CHAPTER V
In his tent the Sultan Casim Ammeh was waiting for the return of the party sent on to the old fort to capture Pansy.
So far there had been no hitch in his schemes. Sir George and his staff had proved an easy prey. Already one portion of his Arab following, with Barclay's officers, had set out on the long journey back to El-Ammeh.
Sir George and Pansy, the Sultan had arranged to take up himself, as soon as the girl was in his hands. For he had no desire to linger in British territory.
But it was not the punishment England would dole out to him if he were caught that filled Le Breton's mind as he sat cross-legged among the cushions, with the cruel lines about his mouth very much in evidence. His thoughts were all with Sir George Barclay's daughter.
What desert harem would be her future home? What wild chief would call that golden-haired girl his chattel?
Casim Ammeh had determined to carry out his vengeance to the letter, where Pansy was concerned. To sell her in the slave-market of his capital; and keep her father alive, tortured by the knowledge of his daughter's fate.
What would the girl say when she saw him? When she recognised him for the Sultan of El-Ammeh, the man her father had wronged past all forgiveness. Would that sweet, brave face go white at the knowledge of the fate before her? Would she try to plead with him or herself and her father? Would——!
Le Breton pulled his straying thoughts up sharply, lest they should go wandering down forbidden ways—ways that led to where love was.
He had determined to hate Pansy; a hatred he had to keep continually before him, lest he should forget it.
The afternoon wore on, bringing long shadows creeping into the glade. And the Sultan sat waiting for the full fruit of his vengeance. There might be peace in his heart once the wrong done to his father was righted. Peace in the restless heart that throbbed within him, that seemed always searching for a life other than the one he lived; a peace he had known just once or twice when a girl's slight form had rested upon it. His enemy's daughter!
The sound of approaching hoofs broke into his thoughts. He knew what they were. Those of the party sent on to capture Pansy.
When the cavalcade halted, his eyes went to the open flap of the big tent, a savage expression in them. He could not see the returned party from there; only the guards posted outside of the royal quarters.
Presently a couple of men in flowing white robes came into view; the two officers who had headed the expedition. They were challenged by the sentries, then they passed on towards the tent where their Sultan was waiting.
There was concern upon their faces, that deepened to resignation and despair when the royal gaze rested upon them.
"Where is the English lady?" their Sultan demanded coldly.
"Your Highness, there was a man of her colour with her, and——" one of the officers began.
Le Breton made an impatient gesture.
"Bring me the girl," he commanded.
The officers glanced at one another. Then one knelt before the Sultan.
"The instructions were carried out," he said. "But the English lady is dead."
There was a moment of tense silence. A feeling of someone fighting against an incredible truth.
Pansy dead! Impossible!
The Sultan sat as if turned into stone. The contretemps was one he had never anticipated.
"Dead," the echoes whispered at him mockingly through the silk-draped tent. "Dead," they sighed unto themselves as if in dire pain.
And that one tragic word stripped love of its garment of hate, and set it before him, alive and vital.
The tent suddenly became charged with suffering, and the feeling of a fierce, proud heart breaking.
"Dead!" the Sultan repeated in a hoarse, incredulous voice. "Then Allah have pity on the man who killed her, for I shall have none."
"Your Highness, there was a white man with her. He shot her," the kneeling officer explained.
Le Breton hardly heard him. For the first time in his wild, arrogant life he felt regret; regret for a deed of his own doing. The regret that is the forerunner of conscience, as conscience precedes the birth of a soul—the soul he had once laughingly accused Pansy of trying to save.
His schemes had brought her to her death. Morally his was the hand that had killed her. His hand!
The thought staggered him.
He got to his feet suddenly, reeling slightly, as if in dire agony. The officer kneeling before him bowed his head submissively. He expected the fate of all who bring bad news to a Sultan—the Sultan's sword upon his neck.
But Le Breton hardly noticed the man. He only saw his own deed before him. Love had leapt out of its scabbard of hate. The one fact he had tried to keep hidden from himself was shouting, loud-voiced, at him.
In spite of who and what Pansy was, he still loved her, madly, ragingly, hopelessly. But it had taken her death to bring the truth home to him.
"Where is the girl?" he asked, in a stiff, harsh voice.
"We brought her so that your Highness could see we spoke the truth," the officer replied.
"Let her be brought in to me then, and laid there," the Sultan said, indicating a wide couch full of cushions.
Glad to escape with their lives the officers hurried out to do the royal bidding.
There were no cruel lines about the Sultan's mouth as he waited their return, but deep gashes of pain instead.
A silent cavalcade entered the tent some minutes later: as silent as the Sultan who stood awaiting them; as silent as the girl with the red stain on her breast and the red blood on her lips.
A look from the Sultan dismissed the men.
When they had gone, he crossed to Pansy's side, and stood gazing down at her.
She lay limp and white, a broken lily before him,
His enemy's daughter! This still, white, lovely girl. This pearl among women, whom he had tried to hate. And now——!
Pain twisted his face.
He thought of Pansy as he had last seen her, that night on her yacht.
She had wanted to bring about an understanding between them. She had tried to see things from his point of view. She was prepared to make allowances, to find excuses for him. And he had treated her with harshness; wilfully set her at a disadvantage; purposely had misunderstood her; deliberately had said all he could to wound her.
He had done his best to hate her. He had put vengeance before love. Now he had his reward. His wild lust for revenge had stilled that kind heart that had lived to do its best for all.
A stifled groan came to his lips.
What a trick Fate had played upon him!
Leaning over the couch he took one of her limp, white hands into his strong brown one. The little hand whose touch could always soothe his restless spirit, that had once teased and caressed him, opening out visions of a Paradise that his own deeds had now shut out from him for ever.
The Fruit of the Tree of Vengeance is bitter. And this Le Breton realized to the fullest as he gazed at the silent girl.
"Pansy, don't mock me from beyond the Styx," he whispered. "For you know now that my heart is broken. There's nothing but grief for me here and hereafter."
Then it seemed to the tortured man that a miracle happened.
The girl's eyes opened.
For a brief second she gazed at him in a dazed, bewildered manner. Then her lids dropped weakly, as if even that slight effort were too much for her.