“Flight—” I replied boldly.
Her glance expressed both surprise and disappointment.
“Yes,” I repeated harshly, “flight! I have never been afraid to be cautious. Listen, Lady Sarah. Your caravan is ill-equipped. Effendi is strong on commissary but weak on munitions. There is but one thing to be done. We must consolidate. Azad will not attack tonight; he knows I am here. At dawn strike camp and remove to the Southward. In the meantime I will speed to my own men and summon them to your assistance. There is not a moment to be lost.”
Hastily retracing our steps we reached the camp where, at the portal of the luxurious tent, I bent over Lady Sarah’s hand, lightly brushing her firm knuckles with my lips.
“Farewell,” I breathed. “Remember, strike camp at dawn. Be of good heart—and do not forget—the Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub.”
“How could I?” she whispered, smiling strangely.
As she lifted the tent curtain I had a glimpse of the elaborate interior, hung with silken draperies and furnished with many-hued cushions and a broad low divan over the edge of which, upside down, hung the brutish face of Sir Horace Wimpole.
“Her over-lord!”——
Ugh! A shudder of revulsion shook me.
A moment later Whinney and I were rushing through the night like great white birds while in my heart echoed the words of an old Persian love song—