A Son of the Sahara Part 47

It was a moment before she recognised that drawn, haggard face as her fathers; it looked an old man's. He was there, the father she loved, condemned by his enemy to see her sold.

She tried to smile. It was a woeful effort. And when the blur of tears that seeing him brought to her eyes had pa.s.sed he was gone.

It seemed to Pansy that for an eternity she stood on the edge of the Pit, waiting until one of the devils, more powerful than the rest, should drag her in.

The din died down as the sale proceeded, lost in tense excitement. Of the twenty or more who had started bidding for her, only three were left now. One of them, mad with l.u.s.t and excitement, had forced his way up to the edge of the dais and was clinging to it with grimy hands--a lean man in turban and loin-cloth only, with long matted hair and beard, who, foaming at the mouth, was cursing his compet.i.tors, yet always bidding higher as he stared at Pansy with the glare of a maddened beast.

Pansy tried not to see him, but he was always there, horrible beyond comprehension, the worst of the demons in the h.e.l.l surrounding her.

Presently, over the murmur of the crowd, came the thunder of a horse's hoofs; of someone riding at breakneck speed through one of the resounding arches leading into the market.

Pansy did not notice this. She realised nothing now but the half-naked, foaming horror at her feet.

Suddenly another cry rang through the market-place.

Fortunately for Le Breton's plans Pansy knew no Arabic or she would have recognised that cry as:

"The Sultan! The Sultan!"

For Casim Ammeh had had his vengeance, and now had come in pursuit of love.

The cry grew to such a roar of sound that it penetrated the world of dumb terror in which Pansy moved, and made her raise her eyes.

The crowd in the square had opened up, giving way to a khaki-clad man on a huge, prancing black stallion.

Across the market-place tortured blue eyes met fiery black ones.

Then it seemed to Pansy that she must be dreaming--a vision of heaven beyond this h.e.l.l.

For Raoul Le Breton was there, a G.o.d among these demons. Some figment of her own creating that must vanish as she gazed.

But he did not vanish.

He came closer, straight towards her, the crowd receding like a wave before him. Raoul Le Breton, looking more handsome, more arrogant, more of a king than ever; sitting his black horse like a centaur.

Pansy's hands went to her heart, and the world started spinning around her.

Like a knight of old, he had come to her rescue.

How he could have got there she was in no condition to consider. It was enough that he was there, in time to save her from the Pit of h.e.l.l gaping at her feet.

He rode ride up to the dais, reining in at her side.

With outstretched arms, he went towards her.

"Come, Heart's Ease, my own brave little girl, there's nothing to fear now," he said.

Swaying slightly, Pansy looked at him again as if he were some vision.

Then, for the first time in her life, she fainted.

With a little laugh of tender triumph, he caught her and lifted her on his horse.

As he turned to go, grimy, covetous hands clutched Pansy's skirts--the hands of the miser feather merchant.

With a savage oath, the Sultan raised his heavy riding whip and felled the defiler.

Then he rode off with Pansy.

But before this happened Sir George Barclay had been taken from the room overlooking the slave market. He did not see the Sultan Casim Ammeh come in person to save the girl. He did not know that, in Pansy's case, at any rate, the auction had been but a pretence.

CHAPTER XIII

When Pansy returned to consciousness she felt she had awakened from some nightmare and was back in her own world, a civilized world; her capture by the Sultan Casim Ammeh and all the subsequent happenings some wild dream, terrifying in its reality as dreams can be.

She was lying on a big bed in a shady room, among sheets and pillows of finest linen; a solid bra.s.s bedstead such as might have come from any good shop in London, not among silken cushions and rugs on an ottoman.

And there was a bedroom suite of some choice grey wood with a litter of gold toilet appointments on the wide dressing-table.

An elderly woman, brown skinned and black eyed, dressed in a swathing of white muslin, was seated by the bedside, fanning herself with a gentle, regular movement, and the air was fresh with the scent of eau-de-Cologne.

Beyond the woman--all down one side of the room--ran a series of arches, over which were drawn blinds of split bamboo.

With the feeling of fragments of her nightmare still clinging about her, Pansy sat up.

Then, with a rush, came back the scene in the slave market.

"Where is Mr. Le Breton?" she asked in a dazed manner.

She expected the woman to disclaim all knowledge of any such person.

However, she rose immediately.

"I'll fetch him," she said in French.

She made towards a curtained doorway.

Pansy watched her go. And her gaze stayed anxiously on the spot where the woman had disappeared.

A few moments pa.s.sed and the curtains were drawn aside again. The woman entered. In her wake was a big man in white drill, with sleek, black hair and a close-clipped, black moustache.

On seeing him Pansy gave a little hysterical cry.

"Oh, Raoul, I was so afraid you were just a dream!"

"No, I'm not a dream, but a solid fact," he replied, going towards her.