She stood like a statue of terrible wrath, outraged in her pride before her men. Like a cobra about to strike she waited motionless to pay back that insult a hundredfold.
“Because——?” she repeated.
“Because,” Ralph Trenchard said slowly, clearly, “because I love the memory of the white woman who died amongst you, too much to give a thought of love elsewhere.”
Helen’s ringing, joyous cry was lost in the men’s shouting and the sharp sound of their daggers as they whipped them from the sheath, and her scream of rage was lost in their shouts of laughter when Zarah, lifting her hand, smote the white man across the mouth.
Then she ran, oblivious of the roar of amazement, up the clear path which stretched between her and her lover.
“Ra!” she cried as she ran, with arms outstretched. “Ra! I’m here! I’m coming to you, Ra! Come to me!”
She ran to him as he leapt from the dais; she was in his arms and he had folded her close and kissed her before Zarah had time to give an order to the men, who stood motionless with astonishment.
A moment of utter silence, then the storm broke.
“Separate them!”
The order, given to the Nubian, cracked like a whip as Zarah, white with passion, sank slowly into the ivory chair.