Weak and weeping she collapsed against him, on a heart that leapt to meet her.
There was a stone seat near. On it the Sultan seated himself, the girl in his arms. And in the scented, sighing silence he tried to soothe the tears his methods had roused.
And trembling she lay against the passion and power that held her, refusing to be comforted.
"There's nothing to weep about, my darling," he whispered. "Sooner or later you have to learn that I'm your master. Just as you've taught me that all women are not ripe fruit, willing and anxious to fall into my hands. And I must have some closer tie between us since love alone won't keep you from running away from me."
Pansy's tears fell all the faster. For now it seemed her own doings were responsible for this crisis.
He sat on, waiting until the storm was over.
The tremors of the slight form that lay against his heart, so helpless yet so anxious not to do wrong, struck through the fire and passion in the man, to what lay beneath—true love and protection.
Presently he kissed the strained, tear-stained face pillowed against his shoulder.
"It's like old times to be sitting in the moonlight and among the roses, with you in my arms," he said, all at once.
"Do you remember, Pansy, that sweet night in Grand Canary? But you were not weeping then. Why are you now, my little slave? Because a Sultan loves you more than his life? More than anything that has been in his life. You're not very flattering. But then, you never were."