"Your Highness, there was a white man with her. He shot her," the kneeling officer explained.
Le Breton hardly heard him. For the first time in his wild, arrogant life he felt regret; regret for a deed of his own doing. The regret that is the forerunner of conscience, as conscience precedes the birth of a soul—the soul he had once laughingly accused Pansy of trying to save.
His schemes had brought her to her death. Morally his was the hand that had killed her. His hand!
The thought staggered him.
He got to his feet suddenly, reeling slightly, as if in dire agony. The officer kneeling before him bowed his head submissively. He expected the fate of all who bring bad news to a Sultan—the Sultan's sword upon his neck.
But Le Breton hardly noticed the man. He only saw his own deed before him. Love had leapt out of its scabbard of hate. The one fact he had tried to keep hidden from himself was shouting, loud-voiced, at him.
In spite of who and what Pansy was, he still loved her, madly, ragingly, hopelessly. But it had taken her death to bring the truth home to him.
"Where is the girl?" he asked, in a stiff, harsh voice.
"We brought her so that your Highness could see we spoke the truth," the officer replied.
"Let her be brought in to me then, and laid there," the Sultan said, indicating a wide couch full of cushions.