The mad prayer of a wandering feather merchant against his Sultan; the prayer of a man whom, in his wealth and power and arrogance, Casim Ammeh had not considered.
But one which was to bear fruit.
CHAPTER XV
Giving no thought to the grimy wretch out there in the desert, the Sultan was seated in one of the deep, open galleries of his palace. Some ten feet below a garden sighed, and the soft wind that wandered in and out of the fretted arches was ladened with the scent of a thousand flowers. Close at hand a fountain whispered, and from the distance came the gentle lap of the lake.
However, he noticed none of these things. There was something of far greater interest close beside him.
Among the cushions of a wicker lounge Pansy lay, her head pillowed on silk and down, a worn look still on her face.
Night had fallen before she awoke from her drugged slumber. She had found Le Breton still beside her, and the room full of the soft glow of shaded lamps.
Once she was fully awake he had left, promising to come again after dinner.
She had dined in the gallery. The roofed terrace was lighted by the glow coming from the two rooms behind. One was her bedroom; the other a gorgeously appointed salon. But at the end of these two rooms an iron grille went across the gallery, stopping all further investigations.