A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 BUI*. UWURY. LOi
 
 With Annette limp across his saddle, Casim Ammeh sped away.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 BY 
 LOUISE GERARD 
 
 With Illustrations from the Photo-Play 
 "A FIRST NATIONAL ATTRACTION" 
 
 Produced by EDWIN CAREWE, 
 Featuring BERT LYTELL AND CLAIRE WINDSOR 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE MACAULAY COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT. 1922, 
 
 BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
 
 TO 
 
 MY FRIEND 
 
 DOROTHEA THORNTON CLARKE 
 
 WITHOUT WHOSE HELP AND CONSTANT ENCOURAGEMENT 
 
 NEITHER THIS NOR ANT OF MY BOOKS 
 
 WOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN 
 
 2129727
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A beach of white sand, the whisper of palms answering 
 the murmuring moonlit eea, the fragrance of orange blos- 
 soms, the perfume of roses and syringa, that is Grand 
 Canary, a bit of Heaven dropped into the Atlantic ; overlooked 
 by writers and painters in general. Surely one can be par- 
 doned a bit of praise and promise for this story, laid, as it is 
 in part, in that magic island. 
 
 The Canaries properly belong to the African continent. 
 That is best proven by their original inhabitants who were of 
 pure Berber stock. The islands are the stepping stone be- 
 tween Europe and the Sahara. Mysterious Arabs and a con- 
 tinual stream of those silent men who come and go from the 
 great desert tarry there for a while, giving color and romance 
 to the big hotels. 
 
 The petty gossip, the real news of the Sahara '^breaks" 
 there. Weird, passionate tales; believable or not, they carry 
 an undercurrent of reality that thrills. 
 
 From such a source came this story. Unaltered in fact, 
 it is given to you, the life story of a man and a woman who 
 turned their backs on worldly conventions that they might 
 find happiness. If it is frank, forgive it. Life near the 
 Equator is not a milk and water affair. 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PART I 3 
 
 PART II 44 
 
 PART III .... 147
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 With Annette limp across his saddle, Casim Ammeh 
 sped away Frontispiece 
 
 MM 
 
 He had come to the harem to say farewell . . . . 48 
 
 For sale as a common slave at the Taureg auction 
 block 200 
 
 "Let us both dance for you, so that you may judge be- 
 tween us" . 241
 
 PARTI
 
 A Son of the Sahara 
 
 CHAPTEK I 
 
 IN the days when France was pursuing a vigorous forward 
 policy in Africa, a policy started by General Faidherbe 
 and carried on by subsequent governors, one of the bravest 
 among her pioneer soldiers was Colonel Eaoul Le Breton. 
 
 He was a big, handsome man with a swarthy complexion, 
 coal-black hair and dark, fiery eyes, by nature impetuous 
 and reckless. With a trio of white sergeants and a hundred 
 Senegalese soldiers, he would attempt and accomplish 
 things that no man with ten times his following would have 
 attempted. 
 
 But there came a day when even his luck failed. 
 
 He left St. Louis, in Senegal, and went upwards to the 
 north-east, intending to pierce the heart of the Sahara. 
 From that expedition, however, he never returned. The 
 Government at St. Louis assumed that he and his little 
 pioneer force had been wiped out by some hostile negro 
 king or Arab chief. It was but one of the tragedies attached 
 to extending a nation's territory. 
 
 When Eaoul Le Breton went on that ill-fated expedition, 
 he did what no man should have done who attempts to 
 explore the Back of Beyond with an indifferent force. 
 
 He took his wife with him. 
 
 There was some excuse for this piece of folly. He was 
 newly married. He adored his wife, and she worshipped 
 him, and refused to let him go unless she went also. 
 
 She was barely half his age; a girl just fresh from a 
 convent school, whom he had met and married in Paris 
 during his last leave. 
 
 3
 
 4 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Colonel Le Breton journeyed for weeks through an arid 
 country, an almost trackless expanse of poor grass and 
 stunted scrub, until he reached the edge of the Sahara. 
 
