CHAPTER VI
Blue-black night surrounded the Arab encampment. Here and there a red watch-fire punctuated the darkness.
Although well past midnight, a light burnt in the Sultan's tent. It came from a heavy silver lamp slung from the bar joining the two main supporting poles.
The light flickered on the couch where Pansy still lay, limp and white among the silken cushions, her curls making a halo about her pain-drawn face. She was no longer clad in her muslin frock, but in a silk nightgown with her namesakes embroidered upon it. A light silk rug covered her up to her waist; on it her hands lay, weak and helpless.
On discovering there was a spark of life left in his prisoner, the Sultan had sent post-haste to an adjacent tent for Edouard.
When the doctor arrived, Le Breton stood silent whilst the patient was examined, in an agony of tortured love awaiting the verdict.
"There's no hope unless I can get the bullet out," the doctor had remarked at the end of the examination. "It escaped her heart by about half an inch; but it means constant haemorrhage if it's left in the lungs."
"And if it's removed?" the Sultan asked hoarsely.
Edouard shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal manner.
"It'll be touch and go, even then. But she might pull through with care and attention. She's young and healthy. But if she survives, she'll feel the effects of that bullet for some time to come."