A Son of the Sahara Part 17

"Oh, I couldn't," she said quickly.

But it appeared he could. He went some distance away from the girl and placed the lizard on a flat rock. In a moment he had ground all tortured life out of it with his heel.

"Thank you," she said gratefully. "I knew it was suffering, but I couldn't have done that to save my life. As a reward, will you come and have breakfast with me?"

"There's nothing I should like better," he answered.

Pansy got to her feet.

He helped her to mount. Then he rode at her side up the hill.

"I love the clear heights," she remarked presently.

"I don't know much about them. The miry depths are more in my line,"

he replied.

Critically she surveyed him.

"You don't look so specially muddy."

"No? What do I look like--to you?" he asked, a caressing note in his voice.

"Very proud, very pa.s.sionate, very strong, and as if you could be cruel."

"Then I can't look very attractive," he said, smiling slightly.

"Being proud is all right, so long as it makes you too proud to do mean things."

"And what about the pa.s.sionate?" he asked, "since you're making excuses for me.

"I don't know anything about it."

"Well, what about my being strong then?"

"I don't like men unless they are."

"And the cruelty?"

"I hate it."

"Life sometimes combines to make people cruel who otherwise might not be," he remarked, as if unaccustomed to finding excuses for himself.

"You can't judge a person fairly until you know all that has gone to form their character."

Pansy patted her gaunt steed.

"I know that," she said, "that's why I stuck to 'The Sultan' when my friends tried to persuade me to have him shot. There's a lot in his life that I don't know. These marks tell me that."

She pointed to the various old scars on the animal.

"Now you shall see what 'The Sultan' can do," she went on. "I'll race you to the farm over there, where breakfast is waiting," she finished, pointing to a green patch away in the distance.

A touch of her spurless heel sent the gaunt beast flying along the dusty, deserted road, in a long, loping gallop that grew more and more rapid, egged on by the sound of another horse persistently at his heels.

Pansy had not expected that her escort would be able to keep up with her. No horse she had met could keep pace with her protege. At the end of half a mile she had been prepared to rein up and wait for Le Breton.

But at the end of a mile he was a length behind her. And at the end of two he was there just the same.

Pansy tired before either the man or the horses.

"Oh!" she panted, as Le Breton drew up beside her. "I wasn't trained as a jockey."

"You didn't get away from me quite so easily as you expected," he remarked with curious emphasis.

"I didn't know there was a horse in the Islands to touch 'The Sultan,'

in spite of his years."

"This horse I'm on has won several races in Paris. And you challenged me, Pansy, without pausing to consider what you might be let in for,"

he said, watching her in a fierce, fond manner.

"I always leap before I look. It's my besetting sin," she replied.

Then she pointed to a side track, leading to a low building, half white-washed mud, half timber.

"That's the way to my farm," she said. "But I don't know that my breakfast will appeal to millionaires."

"Don't thrust that down my throat just now," he answered. "I want to see life from your point of view."

The farm they were approaching was a tiny place, with a spreading garden where orange and fig trees grew. In one corner a little summer-house stood, wreathed with red roses, that gave a wide view of the island and a glimpse of the sea.

Evidently Pansy was expected. A coa.r.s.e white cloth was spread on the table in the summer-house, and it was set with thick crockery and leaden-looking forks and spoons.

Leaving Le Breton to attend to the horses, she made her way to the tiny homestead, to announce her presence and the fact of a guest.

Then she pa.s.sed on towards the summer-house.

Tossing her hat on a seat, she sat with the light glinting on her golden curls, her elbows on the table, watching the scene dreamily, in a frame of red roses.

This vision of her greeted Le Breton as he turned the corner, bringing a hungry glint to his eyes.

Breakfast proved a simple repast.

There was a thick jug full of coffee, another of milk, a large omelet, a dish of fruit, rolls, b.u.t.ter and honey.

"Now," she said when it was set before them, "how do you like your coffee?"

"As it should be according to the orientals--black as sin, hot as h.e.l.l, sweet as--love," he finished, lingering over the word.

She poured his out, and handed it to him, black as he desired.