 Annette Le Breton enjoyed her travels. She did not 
 mind the life in tents, the rough jolting of her camel, the 
 poor food, the heat, the flies; she minded nothing so long 
 as she was with her husband. He was a man of rare fascina- 
 tion, as many women had found to their cost; a light lover 
 until Annette had come into his life and captured his straying 
 heart once and for all. 
 
 On the edge of the Sahara Le Breton met a man who, 
 on the surface at least, appeared to see even more quickly 
 than the majority of negro kings and Arab chiefs he had 
 come in contact with, the advantages attached to being 
 under the shadow of the French flag. 
 
 It would be difficult to say where the Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh came from. He appeared one afternoon riding 
 like a madman out of the blazing distance; a picturesque 
 figure in his flowing white burnoose, sitting his black 
 stallion like a centaur. 
 
 He was a young man, perhaps about twenty-four, of 
 medium height, lean and lithe and brown, with fierce black 
 eyes and a cruel mouth: the hereditary ruler of that por- 
 tion of the Sahara. His capital was a walled city that, so 
 far, had not been visited by any European. In his way he 
 was a man of great wealth, and he added to that wealth by 
 frequent marauding expeditions and slave-dealing. 
 
 With a slight smile he listened to all the Frenchman had 
 to say. Already he had heard of France a great Power, 
 creeping slowly onwards and he wondered whether he was 
 strong enough to oppose it, or whether the wiser plan might 
 not be just to rest secure under the shadow of its distant 
 wing, and under its protection continue his wild, maraud- 
 ing life as usual. 
 
 As he sat with Colonel Le Breton in the latter's tent, 
 something happened which caused the Sultan Casim Ammeh 
 to make up his mind very quickly.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 5 
 
 It was late afternoon. Prom the open flap of the tent 
 an endless, rolling expense of sand showed, with here and 
 there a knot of coarse, twisted grass, a dwarfed shrub, or a 
 flare of red-flowered, distorted cacti. The French officer's 
 camp was pitched by an oasis; a little group of date palms, 
 where a spring bubbled among brown rocks, bringing an 
 abundance of grass and herbs where horses and camels 
 browsed. 
 
 As the two men sat talking, a soft voice said unex- 
 pectedly : 
 
 "Oh, Raoul, I'd no idea you had a visitor 1" 
 
 All at once a girl had appeared in the entrance of the tent 
 She was small and slim, with two thick plaits of golden- 
 brown hair reaching to her knees; a beautiful girl of about 
 eighteen, with wide grey eyes and a creamy white ekin. 
 
 Her voice brought Le Breton to his feet. 
 
 "What is it, Annette?" he asked. 
 
 "I thought I'll come later/' she said, the blushes 
 
 mounting to her cheeks. 
 
 The Sultan Casim Ammeh got to his feet also. Not out 
 of any sense of deference; he had none where women were 
 concerned, but drawn there by the beauty of the girl. 
 
 "You needn't mind what you say in front of this man," 
 her husband remarked. "He doesn't understand a word 
 of French. 
 
 "Ill tell you later, Raoul, when there's nobody here." 
 She would have gone, but Le Breton called her forward 
 and, in Arabic, introduced her to his visitor. 
 
 Annette bowed to the lean, lithe, brown man in the white 
 burnoose, and her eyes dropped under the fierce admiration 
 in his. 
 
 The Sultan looked at her, all the time wondering why 
 the white man was such a fool as to lot this priceless pearl, 
 this jewel among women, go unveiled, and allow the 
 eyes of strange men to rest upon her with desire and long- 
 ing. 
 
 Annette said she was pleased to meet him : a message her
 
 6 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 husband translated, and which brought a fierce smile to the 
 young Sultan's face and made the wild desire in his savage 
 heart suddenly blossom into plans. 
 
 So she, this houri from Paradise, was pleased to meet him ! 
 This fair flower from a far land! But not so pleased as 
 he was to meet her. 
 
 And her husband let her say such things to strange men ! 
 What a fool the man was! Not worthy of this houri! 
 He could not appreciate the treasure he possessed. Not as 
 he, the Sultan, would, were she his. 
 
 Casim Ammeh despised Colonel Le Breton utterly. 
 
 As soon as the introduction was orer, Annette would have 
 gone. 
 
