"At least have pity on the girl. Do what you like with me, but spare my daughter."
"Did you show me any pity when I begged for my father's life? 'As ye sow, so shall ye reap.' Isn't that what you Christians say? There is your harvest. A pleasing sight for me, when I think of my father."
The Sultan's gaze went to the window, but there was more tenderness than anything else in his eyes as they rested on the slim girl who faced the crowd with such white courage.
Now one figure stood out from the surge, that of a big, lean man in turban and loin-cloth, with long matted hair and beard, the latter foam-flecked. He stood at the foot of the platform, and his eyes never left the girl as he bid up and up against the other competitors; cursing everyone who bid against him, yet always going higher.
"Look at that wild man from the desert," the Sultan said. "I know him. He is a feather merchant. A miser. His home is a squalid tent, yet he has more money than any man who comes to El-Ammeh. Love has unlocked his heart. He will give all his hoarded wealth to possess that pretty slave on the platform there. He will be a fitting mate for your daughter. Think of her in his arms, and remember the man you murdered—my father, the Sultan Casim Ammeh, whom I have now avenged."
At the taunts, despite the difference in their years and physique, George Barclay turned on his tormentor.
"You brute! You devil!" he cried, springing at him.
With easy strength the Sultan caught and held him.
"You misjudge me," he said; "it's justice—merely 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.'"
Then he pushed the older man from him and, turning on his heel, went from the room.