CHAPTER XXII
Early the next morning when Pansy was splashing about in the great underground tank, a voice made her look up in a startled fashion. So far no one had intruded on her ablutions.
It was a soft, purring, malicious little voice that said in lisping French:
"Now I see why you always come here early. Why you don't bathe with me and the other girls."
On the broad marble steps Rayma stood, looking down at her rival spitefully.
"I come early because I'm not used to bathing before people," Pansy replied, hoping the other would take the hint and go.
But Rayma did not go. She seated herself on the steps and stayed there, her black eyes fixed on the graceful girl in the water.
"Has the Sultan seen those scars?" she asked, pointing a slim disparaging finger at the network of red marks and ridges on Pansy's thigh and side.
Pansy flushed at the question.
"Of course not," she cried indignantly.
"When he bought me I stood before him with only my hair for a covering. And I stood gladly, for I knew I was perfect." Rayma finished, as if the fact gave her pleasure.
Pansy had no desire to discuss the Sultan's likes and dislikes. To avoid further conversation, she swam out to the far end of the great bath and stayed there until Rayma had gone.
All that day, whenever the Arab girl's eyes met hers, there was a look of malicious triumph in them. And when the two girls came within speaking distance that purring, little voice whispered spitefully:
"Only wait until the Sultan comes. I shall find a way of taking his love from you."
Despondently Pansy wished this would come to pass. She was between the upper and nether millstones, her father on one side, her captor on the other.
Several days passed without anything being seen of the Sultan. Then, one night, he came, when the girls were gathered in the harem, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes after dinner. Pansy, was in the group, and the sight of his big, white-clad figure brought her to her feet sharply, with a feeling of choking alarm. Then she stayed where she was, fully aware that escape was impossible.
He seated himself at her side.
She would have edged away, but his voice stopped her.
"No, Pansy, stay where you are," he said quickly. "And since I don't smoke 'bubble bubbles' like the men in 'Eastern pictures and on cigar-box lids' you once mentioned, you can give me a cigarette, and light it, if you like," he added, with a touch of teasing.
Pansy did not like. She stood slim and straight and defiant, ignoring his request, conscious that all eyes were upon them, all ears listening to what was said.
Since she refused to do the Sultan's bidding, and since he made no attempt to force obedience, there were half a dozen pairs of hands ready and eager to do the task Pansy scorned.
Rayma's gaze rested jealously on the English girl,
"Is it always what she likes, Casim, my Lord, and never what you wish?"
"She has been ill, and I humour her," he replied shortly.
"Ill or not she should be only too pleased to do your bidding. Are you not her Sultan and her master? I have no will except your wishes. I have no secrets hidden from you."
There was a world of insinuation in Rayma's voice. And it made the Sultan glance at Pansy in a quick, suspicious manner.
The only thing he suspected her of doing was trying to escape. He failed to see how she could get out of her present quarters, but the mere idea of losing her sent a chill through him.
"What are you hiding from me, Pansy?" he asked presently.
His close scrutiny brought a flush to her face, not through any sense of guilt, but because of her unaccustomed and scanty attire.
He saw the flush and his suspicions deepened. She was capable of doing herself some injury in order to get away from him.
"What do you mean, Rayma?" he asked, as Pansy refused to answer.
The Arab girl sidled up to Pansy, malice and triumph in her eyes.
"Do you really want to know, my Lord?" she asked, smiling at him softly.
He nodded.
Before Pansy realised what was happening, there was a feeling of cold steel at her breast. Totally unprepared, it seemed that Rayma was going to stab her. She moved back quickly. As she moved there was the sharp snip of scissors, a rending sound, a quick jerk, and her one garment was dragged from her. The Arab girl retreated quickly, holding the silk slip behind her, leaving Pansy nothing but her curls to cover her; a covering that reached no further than the nape of her neck.
With a heart-broken cry she sank on the floor, and crouched there, her face hidden in her hands, flushed with shame from head to foot.
Laughing triumphantly Rayma pointed a scornful finger at her rival.
"Look, Casim, look, beloved," she cried, "that is the secret she would hide from you. Those ugly scars. And she bathes early in the morning when none of us are there, so that we shall not see them and tell you. For she knows that you would not love a woman so flawed."
The other women looked at Pansy in an unconcerned manner. Clothing was of no great consequence to them. Moreover, it was just as well not to interfere when Rayma chose to play her tricks and amuse their master.
But he did not look at all amused. What was more, his gaze did not go to the slim bare girl crouched on the floor. He looked instead at Rayma.
"Give the girl back her garment," he said in an ominously quiet tone.
