Pansy saw nothing of her host until the following afternoon. Almost
immediately after his declaration Le Breton left her. Most of his time
had been spent in contemplating the truth now before him. His scheming
had failed. A sense of gratitude had not made the girl forget his
colour.
After a sleepless night, he was up and away, riding madly along one of
the sandy tracks that served his kingdom as roads, in a vain endeavour
to escape from his chagrin and disappointment, and trying to decide on
his next move.
He was surprised at his own hesitation. Having failed to attain his
object, he was astonished that he should pause before doing what was
obviously the only course left open to him. Just take the girl,
whether she liked it or not.
But he knew why he hesitated.
Pansy loved him in her own way, as she might love a man of her own
nationality. If he took her in his high-handed fashion, that love
might be swept from him. And the idea was one that he could not bear
to contemplate.
He returned from his wild ride still undecided on the next move.
In this frame of mind he came upon Pansy, in the midst of a solitary
afternoon tea, set in a shady corner of the tennis court.
She greeted him as if the episode of the previous afternoon had never
been.
"What have you been doing with yourself all day?" she asked, as she
handed him a cup of tea.
"I've been trying to ride off my disappointment," he replied.
Pansy, too, had been fighting a battle of her own. Most of her night
had been spent in arguing with temptation.
She was rich and independent. Why shouldn't she marry the man she
loved, even if it were going against all the canons of her society?
She was wealthy enough to defy society. She owed more than her life to
him. Gratitude as well as love urged her towards him. Why should she
make him suffer through no fault of his own? Why should she suffer
herself? Why should she shut herself up from the man she loved because
he happened to be a--a----
"A nigger."
The echo of Dennis's voice shouted the word at her, as it had seemed to
shout that night in the London hotel, when Le Breton's name had been
mentioned.
Pansy looked at her host as he lolled beside her; a picture of strength
and handsomeness.
She wished his dark blood were more in evidence. That he did not look
exactly like some of the big French, Spanish, and Italian men she had
seen occasionally in various places on the continent. So absolutely
European was he that it was impossible to think he was half-Arab.
"I wish you weren't so nice and handsome, Raoul," she said impulsively.
He cast a quick, speculative glance at her.
Perhaps, after all, a little more patience was all that was
needed--patience combined with his own presence.
When tea was over, Pansy got up in a restless way.
"I feel I must do something active, or else go mad," she remarked.
The feeling was one he could sympathise with.
"We'll have a game of tennis then, if you promise to go easy."
Pansy remembered the way he had played that afternoon in Grand Canary.
"You'll simply mop the floor with me," she said.
"I'll play you left-handed."
Only too anxious to get away from her own thoughts and the temptation
they brought, Pansy turned towards the court.
When the game started he handled his opponent carefully, putting the
balls where she could get them without any effort.
At the end of the first set Pansy objected to his methods.
"You're not really trying, you're only playing with me," she said.
"It wouldn't be fair for me to pit all my strength against yours, would
it now?" he asked.
"Well, do make a game of it. If you go on like this, I could sit down
comfortably in the middle of the court and win. You needn't put the
balls on my racket. I can stretch an inch or so around without fatal
results."
The next game was more strenuous. But, as it went on, Pansy, getting
excited, forgot caution. A long stretch and an upward spring to
intercept one of her opponent's balls, brought cutting, knife-like
pains tearing at her chest.
The racket dropped from her grip. She stood, white and swaying, her
hand on her heart.
In a moment he had vaulted the net, and was at her side, his arm about
her, concern on his face.
"It's nothing," she gasped.
"It's that accursed bullet," he said, conscience-stricken. "When
Edouard extracted it, he warned me you'd feel the effects for some
time."
He spoke without thinking, the sight of her suffering making him forget
his double role.
At the moment Pansy was too full of pain to grasp what he had said.
Half leading, half carrying her, he took her to the nearest chair,
settling her there with a cushion at her head.
With white lips she smiled at him; her only desire to allay his concern.
"There's nothing to worry about," she said faintly. "I'm a long way
from being dead."
"It's all my fault," he said hoarsely.
"Oh no, you always said I mustn't be too strenuous," she contradicted.
Le Breton let it stay at that, aware that he had said more than he
intended to say, and hoping the girl had not grasped all that lay
within his comment.
For some minutes Pansy sat quiet, and, as her pain receded, her
companion's sentence came more to the fore.
"It's that accursed bullet. When Edouard extracted it he warned me
you'd feel the effects for some time."
From Alice, Pansy had learnt that the bullet had been extracted on the
day she was brought into her enemy's camp.
Then Raoul must have been there! With the Sultan's forces!
But why hadn't he told her? Why had he pretended that he only had
_guessed_ she was the girl captured? Why had he never mentioned Dr.
Edouard before? Why had Dr. Edouard never mentioned him?
It looked as if he had not wanted her to know.
But why hadn't he wanted her to know?
As Pansy pondered on the problem, mingled with the sweetness of the
roses came another scent she knew--one that had greeted her every
morning during her stay in the palace.