 "Don't run away, my pet," her husband said fondly. "I 
 shall soon have finished." 
 
 But the girl went, anxious to get away from the Arab 
 chief who watched her with such covetous desire and 
 smouldering passion in his fierce black eyes. 
 
 When she had gone, the two men seated themselves again. 
 But the Sultan gave no thought to the business in hand. 
 He only wanted one thing now the girl who had just gone 
 from the tent. 
 
 Soon after Annette's departure he left, promising to visit 
 Le Breton again within the course of a few days. 
 
 He kept his word. 
 
 Five days later he swept out of the desert with a horde of 
 wild horsemen. And in less than half an hour there was 
 only one of Raoul Le Breton's ill-fated expedition left alive. 
 
 The next day, with Annette limp across his saddle, the 
 Sultan Casim Ammeh set off with his following to his desert 
 stronghold.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THB city of El-Ammeh lies about a hundred miles witMn 
 the Sahara proper. It is a walled town of Moorish aspecfe 
 built of brown rock and baked mud. Within the walla is a 
 tangle of narrow, twisted, squalid lanes a jumble of fiat- 
 roofed houses, practically devoid of windows oa the sides 
 overlooking the streets. Here and there a minaret towers, 
 and glimpses of strange trees can be seen peeping over walled 
 gardens. 
 
 Along one side stands a domed palace ; a straggling plaee, 
 with horse-shoe arches, stone galleries and terraces. In 
 front of it a blue lake spreads, surrounded by fertile gardens 
 and groves of fruit trees. And the whole is encircled by tbre 
 desert. 
 
 Annette Le Breton remembered nothing of her journey 
 to El-Ammeh. Her life was a nightmare of horror that 
 held nothing but her husband's murderer, whom she could 
 not escape from. She was taken to the palace, and placed 
 in the apartment reserved for the Sultan's favourite. A big 
 room with walls and floor of gold mosaic, furnished with 
 ottomans, rugs and cushions, and little tables and stools of 
 carved sandalwood inlaid with ivory and silver. 
 
 On one side of the apartment a series of archwByB 
 opened on a screened and fretted gallery, at the end of 
 which a flight of wide, shallow steps led down into a walled 
 garden, a dream of roses. 
 
 But it was weeks before Annette knew anything of this. 
 
 All day long she lay, broken and suffering, on one of the 
 ottomans, and dark-faced women fawned upon her, saying 
 words she could not understand; women who looked at her 
 queerly, jealously, and talked about her among themselves. 
 
 A strange girl, this new fancy of the Sultan's \ Who 
 
 7
 
 8 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 wanted none of the things he piled upon her not even his 
 love. A girl who looked as though life were a mirage ; as if 
 she mo,ved in bad dreams, a listless girl, beautiful beyond 
 any yet seen in the harem, who seemed to have neither idea 
 nor appreciation of the honour that was hers; who lay all 
 day in silence, her only language tears. Tears that even 
 the Sultan could not charm, away. 
 
 In fact they seemed to fall more quickly and hopelessly 
 when he came to see her. 
 
 Yet he did everything that mortal man could do to -com- 
 fort her. 
 
 Jewels were showered upon her; jewels she refused to 
 wear, to look at even; casting them from her with weak, 
 angry hands, when her women would have decked her with 
 them for her master's coming. 
 
 And never before were so many musicians, singers, dan- 
 cers, and conjurors sent to the women's apartments. Hardly 
 a day passed without bringing some such form of diversion ; or 
 merchants with rare silks, perfumes and ostrich feathers. 
 The harem bad never had such a perpetual round of amuse- 
 monts. 
 
 All for this new slave-girl. And she refused to be either 
 amused or interested. She would look neither at the goods 
 nor the entertainers. She just stayed with her face turned 
 towards the wall and wept. 
 
 One day when the Sultan came to the harem to visit his 
 new favourite, some of the older women drew him aside and 
 whispered with him. 
 
 They suspected they had found a reason for the girl's 
 strange behaviour. 
 
 Their words sent the Sultan from the big hall of the 
 harem to the gilded chamber set aside for Annette, with 
 hope in his savage heart, and left him looking down at 
 her with a touch of tenderness on his cruel face. 
 
