Evening shadows were settling over El-Ammeh; deep, grey shadows that,
for all their gloomy darkness, were not as dark and gloomy as the
thoughts of a man who was a prisoner in one of the rooms of his own
palace.
Against a fluted column the Sultan stood watching night settle on the
lake; a night that would soon settle on him for ever.
The day had gone against him. Outmatched, he had been driven back to
his city walls. Even then he could have escaped with a handful of his
following, and have started life afresh as a desert marauder, but there
was one treasure in his palace--the greatest treasure of his life--that
he wanted to take with him. In a vain effort to secure Pansy before he
fled, he had been captured.
With his enemies close at his heels, he had made a dash for the palace,
to fetch the girl. On arriving outside of her prison, he found a fall
of masonry had blocked the doorway. Before he could retrace his steps
and try another entrance, his pursuers were upon him.
The French were already in possession of that part of the city where
the Englishmen had been imprisoned. Immediately they were released,
Sir George Barclay and his officers, supplemented by a few Senegalese
soldiers, had gone hot-foot to the palace, to Pansy's rescue.
There they had found the Sultan. A brief struggle against overpowering
odds ensued, and once more the so-called Casim Ammeh was a prisoner in
the hands of George Barclay.
With the shadows gathering round him, the Sultan stood, in white
burnoose, a bitter expression on his arrogant face.
He had nothing now, neither wealth, nor power, nor his kingdom, nor the
girl he had risked all for in a vain attempt to win. To-morrow he
would have even less.
There was short shrift for such as he. To-morrow his life would have
been taken from him. A life that had become empty as he had grown
older and pleasures palled, until Pansy had come into it, filling it
with freshness and innocence.
The battle between them was over at last. Death would end it. His
death.
A European entered. A man he knew. George Barclay. The man he hated
more than ever; the man responsible for his capture.
Barclay ordered one of the soldiers to light the lamp. Then he
dismissed his escort.
There were half a dozen Senegalese soldiers mounting guard over the
Sultan. The Englishman dismissed them also, leaving himself alone with
the prisoner.
"You're doing a bold thing, Barclay, leaving the two of us together
like this," the Sultan remarked. "It will give me great pleasure to
wring your neck, before I'm sent the way of my father."
As if to carry out this design, he took a step towards the Governor.
From his pocket, Barclay drew out a few sheets of faded, scented paper.
"Read this," he said quietly, handing them to the prisoner.
With some surprise, the Sultan took them.
On opening the letter, he started, for he recognised his mother's
writing.
As he read on, his bronzed face whitened, and a dazed look came to his
eyes, like a man reeling under a tremendous blow.
In a critical, but not unfriendly manner, Barclay studied his
companion. He knew now why the Sultan of El-Ammeh differed so in
appearance from the wild people he ruled.
On reaching Pansy, he had had Annette Le Breton's letter thrust into
his hands. His daughter had had no greeting for him, only wild
entreaties for him to save the Sultan. When Barclay read the tragic
confession he was quite ready to do his best.
Then Pansy had told him more.
How Raoul Le Breton was the man she loved. But she did not say that
Lucille Lemesurier was responsible for their parting. She led her
father to believe that the discovery of the supposed black blood in her
lover had been her "hole in the floor of heaven."
Barclay did not trouble his daughter with many questions. It was
enough that she was safe. What was more, he knew she would marry the
man of her choice, no matter what obstacles were put in her way, as the
first Pansy had married him--with the world against her.
All he wanted now was to save the man his daughter had set her heart
on; that death should not blight her life as it had blighted his.
When the conflict was over, and the French and English officers met
again, Barclay had shown the letter to the commander of the
expeditionary force--the man who held the Sultan's life in his hand.
The officer had read Annette Le Breton's statement through in silence.
Considering the contents, it did not need Pansy's lovely, anxious face
or her father's pleadings to make him promise them life and liberty for
Colonel Le Breton's son. More he could not promise. The two
governments would want an indemnity that would swallow up most of the
kingdom of El-Ammeh.
But his life was all Pansy wanted.
His life, and to be at his side when the blow fell. For a blow it was
bound to be, to a man as proud and fierce as her lover. A shock and
then a relief.
