A Son of the Sahara Part 41

In one of the tents in the glade Sir George Barclay sat, an Arab guard on either side of him. There was an almost stupefied air about him; of a man whose world has suddenly got beyond his control.

The previous afternoon, without any warning, his party had been set upon and captured; but by whom, and why, he did not know. There was no rebellious chief in the district; no discontent. Yet he was a prisoner in the hands of some wild tribe; captured so suddenly that not one of his men had escaped to take word to the next British outpost and bring up a force to his a.s.sistance.

There was but one streak of consolation in his broodings--the knowledge that his daughter had not fallen alive into the hands of the barbaric soldiery.

Some little time after he had been brought a prisoner to the glade he had seen Cameron come in, white and shaking with fever.

On seeing his chief, the young man had shouted across the s.p.a.ce:

"Thank G.o.d! the n.i.g.g.e.rs haven't got Pansy alive."

They were given no time for further conversation, for one was hustled this way and one that.

As Barclay sat brooding on the fate that had overtaken his party and trying to find a reason for it, someone entered the tent.

In the newcomer he recognised the leader of the force that had waylaid and captured him and his party.

"So, George Barclay, we meet for a second time," a deep voice said savagely in French.

Barclay scanned the big man in the white burnoose who stood looking at him with hatred in his dark, fiery eyes.

To his knowledge he had never seen him before.

"Where did we first meet?" he asked quietly.

"Sixteen years ago, when you murdered my father, the Sultan Casim Ammeh."

Sir George started violently and scanned the man anew. He had a reason now for the untoward happenings.

"Do you remember all I promised for you and yours that day you refused to listen to my pleadings?" the savage voice asked.

Barclay remembered only too well. And as he looked at the ruthless face before him he was more than ever thankful for one thing.

"Thank G.o.d; my daughter is dead!" he said.

The Sultan smiled, coldly, cruelly.

"Your daughter is not dead," he replied. "She is alive; just alive.

And you may rest a.s.sured that she'll have every care and attention."

The news left Barclay staring in a stricken manner at his captor.

"My doctor a.s.sures me that she will live," the Sultan went on. "And you will live, too, to see her sold as a slave in the public market of my city."

Sir George said nothing. The thought of Pansy's ghastly fate placed him beyond speech. At that moment he could only pray that she might die.

CHAPTER VIII

Three days elapsed before Pansy returned to full consciousness, and even then the world was a very hazy place. One morning she woke up, almost too weak to move, with a feeling that she must have had a bad attack of fever. She tried to sit up, but Alice, her mulatto maid, bent over her quickly, pressing her back gently on the pillows.

"No, Missy Pansy," that familiar, crooning voice said with an air of authority. "De doctor say you stay dere and no move."

Pansy was not at all anxious to move after that one attempt. The effort had brought knife-like pains cutting through her chest, and she had had to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out in agony.

All day she lay in silence, sleeping most of the time, when awake, thankful just to lie still, for even to talk hurt her; grateful when Alice fed her, because she would rather have gone hungry than have faced the pain that sitting up entailed.

Sometimes, from outside, came the rattle of harness, the stamp of a hoof, men's voices talking in a strange language. But Pansy was used to such sounds now, and thought nothing of them; they had been around her all the time she had been on tour with her father.

The next day the mist had cleared considerably. Pansy realised she was in a big tent, not an affair of plain green canvas, such as she had lived in quite a lot during her expedition into the wilds, but a place of barbaric splendour. Silk hangings draped the canvas walls; rich curtains heavily embroidered with gold. The very poles that held the structure up were of silver, and a heavy silver lamp was suspended from the central bar. Priceless rugs covered the ground, and here and there were piles of soft, silk cushions. There were one or two little ebony tables and stools inlaid with silver and ivory. Her bed was a low couch of soft silk and down cushions. And on the floor beside her was a beaten gold tray where jewelled cups reposed, and dishes with coloured sherbets and other tempting dainties.

Pansy's gaze stayed on Alice in a puzzling manner.

Alice looked much the same, as plump and pretty as ever, but with an even more "pleased with herself" expression than usual upon her round smiling face.

From her maid Pansy glanced towards the entrance of the tent. The flap was fastened back, letting in a flood of fresh, gold-tinged morning air. Just outside, two dark-faced, white-robed men were stationed, and, beyond, were others, and a glimpse of trees.

Pansy's eyes stayed on the Arabs guarding her quarters.

In a vague way they were familiar.

With a rush came back the happenings of the afternoon when she had been having tea with Cameron in the old guardroom.

Men such as those outside had burst in upon them when the brave old door had given way.

A wave of sickly fear swept over the girl.

Was she a prisoner in the hands of that wild horde?

But, if so, what was she doing in the midst of all this splendour, this riot of luxury, with the softest of cushions to lie on, the choicest of silk rugs to cover her, and Alice sitting contentedly at her side?

Perhaps Bob could give her the key to the situation.

"Alice," she said weakly, "run and tell Captain Cameron I want to speak to him."

"He no be here, Miss Pansy," the girl replied. "He go to de Sultan Casim Ammeh's city."

Alice p.r.o.nounced the Sultan's name with gusto. The desert ruler with his barbaric splendour and troop of wild hors.e.m.e.n had impressed her far more than the English governor and his retinue. She did not at all mind being his prisoner. Moreover she was a privileged person, told off specially by the Sultan to nurse her mistress.

For some moments Pansy pondered on what her maid had said.

"The Sultan Casim Ammeh," Pansy repeated presently, with an air of bewilderment.

"Dat be him," Alice a.s.sured her. "A great big, fine man, awful good-looking. I see him. An' my heart go all soft. He so rich and proud and grand. But he no look at me, only at you, Miss Pansy," she finished, sighing.

Pansy hardly heard this rhapsody over her captor.