The old tale was running through his head as a sharp curve in the path brought him to the entrance of the little clearing. Smaller it seemed than when his boyish eyes had looked upon it, and robbed somehow of the mystery that had been associated with it. To the man’s eyes now just an ordinary glade in an ordinary wood.
But it was not the well remembered spot that held his attention. His gaze was rivetted on a figure sitting, like the princess of the story, motionless upon the ground at the foot of a gnarled cork oak. Not swathed in shimmering eastern silks nor veiled in a cloud of dusky hair, but clad in the close fitting boyish riding suit in which he had first seen her she leant back comfortably against the tree, her bare head resting on the crinkly bark, her arms wrapped round her updrawn knees, whistling softly to a small green lizard palpitating on the moss beside her. The tiny creature with swelling throat and languorous swaying head was listening fascinated to the clear sweet trills charming it into immobility. Suliman’s neat feet made no sound on the soft earth and the girl was obviously unaware of the increase to her audience. To back his horse silently and slip away before she noticed his presence was Carew’s first impulse, but despite his every inclination something stayed him in undecided hesitation. And the opportunity neglected he was given no second chance. Resenting the tight grip on his mouth and the sudden convulsive pressure of his rider’s knees Suliman, with a display of temper that was unusual, bounded high on his hind legs snorting his indignation. Submitting to the inevitable with the best grace he could muster Carew dragged him down and swung to the ground, raising his hand to his forehead in the graceful salute that was in accordance with his Arab dress.
“Good morning, Lady Geradine.”
The lizard had fled but Marny had neither moved nor altered her position. She responded to his greeting with a faint smile, her eyes sweeping him frankly from head to foot as he stood, a picturesque commanding-looking figure, leaning against his horse whose muzzle was thrust contritely into his hand.
“Good morning—desert man.”
There was the least possible pause before the last two words and Carew’s tanned face flushed dully. “My name’s Carew,” he said gruffly. She nodded, looking at him with wide grave eyes and hunching her knees up closer to her chin.
“I know,” she said, “Mrs. Chalmers told me before she left Algiers. You are Sir Gervas Carew—and you hate women. Why did you do it?”
“Do what—” he asked, failing to grasp the context of her question.
“Why did you trouble to interfere that night near Blidah?” she said quietly, but the quick blood sprang to her face as she spoke.
He was silent for a few moments then, with a slow shrug: “Because you were English,” he answered tersely. She shook her head with a little smile of amusement.