Through the open arches of the gilded chamber the moonlight dripped,
making silver ponds on the golden floor, filling the place with a vague
shimmering glow.
One bar of moonlight fell on a couch where Pansy lay, her face buried
in the cushions. By her side the Sultan knelt, one arm across her,
watching her with glowing, passionate eyes.
The last few minutes had been a haze to the girl; a blur of great
negroes with whips; of Rayma, sobbing and helpless; of Raoul Le Breton,
cruel, as she had always felt he might be.
He had come back into her life suddenly, that lover with the strong
arms and the deep, caressing voice, the big, half-tamed, arrogant man,
whom from the first she had liked and had never been afraid of.
"What dare I hope? What dare I think?" his voice was saying. "Dare I
think that you don't quite hate me? Look at me, my little slave, and
let me see what is in your eyes."
But Pansy did not look at him. She was too full of shame and
confusion, despite Leonora's assurance; a shame and confusion that the
Sultan guessed at, for he stayed caressing her golden curls with a
soothing touch.
For a time there was silence.
Through the room the wind strayed, its soft, rose-ladened breath
mingling with the subtle scent of sandalwood. Somewhere in the garden
an owl hooted. A peevish wail in the night, came the cry of jackals
prowling around the city walls.
Under that firm, strong, soothing hand, Pansy's shame subsided a
little. For the girl there was always magic in his touch, except when
anger raged within her. There was no anger now, only a sense of her
own helplessness, and the knowledge of the lives he held in his power.
Under the silence and his soothing hand, a question trembled to her
lips, born of her own helplessness and the dire straits of her father
and friends.
"If ... if I marry you, will you send my father and friends safely back
to Gambia?" she asked, in a low voice.
He laughed tenderly.
"If I were as big a villain as you think me, I'd say 'yes,' and then
break faith with you, Pansy--as you broke faith with me. If I sent
them back, my little flower, do you know what would happen? Your
English friends would complain to the French Government. An expedition
would be sent up here, and they would dole out to me the fate your
father doled out to mine."
His words made Pansy realise for the first time that his summary
abduction of his father's party had brought him foul of two Governments.
Horrified, she gazed at him; her father and friends all forgotten at
the thought of the fate awaiting her captor.
They would shoot him, this big, fierce man. All fire would die out of
those flashing eyes. That handsome face would be stiff and stark in
death. Never again would that hard mouth curve into lines of
tenderness when he smiled at her. There would be no strength left in
his arms. No deep, passionate, caressing voice. No untamed, masterful
man, using all his power to bend her to his will.
It was one thing for Pansy to want to kill him herself, but quite
another for other people to set about it.
At that moment she realised that, in spite of everything, she did not
hate the Sultan Casim Ammeh.
And what was more he knew it too. For he bent over her, laughing
softly.
"So, Heart's Ease, you don't quite hate me," he said. "That fact will
keep me patient for quite a little time. And you will be whispering
'yes' in my ear, as I would have you whisper it--of your own free will,
as you whispered 'I love you,' on that sweet night six months ago."
He bent still lower, and kissed the little face that watched him with
such strained anxiety.
"Good night, my darling," he said fondly.
Long after he had gone Pansy lay trying to crush the truth back into
its hiding-place in her heart. And his voice, tender and triumphant,
seemed to echo back mockingly from the jewelled ceiling.
For surely she could not love a man so cruel, so barbaric, so
profligate as the Sultan Casim Ammeh.