Le Breton pulled his straying thoughts up sharply, lest they should go wandering down forbidden ways—ways that led to where love was.
He had determined to hate Pansy; a hatred he had to keep continually before him, lest he should forget it.
The afternoon wore on, bringing long shadows creeping into the glade. And the Sultan sat waiting for the full fruit of his vengeance. There might be peace in his heart once the wrong done to his father was righted. Peace in the restless heart that throbbed within him, that seemed always searching for a life other than the one he lived; a peace he had known just once or twice when a girl's slight form had rested upon it. His enemy's daughter!
The sound of approaching hoofs broke into his thoughts. He knew what they were. Those of the party sent on to capture Pansy.
When the cavalcade halted, his eyes went to the open flap of the big tent, a savage expression in them. He could not see the returned party from there; only the guards posted outside of the royal quarters.
Presently a couple of men in flowing white robes came into view; the two officers who had headed the expedition. They were challenged by the sentries, then they passed on towards the tent where their Sultan was waiting.
There was concern upon their faces, that deepened to resignation and despair when the royal gaze rested upon them.
"Where is the English lady?" their Sultan demanded coldly.
"Your Highness, there was a man of her colour with her, and——" one of the officers began.
Le Breton made an impatient gesture.