 He laid a dark hand on the girl, caressing her fondly. 
 
 "Give me a son, my pearl," he whispered. "Then my cup 
 will be full indeed."
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 9 
 
 Annette shuddered at his touch. 
 
 She had no idea what he said. He and his language were 
 beyond her. 
 
 As the long weeks ground oat their slow and dreary course, 
 Annette grew to suspect what her attendants now knew. 
 
 The weeks became months and Annette languished in her 
 captor's palace; her only respite the times he was away on 
 some marauding expedition. He loved rapine and murder, 
 and was never happy unless dabbling in blood. Sometimes 
 he was away for weeks together, killing and stealing, bring- 
 ing slaves for the slave-market of his city, and fresh women 
 for his harem. 
 
 During one of his absences Annette's baby arrived. 
 
 The child came a week or so before the women had ex- 
 pected it. 
 
 "The girl has wept so much," they said, "that her son 
 has come before his time, to see what his mother's tears are 
 about. And now, if Allah is kind, let us hope the child will 
 dry them." 
 
 For a fortnight Annette was too ill to know even that she 
 had a son. 
 
 When the baby was brought to her, she hardly dared look 
 at it, not knowing what horror might have come from those 
 ghastly nights spent with the Sultan Casim Ammeh. 
 
 But when she looked, it was not his face, dark and cruel, 
 that looked back at her. 
 
 In miniature, she saw the face of Raoul Le Breton ! 
 
 This son of hers did not owe his life to the Sultan. He 
 was a legacy from her murdered husband. Something that 
 belonged to her lost life. 
 
 With a wild sob of joy, Annette held out weak arms for 
 her baby. Weeping she strained the mite to her breast, 
 baptizing it with her tears. Tears of happiness this time. 
 
 Light and love had come into her life again. For Raoul 
 was not dead. He had come back to her. Weak and tiny he 
 lay upon her heart, hers to love and cherish. 
 
 She was lying on her couch one day, too absorbed in trac-
 
 10 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 ing out each one of her dead lover's features in the tiny face 
 pillowed on her breast, to notice what was happening, when 
 the voice she dreaded said in a fierce, fond manner: 
 
 "So, Pearl of my Heart, you love my son, even if you 
 hate me." 
 
 Annette did not know what the Sultan said. But she held 
 her child closer, watching its father's murderer with fear and 
 loathing; afraid that he might put his dark, defiling hands 
 upon her treasure. 
 
 But he did not attempt to touch either her or the child. 
 
 Seating himself at her side, he stayed watching her, 
 tenderness on his cruel face, for the first time having pity 
 on her weakness. The weakness of the woman who had 
 given him the one thing his savage heart craved for, and 
 which, until now, had been denied him a son.
 
 CHAPTER HI 
 
 BY the time Annette knew enough Arabic to make herself 
 understood, and to understand what was said around her, 
 she realized that if the Sultan learnt her boy was not his, 
 this one joy of her tragic life would be taken from her. 
 He would murder the son as he had murdered the father. 
 
 As the baby grew, her one idea was to keep its true 
 parentage from her savage captor. If she could have done 
 so, she would have kept his dark, blood-stained hands 
 from touching her son. But this was impossible. When 
 in El-Ammeh, the Sultan came every day to see the child, 
 often sitting with it in his arms, watching it with an air of 
 proud possession. 
 
 And fearsomely Annette would watch him, wondering 
 why he never suspected. But he was too eaten up with his 
 own desire for a son ever to give a thought to her dead 
 husband. 
 
 The baby was given the name of Casim Ammeh. But 
 Annette always called her boy by another name, <r Raoul 
 Le Breton." 
 
 And at the age of five he said to her: 
 
 "Why do you always call me *Eaoul/ not 'Casim/ as my 
 father does?" 
 
 His father! 
 
 Annette's heart ached. His father had been dead these 
 long years, murdered by the man her son now called by 
 that name. 
 
 'The Sultan and myself are of different races," she said. 
 "He calls you by his name. I, by one of my own choosing, 
 Ttaoul Le Breton/" 
 
 <r Why do you always say the Sultan/ and never 'your 
 father*?" 
 
