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 brass 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 passed 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.
"Come quite close. I want to touch you to make sure."
Nothing loath, he seated himself on the bed.
Pansy took one of his hands, holding it in a tight, nervous grip.
"Yes, it is really you," she said. "In the whole wide world there's no one who feels quite the same as you."
She had forgotten his coldness and harshness on the occasion of their last meeting in Grand Canary—his colour, his religion, everything except that he was there and she was safe.
He laughed tenderly and put the loose curls back from her face with a lingering, caressing touch.
It was Pansy as he had never known her, frightened and clinging to him. Pansy as he would have her, looking at him with eyes full of love.
"So, little girl, you're quite pleased to see me?"
"Did you buy me?" she asked in a bewildered voice.
"How else could I get you?" he asked, smiling slightly. His voice and touch calmed her a little.
"But you! How did you get here?" she asked.
"You know I'm an African merchant, don't you?" he said easily. "This is my special province. I do most of the trading in this part. And El-Ammeh is my headquarters."
"But how did you know I was here?" she asked in a dazed tone.
"You told me you were coming out to Africa. I heard the Governor of the adjacent English colony was on tour, his ultimate point a spot some six hundred miles or so from here. Some weeks ago the Sultan went out on a foray, returning with some English prisoners, a girl among them. There are not many blue-eyed, golden-haired girls in these parts, Pansy, so I guessed who she was."
It all sounded very feasible. And Pansy was in no mood to dispute with miracles.
"He hates my father; that's why he did it," she began in a weak, wild way.
"Never mind about that just now," he replied. "Fortunately I was there to save you."
She clung tighter to the strong, sinewy hand that had snatched her back from the brink of hell.
"Oh, Raoul, what would have happened if you hadn't come?" she whispered.
"Well, I did come, so there's nothing more for you to worry about," he said tenderly.
"There's my father. The Sultan has threatened to kill him," she began hysterically.
"You mustn't worry about your father, either. Leave things to me. You may be sure I'll do my best for him, too."
Under the tension of the last few weeks and the final reaction Pansy broke down completely. In a weak, wild manner she started sobbing, almost as if her brain had snapped under the strain and relief.
Evidently Le Breton had expected something of the sort.
Going to a table, he poured some water into a glass and dropped a couple of cachets into it.
When they had melted he came back to the distraught girl.
Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he slipped an arm around her.
"Come, drink this up," he said authoritatively; "then, when you've had a good sleep, you can tell me all your adventures."
"I daren't go to sleep," she sobbed, "for fear I should wake up in hell!"
He drew the golden head on his shoulder with a soothing, protective touch.
"I'll stay with you and see that doesn't happen," he said tenderly.
At the promise, Pansy drank the proffered draught. Then she lay back among the pillows.
He held the empty glass towards the Arab woman. She took it, and would have gone from the room, as she was accustomed to going when the Sultan pleased to linger with any one of his slave girls; but his voice stopped her.
"There's no need to go, Sara," he said.
Then he stayed, smiling down at the worn little face on the pillows, until the wild blue eyes closed in drugged slumber.
Afterwards he sat watching Pansy in a calculating manner.
Just then it seemed to Le Breton that his plans had succeeded; that he was going to have all he wanted. Revenge he had had; love now seemed within his grip.
A sense of gratitude for her supposed rescue, in conjunction with the love Pansy still had for him, would be a strong enough combination to make her forget his colour and bring her into his arms in the way he wanted—of her own free will.
Yet he was not wholly satisfied, for the method he had used to attain his ends was not one a civilised person would approve of.
A huddled heap against one of the fluted columns, old Sara sat and watched him. From time to time she muttered to herself and cracked her knuckles for luck and to keep off the "evil eye."
She had seen another Sultan bewitched by one of these lovely white girls; and she hoped that this girl would prove kinder to the son than the Lady Annette had been to the father.