They all knew the reason of their capture—merely because they happened to be on the Governor's staff. He had told them the story of Casim Ammeh, and the promised revenge. They never thought of blaming Barclay. What the present Sultan of El-Ammeh called "murder" was the sort of thing any one of them might be called upon to do.
A day came when it seemed to Barclay that the fate that wild youth had promised him long years ago was at hand.
One morning an escort came for him.
In their company he was led out of prison, to his execution, he expected. His staff thought so too; for they took a brief, unemotional farewell of him. They expected the same fate themselves at any moment.
However, Barclay was not led to his death. The escort took him through a twist of narrow streets, into a house and up a flight of dark stairs. He was left alone in an upper room, with a heavily barred window, through which came a hum of wild voices, with an occasional loud, guttural, excited call.
He crossed to the window, and stood there, riveted.
There was a big square beneath, seething with dark-faced, white-robed men, all gazing in one direction—in the direction of a raised platform where a girl stood. A slim, white girl.
It would have been much easier for Sir George to have faced death than the sight before him.
Pansy was on the platform. His daughter! Standing there in full view of the wild crowd. Being sold as a slave in the market of this desert city. To become the property of one of those savages.
Barclay's hand went across his anguished face, to try and shut out the horrible sight.