As Raoul Le Breton read the letter, his old world crashed in ruins
about him.
Now he understood his dead mother's hatred of the Sultan Casim. Her
endeavours to mould him on European lines. Her pleadings and
entreaties for him not to forget the white side. That poor, frail,
tortured little mother who had suffered so much for his sake!
His hand went across his anguished face.
He had not forgotten the white side. He had done worse. He had just
ignored it. Knowing good, he had preferred evil. He had gone his way
as barbaric and licentious as the savage who had murdered his father.
With tortured eyes he glanced at Barclay.
This man whom he had hated so bitterly for sixteen years and more was
his best friend, not his enemy. For Barclay had shot the savage chief
who had murdered his father and outraged his mother.
Like a whisper through the chaos surrounding him, Le Breton heard
Barclay talking, telling him Pansy had found the letter. On account of
its contents the French commander was not going to push the case
against him. He would be given his life and freedom, but an indemnity
would have to be paid, and the price would leave him only a shadow of
his wealth.
Le Breton knew that again Pansy had saved his worthless life. For
worthless it seemed, judging from his new standpoint.
"I owe you thanks, not hatred," he said to Barclay, his voice hoarse
with suffering.
"And I owe you thanks too," the governor replied. "My daughter tells
me you treated her with every kindness and consideration."
It seemed to Le Breton that he had been anything but kind and
considerate; that no woman could forgive such dealings as his had been
with her.
He had taken a girl used to a free and active life and had shut her up
in a scented, sensual prison, trying to make her fall a victim to
himself and her own senses; until she had grown morbid and hysterical,
seeking death in preference to himself and the sort of life he had
forced her to lead.
"I don't know that I should call myself exactly kind or considerate to
your daughter," he remarked. "Not after reading this letter. Or to
you either," he finished.
"I wouldn't worry too much about the past, if I were you," Barclay
replied. "You've plenty of time ahead of you to 'make good' in."
Le Breton said nothing. He stayed brooding on the ruins around him,
hating himself and the savage chief who had been his teacher.
All his old world had been swept away from him. Lost and alone, he
would have to start afresh, according to new lights and new ideals, and
without a hand to guide him.
He had nothing, neither wealth nor kingdom. Not his pride even.
Unknowingly he had been a renegade, fighting against his own nation.
He was utterly broken. But he did not look it--only unutterably dreary.
As he pondered on his past life, he realised to the fullest what he
must look like to Pansy. No wonder she had fought against her love for
him! Any decent woman would.
He did not hear Barclay go, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the
deepening shadows. He was aware of nothing except his own wild career,
and how he had run foul of all white ideals.
The door opened, but he did not hear that either. He was too full of
suffering and repentance.
Then another whisper penetrated the whirl in which he moved.
"Raoul," a girl's voice said gently.
He looked at Pansy as a man dying of thirst in a desert would look at a
mirage of lakes and fountains--a vision of torturing desire that he
knew was not for him.
No apologies could condone for his behaviour. Love he dared not
mention; not with a past like his; not to this innocent,
high-principled girl.
Pansy came to his side.
"Stoop down a bit, Raoul," she said. "I want to say something."
He bent his dark head.
Into his ear "I love you" was whispered shyly, as it had been that
night months ago in a moonlit garden in Grand Canary.
At her whispered words his face started working strangely.
"I don't deserve such love, such forgiveness," he said in a broken
voice.
She laughed--the laughter that kept tears at bay--and slipping her arms
about his neck, tip-toed, and kissed the lips that dared not touch her
now.
"And I want to marry you at once. I want to be with you always."
At her words his arms went round her in their old possessive manner.
Then he remembered that all his wealth had been swept from him; that
now he had the girl, he had nothing left to give her.
"I've nothing to offer you," he said, his voice bitter, "except a love
that's not worth having."
With soft, gentle hands Pansy stroked the lines of bitterness from the
proud face that watched her with such love and longing.
"You can have all that's mine. I don't want anything but you."
He kissed the lips that were held up to his so willingly.
"My darling, help me to grope back to your white ways," he said, his
voice hoarse with emotion.
"You won't have to grope. You got there last night when you
'remembered my reputation' and 'went nicely and quietly like a good
boy.'"
