A Son of the Sahara Part 70

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 hoa.r.s.e 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 hoa.r.s.e 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.