"No, Rayma, I'm not quite the same," he said, stroking the little face that watched him with such love and longing. "For sixteen years and more I have waited to avenge my father's death. And now——"
He broke off, and laughed savagely.
"And now—my father's murderer is almost within my grip. Next week I start out with my men to capture him."
Revenge was a sentiment the Arab girl could understand.
"Oh, my lord," she whispered, "little wonder that your mind wanders from me, even though I am within your arms. I wept when you went to Paris. But I would speed you on this quest for vengeance."
The Sultan made no reply.
Deep down in his own heart he knew his excuse was a false one. It was not vengeance that came between him and Rayma—but Pansy.
And now he hated the English girl, for she had robbed all other women of their sweetness.