He laughed, but there was a slight catch in his laughter, and pressed
the girl closer to the heart she could always ease.
There were no shadows now, no ruins. For the greatest treasure of his
life was left to him.
THE END.
Another tremendous success by
the author of "DESERT LOVE"
THE HAWK OF EGYPT
Joan Conquest's exotic story of the love-madness with which mysterious
Egypt drugs the souls of men and women.
_Its realism will
thrill you_
You will see:
Cairo, the native quarter, the bazaars, the flaming desert, the love
tryst in the temple of Ammon, Zulannah, the dancing girl--the jewelled
siren of the Nile, Damaris, the beautiful English heroine, Kelham, the
lion hunter and Hugh Carden Ali, the man who sold his life for
One Hour of Love
_Here are two pages selected at random, from_
THE HAWK OF EGYPT
_a love story without asterisks_
Damaris bowed her head so that the curls danced and glistened in the
light, as the torrent of his words, in the Egyptian tongue, swept about
her like a flood.
"Hast thou come to me in love, thou dove from the nest? Nay, what
knowest thou of love? I ask it not of thee--yet--but the seed I shall
plant within thee shall grow in the passing of the days and the nights
and the months and the years, until it is as a grove of perfumed
flowers which shall change to golden fruit ready to the plucking of my
hand."
He pressed her little hands back against her breast so that the light
fell full upon her face, and he held her thuswise, watching the colour
rise and fade.
"Allah!" he whispered. "Allah! God of all, what have I done to
deserve such signs of Thy great goodness? Wilt thou love me?" He
laughed gently. "Canst thou look into mine eyes and shake thy golden
head which shall be pillowed upon my heart--my wife--the mother of my
children? Look at me! Look at me! Ah! thine eyes, which were as the
pools of Lebanon at night, are as a sun-kissed sea of love. Thou
know'st it not, but love is within thee--for me, thy master."
And was there not truth in what he said? May there not have been love
in the heart of the girl?
Not, maybe, the love which stands sweet and sturdy like the stocky
hyacinth, to bloom afresh, no matter how often the flowers be struck,
or the leaves be bruised, from the humdrum bulb deep in the soil of
quiet content. But the God-given, iridescent love of youth for youth,
with its passion so swift, so sweet; a love like the rose-bud which
hangs half-closed over the door in the dawn; which is wide-flung to the
sun at noon; which scatters its petals at dusk.
The rose!
She has filled your days with the memory of her fragrance; her leaves
still scent the night from out the sealed crystal vase which is your
heart.
But an' you would attain the priceless boon of peace, see to it that a
humdrum bulb be planted in the brown flower-pot which is your home.
And because of this God-given love of youth which was causing her heart
to thud and the blood to race through her veins, she did not withdraw
her hands when he held and kissed them and pressed his forehead upon
them.
"Lotus-flower," he whispered so that she could scarcely hear. "Bud of
innocence! ivory tower of womanhood! temple of love! Beloved, beloved,
I am at thy feet." And he knelt and kissed the little feet in the
heelless little slippers; then, rising, took both her hands and led her
to the door; and his eyes were filled with a great sadness, in spite of
the joy which sang in his heart as he took her into the shelter of his
arms.
"I love thee too well," he said, as he bent and kissed the riotous
curls so near his mouth. "Yes, I love thee too well to snatch thee
even as a hungry dog snatches his food, though, verily, I be more near
to starving than any hungry dog. What dost thou know of love, of life,
in the strange countries of the East? For thy life will
_They Were Alone...._
The magic of the desert night had closed about them. Cairo,
friends,--civilization as she knew it--were left far behind. She, an
unbeliever, was in the heart of the trackless wastes with a man whose
word was more than law.
And yet, he was her slave!
"I shall ask nothing of you until you shall love me," he promised.
"You shall draw your curtains, and until you call, you shall go
undisturbed."
And she believed him!
Do you want to see luxury beyond your imagination to conjure,--feel the
softness of silks finer than the gossamer web of the spider--hear the
night voices of the throbbing desert, or sway to the jolting of the
clanking caravan?