"Look, Casim. Look, my Lord. A girl so blemished is not worthy of you. Often you have said no woman has a form as perfect as mine. But look and compare. Then say which of us is more deserving of your favour."
She snatched off her own light garment, and stood before him, slim and perfect, a golden statue, a model for an artist.
The Sultan's eyes were fixed on her still. But there was no appreciation in them, only anger.
"Give the girl back her garment," he said again.
"When you have looked at her, and not before," Rayma cried, defiant in the surety of her own perfections.
"Give it back when I tell you," he said in a savage voice.
A tense silence followed.
The girls and women glanced at one another, and waited for what they had seen happen from time to time—the fall of a favourite.
Rayma's "coup" had fallen surprisingly, ominously flat. The Sultan refused to look at the girl whose blemishes had been unveiled for his inspection.
Rayma knew it too. And as she gazed at the cold, angry face of her master, she saw her star had set. She threw the silk slip at Pansy who still crouched on the floor, paralysed with shame. Beside herself with jealous rage the Arab girl then stooped and picking up a heavy silver goblet hurled it at her rival. Fortunately it missed its aim and went skimming and crashing along the marble floor.
This attempted assault was the last straw. A savage, merciless expression came to her master's face. At this look Rayma fell prostrate at his feet.
"Casim, love me a little, and I ask for nothing else," she wailed.
A gong stood at his side. Ignoring her, he struck it angrily. Its musical notes echoed through the room. A moment later a couple of negroes appeared in the doorway of the harem.
The Sultan gave a sharp order in Arabic.
What it was Pansy did not know. She was now the centre of a group of women who, with brooch and jewelled pin, were adjusting her silk slip. They were all anxious to gain her good graces, since there was no doubt now who was the Sultan's favourite.
In her ear Leonora was whispering:
"There's no need to be ashamed, my sister. Our Lord Casim never once glanced at you. His eyes and his anger were all for Rayma. Thanks to you, she now feels what I once felt. And her heart is breaking."
But if Pansy did not know what the Sultan said, the crowd around her did. They whispered affrightedly among themselves, and edged further away from their master. For the Sultan in a temper was a person to be avoided.
And Rayma knew what was going to happen. She started up with dilated eyes and screaming, then clung piteously to his feet.
"Casim, my Lord, beloved, not that," she cried, her little face frantic. "Not that, I entreat you, for the sake of the nights that have been."
There was no pity on his face, only savagery. All mercy had been swept out of him by her attempt to shame and injure Pansy.
The guards returned, bringing whips.
On seeing them Rayma's screams broke out afresh. Piteous little pleas for mercy, wild promises never to offend again, that he ignored completely. Then she fell a sobbing, golden statue at the Sultan's feet.
Rayma's cries, terror-stricken and helpless, reached Pansy in the midst of her own dazed shame, making her glance in the direction of the man she hoped never to have to face again.
She saw the huge negroes with their whips, awaiting the Sultan's order. The sobbing, helpless girl at his feet, and on his face a look she had never seen before—the look of an angered and pitiless despot.
For a moment she stood aghast, not able to credit the scene before her. As she looked the Sultan nodded.
The guards raised their whips. And they fell with cruel, stinging force.
But they did not fall on Rayma.
There was one in the harem who dared come between the Sultan and his wrath.
The whips fell on white shoulders, not golden ones, bringing the blood oozing to satin-smooth skin.
The weight and pain brought Pansy to her knees before her captor.
"Raoul," she gasped, "I can't let you do this dreadful thing."
The whips fell from the negroes' hands. Aghast, they stared at the girl before them. It was not their fault the lashes had fallen on the new favourite and not on the culprit. But they would be held responsible, and doubtless beaten nevertheless. The women and girls started to scream and wail. Their master might turn on them for letting the new slave get within reach of the whips. But who was to know she would dare come between the Sultan and a girl he thought well to punish.
He paid no heed to the frightened stares of the guards, the wails of the scared women, to Rayma still sobbing, with fright, not pain. He had thoughts and eyes for nothing but the girl on her knees before him, with the red weals on her shoulders, horror and entreaty in her eyes—Pansy calling him once again by name.
With a fierce, possessive movement, he stooped and gathered her into his arms, crushing her against him, until she was almost lost in his voluminous robes.
"My little English flower, you can't quite hate me," he whispered passionately. "Or you wouldn't try to keep me what you once thought me. You wouldn't try to come between me and the man I am."
With the girl in his arms, he rose.
Scared eyes watched him as he crossed the big hall, and disappeared behind the silken curtains.
Then the girls started to whisper among themselves. For the Sultan had taken this new slave to the gilded chamber of their desires.