Giving no thought to the grimy wretch out there in the desert, the
Sultan was seated in one of the deep, open galleries of his palace.
Some ten feet below a garden sighed, and the soft wind that wandered in
and out of the fretted arches was ladened with the scent of a thousand
flowers. Close at hand a fountain whispered, and from the distance
came the gentle lap of the lake.
However, he noticed none of these things. There was something of far
greater interest close beside him.
Among the cushions of a wicker lounge Pansy lay, her head pillowed on
silk and down, a worn look still on her face.
Night had fallen before she awoke from her drugged slumber. She had
found Le Breton still beside her, and the room full of the soft glow of
shaded lamps.
Once she was fully awake he had left, promising to come again after
dinner.
She had dined in the gallery. The roofed terrace was lighted by the
glow coming from the two rooms behind. One was her bedroom; the other
a gorgeously appointed _salon_. But at the end of these two rooms an
iron grille went across the gallery, stopping all further
investigations.
When Le Breton came he found Pansy on the terrace. Once he was seated,
she told him what had happened to her father's party. Then she went
back to the beginning, sixteen years before, with the story of the
youthful Sultan; but she did not mention that she had been wounded and
ill, for fear of having to meet a host of anxious enquiries.
Without comment he listened.
When she finished, all he said was:
"Well, I suppose the Sultan has his point of view, since it appears
your father was responsible for the death of his."
"But it was my father's duty to condemn him. He would hate doing it,
for he can't bear to hurt people. It was not 'murder,' as the present
Sultan seems to think."
To this Le Breton had nothing to say.
"You must let the French Government know my father is a prisoner here,"
she went on. "Then they'll send an expedition and rescue him and his
officers."
"I couldn't do that, Pansy. You forget I'm half Arab. I can't go back
on my father's people."
Pansy had forgotten this fact about him; and it seemed her father's
freedom was not quite so close at hand as she had imagined.
"Could I send my father a note?" she asked anxiously. "That cruel
Sultan sent him to see me sold. It must have been torture for him; for
I'm all he's got, and he's awfully fond of me. I want to say I'm safe
here with you. I can't bear to think of him in torment."
"Write a note if you like, and I'll see what I can do," he replied.
At once she got up and went into the _salon_ where she had noticed a
writing-table. The place was more like a hall than a room; a spreading
columned apartment, with walls and floor and ceiling of white marble,
where fountains played into fern-grown basins and palms stood in huge,
gilded tubs. There were deep, soft, silk-covered chairs and lounges, a
sprinkling of gilded tables, and a large grand piano.
Some minutes later Pansy returned to her host with a letter in her hand.
He took it, and then rose to go.
"You mustn't sit up too late," he said, looking down at her with an air
of possession; "you've had a trying day, and don't worry any more about
anything or anybody."
So saying, he left her.
Full of gratitude, Pansy watched him go. And her conscience smote her.
On the whole she had treated him rather badly. She had promised to
marry him, and then had gone back on her word. She did not deserve his
kindness and consideration.
He had been so cold and harsh that night on her yacht in Grand Canary.
He was none of these things now. He was just as he had been during
their one brief week of friendship, but even nicer.
Pansy sighed, and her face grew wistful.
Why wasn't he just like other men? Why had Fate been so unkind?
Giving her love, but in such a form that pride revolted from taking it.
Then Pansy went to bed, to lie awake for some time, brooding on the
miracle the day had brought forth and the black barrier that stood
between her and her lover.
She was about early the next morning and wandering in the garden.
It was a long stretch of shady walks and sunken ponds and splashing
fountains, full of tropical trees, scented shrubs, and rare blossoms--a
tangle of delights. In one spot she found a tennis court, walled with
pink roses. The grounds went on, ending in a wide, flagged terrace,
with stone seats and shallow steps leading down to the blue waters of
the lake.
High walls ran down either side of the spreading garden. Behind, a
huge building rose in domes and turrets and terraces--the palace of
El-Ammeh had Pansy but known it, of which her new quarters were but a
further portion.
Blissfully ignorant of this fact, she turned her steps from the
rippling lake and wandered along a flower-decked path that twisted
under shady trees and creeper-grown arches, coming presently to a
locked iron gate let into the massive walls.
It gave a view of a scorched paddock where a dozen or more horses were
browsing.
Pansy paused and scanned the animals.
One was strangely familiar.
That gaunt chestnut browsing there could only be "The Sultan"!
Amazed at her discovery, she called the horse by name.
At once the brown head was up, and the beast came galloping in her
direction.
Even in the days of her illness and during her imprisonment in the
palace, Pansy had spared a thought for her protege. She imagined he
had become the property of one of the Arab raiders, and she hoped his
new master would be kind to him and understand him as she did.
Through the iron bars Pansy caressed her pet.
"I never expected to see you again, Sultan, old boy," she said. "Raoul
must have bought you, too."
She was standing there talking to and petting the animal when Le
Breton's step roused her.
"Are you pleased to see him again?" he asked, after greeting her.
"Pleased isn't the word for it. But how did you manage to get hold of
him?"
"He was really the cause of my getting hold of you," he replied without
hesitation. "I saw him in the possession of one of the soldiers who
had come back from that foray. That made me doubly certain who the
white girl was whom the Sultan was going to put up for sale."
"Raoul, you must let me give you back all you had to pay for me," she
said.
"Why should you?" he asked, a slight smile hovering about his lips.
"You saved my life. Now we're 'quits.' Isn't that what you called it?"
Pansy did not argue the point. Nevertheless, she determined to repay
him once she and her father were back in civilisation.
"How long will it take to get my father free?" she asked.
"It all depends on the sort of mood I catch the Sultan in. With the
best of luck, it'll be some weeks."
"Has he got my note yet, do you think?" she asked anxiously. "He'll go
grey with worrying over me. I can't bear to think of the look on his
face when he saw me in that ... that awful slave market."
Le Breton had destroyed her message the moment he had reached his own
rooms. Now he could not meet the beautiful eyes that looked at him
with such perfect trust.
"I expect the message will get through before the day is out," he
answered. "It's merely a matter of 'baksheesh.'"
At his words the world became quite a nice place again for Pansy, the
only shadow in it now the dark blood in her lover.