Egypt, Arabia pass before your eyes. The impatient cursing of the
camel men comes to your ears. Your nostrils quiver in the acrid smoke
of the little fires of dung that flare in the darkness when the caravan
halts. The night has shut off prying eyes. Yashmaks are lowered.
White flesh gleams against burnished bands of gold. The children of
Allah are at home.
And the promise he had given her? ... let Joan Conquest, who knows and
loves the East, tell you in
DESERT LOVE
_For sale wherever books are sold, or from_
The Macaulay Company
PUBLISHERS
15-17 W. 38th St., New York
A beautifully illustrated edition of
THREE WEEKS
The Famous Romantic Novel
By Elinor Glyn
Now ready at the same price as
"Beyond the Rocks"
The world has felt upon its hot lips the perfumed kisses of the
beautiful heroine of "Three Weeks." The brilliant flame that was her
life has blazed a path into every corner of the globe. It is a
world-renowned novel of consuming emotion that has made the name of its
author, Elinor Glyn, the most discussed of all writers of modern
fiction.
WHAT THE CRITICS HAVE SAID ABOUT IT
Percival Pollard in _Town Topics_:
"It is a book to make one forget that the world is gray. Be as sad, as
sane as you like, for all the other days of your life, but steal one
mad day, I adjure you, and read 'Three Weeks.'"
_The Western Christian Advocate_:
"The power and beauty of its descriptions and the pathos of its scenes
are undeniable."
_The Brooklyn Eagle_:
"A cleverly told tale, full of dainty sentiment, of poetic dreaming and
dramatic incident."
_The San Francisco Argonaut_:
"We feel inclined to throw at her (the heroine) neither stones nor
laurels, but rather to congratulate the author upon a powerful story
that lays a grip upon the mind and heart."
_The Detroit Free Press_:
"No wonder that 'Three Weeks' is one of the best sellers."
A beautifully illustrated edition of
Beyond the Rocks
By Elinor Glyn
Now ready at the same price as
"Three Weeks"
A flaming romance as only the author of "THREE WEEKS" could write it;
as only Gloria Swanson, with dashing Rodolph Valentino playing the
lover, could make it live in all its ardent splendor. The story of a
passionate young heart bound by society's conventions, struggling and
risking all for happiness.
--of gay nights of revelry in the Parisian world of fashion.
--of intrigue and coquetry in the gilded resorts of London high society.
Never before have such dramatic love-scenes, such spectacular adventure
been placed before the public. The love-drama with all the thrills and
luxury of a life-time! The one book and picture you'll never forget!
FAMOUS NOVELS BY
VICTORIA CROSS
LIFE'S SHOP WINDOW
It tears the garments of conventionality from woman, presenting her as
she must appear to the Divine Eye.
HILDA AGAINST THE WORLD
Fancy a married man, denied divorce by law, falling desperately in love
with a charming maiden waiting for love.
A GIRL OF THE KLONDIKE
A stirring story of love, intrigue and adventure, woven about a proud,
reckless heroine.
SIX WOMEN
A half-dozen of the most vivid love stories that ever lit up the dusk
of a tired civilization.
THE NIGHT OF TEMPTATION
The self-sacrifice of woman in love. Regina, the heroine, gives
herself to a man for his own sake. The world, however, exacts a severe
price for her unconventional conduct.
SIX CHAPTERS OF A MAN'S LIFE
A bold, brilliant, defiant presentation of the relations of men and
women who find themselves in situations never before conceived.
TO-MORROW
A daring innovation of great strength and almost photographic
intensity, that appeals to the lovers of sensational fiction; wise,
witty, yet touchingly pathetic.
DAUGHTERS OF HEAVEN
As life cannot be described, but must be lived, so this book cannot be
revealed--it must be read. Its daring situations and tense moments
will thrill you.
OVER LIFE'S EDGE
No one but Victoria Cross could have written this thrilling tale of a
girl who left the gayeties of London to dwell in a lonely cavern until
the man, who loved her with the passion of impetuous youth, found her.
THE LIFE SENTENCE
A beautifully written story, full of life, nature, passion and pathos.
The weaknesses of a proud, cultured woman lead to a strange climax.
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
15-17 West 38th Street, New York
Send for Free Illustrated Catalog