had known just once or twice when a girl's slight form had rested
upon it. His enemy's daughter!
The sound of approaching hoofs broke into his thoughts. He knew what
they were. Those of the party sent on to capture Pansy.
When the cavalcade halted, his eyes went to the open flap of the big
tent, a savage expression in them. He could not see the returned party
from there; only the guards posted outside of the royal quarters.
Presently a couple of men in flowing white robes came into view; the
two officers who had headed the expedition. They were challenged by
the sentries, then they passed on towards the tent where their Sultan
was waiting.
There was concern upon their faces, that deepened to resignation and
despair when the royal gaze rested upon them.
"Where is the English lady?" their Sultan demanded coldly.
"Your Highness, there was a man of her colour with her, and----" one of
the officers began.
Le Breton made an impatient gesture.
"Bring me the girl," he commanded.
The officers glanced at one another. Then one knelt before the Sultan.
"The instructions were carried out," he said. "But the English lady is
dead."
There was a moment of tense silence. A feeling of someone fighting
against an incredible truth.
Pansy dead! Impossible!
The Sultan sat as if turned into stone. The contretemps was one he had
never anticipated.
"Dead," the echoes whispered at him mockingly through the silk-draped
tent. "Dead," they sighed unto themselves as if in dire pain.
And that one tragic word stripped love of its garment of hate, and set
it before him, alive and vital.
The tent suddenly became charged with suffering, and the feeling of a
fierce, proud heart breaking.
"Dead!" the Sultan repeated in a hoarse, incredulous voice. "Then
Allah have pity on the man who killed her, for I shall have none."
"Your Highness, there was a white man with her. He shot her," the
kneeling officer explained.
Le Breton hardly heard him. For the first time in his wild, arrogant
life he felt regret; regret for a deed of his own doing. The regret
that is the forerunner of conscience, as conscience precedes the birth
of a soul--the soul he had once laughingly accused Pansy of trying to
save.
His schemes had brought her to her death. Morally his was the hand
that had killed her. His hand!
The thought staggered him.
He got to his feet suddenly, reeling slightly, as if in dire agony.
The officer kneeling before him bowed his head submissively. He
expected the fate of all who bring bad news to a Sultan--the Sultan's
sword upon his neck.
But Le Breton hardly noticed the man. He only saw his own deed before
him. Love had leapt out of its scabbard of hate. The one fact he had
tried to keep hidden from himself was shouting, loud-voiced, at him.
In spite of who and what Pansy was, he still loved her, madly,
ragingly, hopelessly. But it had taken her death to bring the truth
home to him.
"Where is the girl?" he asked, in a stiff, harsh voice.
"We brought her so that your Highness could see we spoke the truth,"
the officer replied.
"Let her be brought in to me then, and laid there," the Sultan said,
indicating a wide couch full of cushions.
Glad to escape with their lives the officers hurried out to do the
royal bidding.
There were no cruel lines about the Sultan's mouth as he waited their
return, but deep gashes of pain instead.
A silent cavalcade entered the tent some minutes later: as silent as
the Sultan who stood awaiting them; as silent as the girl with the red
stain on her breast and the red blood on her lips.
A look from the Sultan dismissed the men.
When they had gone, he crossed to Pansy's side, and stood gazing down
at her.
She lay limp and white, a broken lily before him,
His enemy's daughter! This still, white, lovely girl. This pearl
among women, whom he had tried to hate. And now----!
Pain twisted his face.
He thought of Pansy as he had last seen her, that night on her yacht.
She had wanted to bring about an understanding between them. She had
tried to see things from his point of view. She was prepared to make
allowances, to find excuses for him. And he had treated her with
harshness; wilfully set her at a disadvantage; purposely had
misunderstood her; deliberately had said all he could to wound her.
He had done his best to hate her. He had put vengeance before love.
Now he had his reward. His wild lust for revenge had stilled that kind
heart that had lived to do its best for all.
A stifled groan came to his lips.
What a trick Fate had played upon him!
Leaning over the couch he took one of her limp, white hands into his
strong brown one. The little hand whose touch could always soothe his
restless spirit, that had once teased and caressed him, opening out
visions of a Paradise that his own deeds had now shut out from him for
ever.
The Fruit of the Tree of Vengeance is bitter. And this Le Breton
realized to the fullest as he gazed at the silent girl.
"Pansy, don't mock me from beyond the Styx," he whispered. "For you
know now that my heart is broken. There's nothing but grief for me
here and hereafter."
Then it seemed to the tortured man that a miracle happened.
The girl's eyes opened.
For a brief second she gazed at him in a dazed, bewildered manner.
Then her lids dropped weakly, as if even that slight effort were too
much for her.