Above the screening trellis of roses, a tree grew, covered with great
bunches of pink flowers, like apple blossom but more vivid, filling the
air with fragrance.
Pansy had seen the flower before; among the blossoms that used to come
to her every morning in the dim, gilded chamber.
"Still only a few flowers, Pansy?"
Le Breton's remark in the orange groves at Telde suddenly flashed
across her mind. She remembered also his array of Arab servants, how
obsequious they had been to their master on that occasion; and his
wealth and magnificence; a splendour that was almost regal.
Close to where she sat, the tea-table stood.
Among the assortment of cakes were one or two of a kind she had seen
previous to her rescue. Tiny, diamond-shaped dainties, made from
layers of sponge cake and marzipan with chocolate icing on the top.
Often, in those long, hopeless days in the gilded prison, a similar
morsel was all she had been able to eat for her tea.
Sixteen years ago a boy of about fourteen had sworn to kill her father.
He would be thirty now. The same age as----! And the Sultan spoke
French too!
They were little things, but they all pointed in one and the same
direction. And, as Pansy brooded on them, an incredulous expression
came to her eyes, and, with it, a look as if she were fighting to keep
some horrible, impossible truth at bay.
Her gaze went to Le Breton.
"A great, big, fine man, awful good-looking."
Alice's description of the Sultan Casim Ammeh came back to her. Words
that fitted her host exactly.
As she looked at him, from the paddock came the stamp of a horse's hoof.
She was here. Her favourite horse was here. Raoul Le Breton was here.
All of them in this desert city hundreds of miles from civilisation.
Such a combination could not be unless----
"If I were a king in Babylon and you were a Christian slave. 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..."
His own words came echoing through her head; condemning words.
Then she recollected with what unpleasant emphasis he had said "au
revoir," on parting with her that night on her yacht.
All at once Pansy's miracle exploded.
She wondered how she could have been such a fool as not to have guessed
sooner.
This was the Sultan Casim Ammeh! This man standing before her!
He caught her gaze and smiled; it seemed to the girl, mockingly.
"Well, Heart's Ease, are you feeling better?" he asked. "After this
you'll agree with me that 'The Light of the Harem' act is the most
suitable life for you just at present."
It seemed to Pansy that he was gibing her.--At her trust, her belief,
her incredulous folly.
What a blind fool she had been! It was all as plain as daylight now.
Raoul Le Breton was the Sultan Casim Ammeh. It was her father's enemy
she had confessed to loving; had wept in front of, clung to, trusted,
displaying a weakness that had fallen to no man's lot, save her
father's.
At the thought Pansy's soul writhed within her.
How could she have been such a fool! How he must have laughed at her!
Raoul Le Breton had condemned her to the unspeakable ordeal of the
slave market in order to torture her father.
He had done it! Raoul Le Breton! The man she loved.
Pansy did not love him now. She hated him.
For a moment she was too stunned by her discovery to say or do anything.
Then she said in a voice that wild anger stifled somewhat:
"So _you_ are the Sultan Casim Ammeh."
As Pansy spoke she got to her feet, her eyes blazing.
There was no mistaking what was on her face. She had guessed the truth.
On realising this, he made no attempt at further deception.
"_I_ am the Sultan Casim Ammeh," he said, smiling. "And, my little
slave, _you_ are my most cherished possession. More to me than my
kingdom."
His cool confession staggered her.
As he stood there, unabashed and unrepentant, she looked round quickly,
in search of something to strike him with. For the knowledge of his
deceit and duplicity had made her beside herself with rage.
Since there was no weapon at hand, she set off rapidly across the lawn,
heedless of where she went, her only desire to get away from him.
She had not gone very far, however, before he was at her side.
"Where are you going, Pansy?" he asked with a masterful air.
That he should dare to follow her; dare to call her by her name enraged
her beyond all bounds. And his words added to her fury. They made her
realise there was nowhere she could go to escape him.
Like a whirlwind she turned upon him.
"I wish ... I wish I could kill you," she gasped.
There was a tennis racket lying at her feet. As if to carry out this
design, she stooped and picked it up; her only desire now to send it
crashing into the mocking, masterful face.
But he guessed her intention. In a moment he had grasped the racket
and wrested it away.
"No, Pansy," he said. "No one has ever struck me, and you're not going
to. For I don't quite know what the consequences might be."
There was a brief, tense silence.
As he looked at the girl, it seemed that Fate had decided the next move
for him.
"We may as well come to an understanding," he went on. "I hate your
father, but I love you. And you've got to have me, whether you like it
or not. I'd prefer to marry you in your English way. But if you won't
consent to that, then--I shall take you, in mine. The choice is with
you."
There was only one part of his ultimatum that Pansy thoroughly grasped.
And there seemed no limit to his audacity.
"I'd rather die than marry you," she flamed. "For I hate you. Do you
hear? I hate you more than anything on this earth."
He heard right enough, and his face blanched at her words.
Then, before he had recovered from this blow, Pansy struck him across
the mouth, with all her strength, bringing blood to the lips that dared
to talk of love to _her_.