"Casim, my Lord, beloved, not that," she cried, her little face frantic. "Not that, I entreat you, for the sake of the nights that have been."
There was no pity on his face, only savagery. All mercy had been swept out of him by her attempt to shame and injure Pansy.
The guards returned, bringing whips.
On seeing them Rayma's screams broke out afresh. Piteous little pleas for mercy, wild promises never to offend again, that he ignored completely. Then she fell a sobbing, golden statue at the Sultan's feet.
Rayma's cries, terror-stricken and helpless, reached Pansy in the midst of her own dazed shame, making her glance in the direction of the man she hoped never to have to face again.
She saw the huge negroes with their whips, awaiting the Sultan's order. The sobbing, helpless girl at his feet, and on his face a look she had never seen before—the look of an angered and pitiless despot.
For a moment she stood aghast, not able to credit the scene before her. As she looked the Sultan nodded.
The guards raised their whips. And they fell with cruel, stinging force.
But they did not fall on Rayma.
There was one in the harem who dared come between the Sultan and his wrath.