The sound of that desperate conflict rang through the stillness of the
night, reaching the ears of a man who was riding at break-neck speed
along the sandy track leading in the direction of the oasis. Those
diabolical shrieks of laughter filled him with a torture of mind almost
past bearing. In them he heard the voices of hyenas mangling the girl
he loved.
Le Breton had always known Pansy would run away if an opportunity
occurred. But he had imagined that he had made escape impossible.
After dinner, he went to the gilded room, to pay an evening visit to
his prisoner, since business affairs had kept him from dining with her.
However, she was not there.
Experience had taught him that it would be no use looking for her in
the moonlit, rose-scented garden. She never went there after sunset,
for fear he should come across her, and the beauty and romance of it
all, combined with his presence, should force the surrender he was
waiting for.
Not finding Pansy in her own private quarters, he went into the big
hall of the harem, only to be told she had not been there since well
before dinner.
On learning this he set the women searching in every corner of the
harem. But Pansy was nowhere to be found.
Beyond a doubt, she had managed to escape. For a moment the news dazed
him. He did not waste time in trying to discover how she had escaped,
or who was responsible for her getting away. She had gone. That one
fact glared at him. No one knew better than the Sultan himself the
dangers awaiting the girl once she strayed beyond his care.
Within a few minutes all his servants and soldiers were out looking for
the fugitive, scouring the city, with threats of the dire fate awaiting
anyone who dared either hide or injure the Sultan's wife.
A hasty search brought no trace of the girl, but one of the search
parties learnt that a horse was missing from the royal stables.
On hearing this the Sultan went at once to the stables, looking for a
clue there. The missing horse was Pansy's. The discovery sent a
sudden glow of hope coursing through him. It argued that somehow or
other she had managed to reach the stables and had set out into the
desert.
The Sultan understood horses, even better, it seemed to him now, than
he understood women. Left to its own devices the old horse would go
the way it knew the best; the way he generally took it. And left to
itself it was almost certain to be, since its rider had no knowledge of
any of the sandy tracks that lay around the city.
Within a few moments he was on the swiftest of his own horses, riding
with all speed towards the oasis; but not before leaving orders with
his officers to scour the desert in every direction.
He had ridden perhaps five miles when into the stealthy hiss of the
sand another sound came. At first so far away that it was but a
distant moan in the night. As he tore on rapidly it grew louder,
developing into a chorus of hideous laughter, the cry of hyenas howling
round their prey.
Desert reared, instinctively he knew there must be at least twenty of
them.
When, above the melee he heard the terrorized screams of a horse, a
deadly fear clutched him. Where the horse was, the girl was. And the
sound told him the two had been attacked.
Around Pansy the ghastly conflict was raging. Around her mangled
corpse, perhaps.
He suffered all the tortures of the damned, as with spur and crop he
urged the great stallion onwards, until the animal was a lather of
sweat and foam.
The hyenas heard the throb of those approaching hoofs, and fear gripped
their cowardly hearts.
The disconcerting noise grew speedily louder. On the whiteness of the
lonely desert a dark patch appeared; a patch that rapidly became bigger
and headed straight towards them.
It was one thing to attack a tired old horse and a half-stunned girl,
but another to face a huge black stallion and the big man in the white
burnoose who rode it.
The hyenas did not face the combination. With a weird howl of
disappointment, they turned tail suddenly and scuttled away into the
desert, leaving the old horse shivering with relief and pain and
exhaustion.
The feeling of someone touching her made Pansy open her eyes. Into her
hazy world her captor's face intruded. He was half-kneeling on the
sand beside her, examining her limbs, feeling her heart, to see if she
were injured in any way.
For a moment Pansy could not believe her eyes.
Then she put out a weak hand to push him away. But a push did not
remove him. He was still there, in white cloak and hood; a desert
chief who wanted to marry her. Big and solid he knelt beside her, a
fact not to be escaped from. And his hand was on her bosom as if to
steal the heart she would not give him.
Satisfied Pansy was not hurt in any way, the Sultan got to his feet,
and turned towards the horse. It needed more attention than the girl.
He petted and patted the worn-out shivering animal, talking to it in a
deep, caressing voice, as he bound up its gaping wounds with lengths
torn from his own white garments.
Then he lifted the girl on his own horse, and, mounting himself, set
out on a slow walk towards his city.
Pansy made a feeble struggle when she found herself in his arms, her
head resting against his shoulder, held in a tight, possessive grip.
"So, little flower, you would still try to escape from me," he said in
a fierce, fond manner. "But I don't let love go so lightly."
He ignored her struggles as he talked to and encouraged the old horse
that hobbled along by their side, with stiff, painful steps.
As the slow journey went on, Pansy fell asleep against the strength
that held her.
The Sultan was quick to note this, and he smiled at the small tired
face on his shoulder. He knew the nature of the girl he held. It
would be impossible for her to go to sleep in any man's arms except
those of the man she loved. She was very foolish to fight against him,
but fight she would until he used his strength and ended the battle.
An uneven contest the last round would be, with no doubt as to who
would be the victor.