On one of the terraces of his palace the Sultan sat at breakfast. As he lingered in the sweet cool air of early morning, he pondered on the happenings of the night before.
At last he had wrung a reluctant consent from his cherished prisoner.
There was a flaw in his victory that he tried not to see. That "Yes" would not have come except that the girl had been absolutely cornered. The word had not come from her lips spontaneously as those three words, "I love you," had.
He tried to forget this fact, as he thought out the best means of bringing about a speedy wedding.
There was no minister of her faith in El-Ammeh. The nearest Christian Mission lay at least two hundred miles distant. It would be risky work bringing a white missionary to his city. The safest course would be to take her down to a mission station and marry her there. No one would know then where they had come from. And the journey back would make a delightful honeymoon.
On the delights of that honeymoon he pondered.
From his reverie he was rudely aroused by a sound which made marriage seem very remote, and death much more likely to be his portion.
There was a sudden shriek high above the city, followed by a deafening roar, as a shell exploded over El-Ammeh—a command for its surrender.
The Sultan started to his feet, his face reckless and savage. The cup was at his lips only to be dashed away.
He knew what had happened.