In one of the tents in the glade Sir George Barclay sat, an Arab guard
on either side of him. There was an almost stupefied air about him; of
a man whose world has suddenly got beyond his control.
The previous afternoon, without any warning, his party had been set
upon and captured; but by whom, and why, he did not know. There was no
rebellious chief in the district; no discontent. Yet he was a prisoner
in the hands of some wild tribe; captured so suddenly that not one of
his men had escaped to take word to the next British outpost and bring
up a force to his assistance.
There was but one streak of consolation in his broodings--the knowledge
that his daughter had not fallen alive into the hands of the barbaric
soldiery.
Some little time after he had been brought a prisoner to the glade he
had seen Cameron come in, white and shaking with fever.
On seeing his chief, the young man had shouted across the space:
"Thank God! the niggers haven't got Pansy alive."
They were given no time for further conversation, for one was hustled
this way and one that.
As Barclay sat brooding on the fate that had overtaken his party and
trying to find a reason for it, someone entered the tent.
In the newcomer he recognised the leader of the force that had waylaid
and captured him and his party.
"So, George Barclay, we meet for a second time," a deep voice said
savagely in French.
Barclay scanned the big man in the white burnoose who stood looking at
him with hatred in his dark, fiery eyes.
To his knowledge he had never seen him before.
"Where did we first meet?" he asked quietly.
"Sixteen years ago, when you murdered my father, the Sultan Casim
Ammeh."
Sir George started violently and scanned the man anew. He had a reason
now for the untoward happenings.
"Do you remember all I promised for you and yours that day you refused
to listen to my pleadings?" the savage voice asked.
Barclay remembered only too well. And as he looked at the ruthless
face before him he was more than ever thankful for one thing.
"Thank God; my daughter is dead!" he said.
The Sultan smiled, coldly, cruelly.
"Your daughter is not dead," he replied. "She is alive; just alive.
And you may rest assured that she'll have every care and attention."
The news left Barclay staring in a stricken manner at his captor.
"My doctor assures me that she will live," the Sultan went on. "And
you will live, too, to see her sold as a slave in the public market of
my city."
Sir George said nothing. The thought of Pansy's ghastly fate placed
him beyond speech. At that moment he could only pray that she might
die.