A Son of the Sahara Part 49

The blue of the sky was like the eyes of the girl he had lost. Her skin had rivalled the stars in its purity. The very fire that burnt outside of his squalid home mocked him. It was golden as her hair.

But for the Sultan that girl would be his. Now! This night. His, to hold within his arms--that milk-white maid!

He flung his arms out to the night, then strained them across his chest.

But for the Sultan all that maddening beauty would lie within his grip.

His to crush and caress. His!

The thought was torture.

"Curse him! Curse him! Curse him!" he cried aloud to the mocking night.

Then he stretched grimy paws towards a voiceless heaven.

"Allah, give him into my hands, the Sultan Casim Ammeh, who has robbed me of the flower of my desire. That milk-white maid--a houri of thy sending. Guide my step to those who are his enemies. To those who would break him, as he has broken me. Surely a man so mighty has others as mighty who hate him. There are always kings ready to make war on other kings. Allah, most high, let me find them. Allah, most merciful, grant my prayer. Like the wind in the desert I will roam--to the east, the west, the north, the south--until I find them.--His enemies. Then I will deliver him unto their hands."

The mad prayer of a wandering feather merchant against his Sultan; the prayer of a man whom, in his wealth and power and arrogance, Casim Ammeh had not considered.

But one which was to bear fruit.

CHAPTER XV

Giving no thought to the grimy wretch out there in the desert, the Sultan was seated in one of the deep, open galleries of his palace.

Some ten feet below a garden sighed, and the soft wind that wandered in and out of the fretted arches was ladened with the scent of a thousand flowers. Close at hand a fountain whispered, and from the distance came the gentle lap of the lake.

However, he noticed none of these things. There was something of far greater interest close beside him.

Among the cushions of a wicker lounge Pansy lay, her head pillowed on silk and down, a worn look still on her face.

Night had fallen before she awoke from her drugged slumber. She had found Le Breton still beside her, and the room full of the soft glow of shaded lamps.

Once she was fully awake he had left, promising to come again after dinner.

She had dined in the gallery. The roofed terrace was lighted by the glow coming from the two rooms behind. One was her bedroom; the other a gorgeously appointed _salon_. But at the end of these two rooms an iron grille went across the gallery, stopping all further investigations.

When Le Breton came he found Pansy on the terrace. Once he was seated, she told him what had happened to her father's party. Then she went back to the beginning, sixteen years before, with the story of the youthful Sultan; but she did not mention that she had been wounded and ill, for fear of having to meet a host of anxious enquiries.

Without comment he listened.

When she finished, all he said was:

"Well, I suppose the Sultan has his point of view, since it appears your father was responsible for the death of his."

"But it was my father's duty to condemn him. He would hate doing it, for he can't bear to hurt people. It was not 'murder,' as the present Sultan seems to think."

To this Le Breton had nothing to say.

"You must let the French Government know my father is a prisoner here,"

she went on. "Then they'll send an expedition and rescue him and his officers."

"I couldn't do that, Pansy. You forget I'm half Arab. I can't go back on my father's people."

Pansy had forgotten this fact about him; and it seemed her father's freedom was not quite so close at hand as she had imagined.

"Could I send my father a note?" she asked anxiously. "That cruel Sultan sent him to see me sold. It must have been torture for him; for I'm all he's got, and he's awfully fond of me. I want to say I'm safe here with you. I can't bear to think of him in torment."

"Write a note if you like, and I'll see what I can do," he replied.

At once she got up and went into the _salon_ where she had noticed a writing-table. The place was more like a hall than a room; a spreading columned apartment, with walls and floor and ceiling of white marble, where fountains played into fern-grown basins and palms stood in huge, gilded tubs. There were deep, soft, silk-covered chairs and lounges, a sprinkling of gilded tables, and a large grand piano.

Some minutes later Pansy returned to her host with a letter in her hand.

He took it, and then rose to go.

"You mustn't sit up too late," he said, looking down at her with an air of possession; "you've had a trying day, and don't worry any more about anything or anybody."

So saying, he left her.

Full of grat.i.tude, Pansy watched him go. And her conscience smote her.

On the whole she had treated him rather badly. She had promised to marry him, and then had gone back on her word. She did not deserve his kindness and consideration.

He had been so cold and harsh that night on her yacht in Grand Canary.

He was none of these things now. He was just as he had been during their one brief week of friendship, but even nicer.

Pansy sighed, and her face grew wistful.

Why wasn't he just like other men? Why had Fate been so unkind?

Giving her love, but in such a form that pride revolted from taking it.

Then Pansy went to bed, to lie awake for some time, brooding on the miracle the day had brought forth and the black barrier that stood between her and her lover.

She was about early the next morning and wandering in the garden.

It was a long stretch of shady walks and sunken ponds and splashing fountains, full of tropical trees, scented shrubs, and rare blossoms--a tangle of delights. In one spot she found a tennis court, walled with pink roses. The grounds went on, ending in a wide, flagged terrace, with stone seats and shallow steps leading down to the blue waters of the lake.

High walls ran down either side of the spreading garden. Behind, a huge building rose in domes and turrets and terraces--the palace of El-Ammeh had Pansy but known it, of which her new quarters were but a further portion.

Blissfully ignorant of this fact, she turned her steps from the rippling lake and wandered along a flower-decked path that twisted under shady trees and creeper-grown arches, coming presently to a locked iron gate let into the ma.s.sive walls.

It gave a view of a scorched paddock where a dozen or more horses were browsing.

Pansy paused and scanned the animals.

One was strangely familiar.