 11
 
 12 A SON OP THE SAHARA 
 
 Sadly she smiled at her small questioner. 
 
 "Some day, my son, I'll tell you. When you are a man 
 and understand things." 
 
 At fire, Raoul Le Breton was a big, handsome 
 boy, spoilt and pampered by the whole harem, and spoilt 
 most of all by the man he proudly called "Father." 
 
 The Sultan in his flowing white robes, with his half-tamed 
 horses, his horde of wild followers and barbaric splendour, 
 was a picturesque figure, one to capture any brave boy's 
 heart. 
 
 Annette did all she could to counteract her captor's in- 
 fluence, but, as the child grew, he was more with the Sultan 
 than with her. What was more, he craved for men's 
 company. 
 
 He soon tired of the amusements the harem could offer. 
 He much preferred to be on his own horse, galloping with 
 the Sultan or some of his men along the desert 
 tracks about the city. And knowing Annette loved her 
 son, and hated him, despite their years together, the Sultan 
 did all he could to win the boy's affection and wean him 
 from his mother. 
 
 He might have succeeded, except for one thing. The 
 boy loved learning, and to hear of the great world that his 
 mother came from; a world that seemed as remote from 
 El-Ammeh as the paradise his Moslem teachers spoke of. 
 
 The Sultan was not averse to the mother teaching her 
 son. He was a shrewd man, if savage and cruel. And that 
 Prance from where the girl came was growing ever more 
 powerful. It would be to the boy's advantage to learn all 
 the arts and cunning of his mother's people. 
 
 The Sultan Casim gave Annette but one present that she 
 took from him willingly; a sandalwood bureau with shelves 
 and drawers and little sliding panels, an elaborately carved 
 and handsome piece of furniture; stocked with slate and 
 pencil, paper, quills and ink such as the priests at the 
 moequee used themselves. For this strange girl who hated
 
 13 
 
 him had more learning than all the priests put together. 
 
 But, for all that, the youngster had to sit at their feet 
 at appointed times, and be taught all the Sultan had ever 
 been taught, to read and write, and recite scraps from the 
 Koran, and to be a true Moslem. 
 
 Annette hated this wild, profligate religion, and into her 
 son she tried to instil her own Roman Catholic faith. 
 
 But at eight years, although he learnt with avidity 
 all her other teachings, he laughed at her religion. 
 
 "Yours is a woman's religion, little mother," he said 
 one day. "It's all right for you a religion that prays to 
 a woman, but it is not suitable for men. Give me my 
 father's religion. A religion where men rule. In that, 
 one does not bow the knee to a woman. A good religion, 
 my father's, fierce and strong, of love and fighting, not a 
 puling thing where one prays to a woman and a babe. 
 No, little mother, keep your religion, and be happy with it. 
 I prefer my father's and my own." 
 
 "Eaoul, my son, you mustn't forget the white side when 
 you are with the Sultan," she said gently, a touch of chid- 
 ing in her sad voice. 
 
 The boy looked at her speculatively, knowing already 
 that his mother had no affection for the man he called 
 "father." 
 
 "You should be proud, not sorry, to be the Sultan's 
 wife," he remarked. "It is an honour for any woman to 
 be loved by the Sultan. Even a woman as lovely and learned 
 as you, little mother." 
 
 At twenty-seven Annette was even more beautiful than 
 on the day the Sultan Casim Ammeh first saw her; but 
 more fragile and ethereal. Although her captor's fancy 
 often strayed to other women, he never lost his passion 
 for her. 
 
 "Oh, my boy, you don't understand," she said sadly. 
 "When you are a man I'll tell you, and then perhaps you'll 
 think differently."
 
 14 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "When I am a man, I shall be like my father, but richer 
 and more powerful, because I shall have more knowledge, 
 thanks to you, my mother." 
 
 "I hope you will be like your father, Raoul, I ask for 
 nothing better." 
 
 When her boy reached manhood Annette intended to tell 
 him the truth, and to leave him to deal with the situation 
 as he would. 
 
 At ten years, her son had as much general knowledge 
 as the average French boy of his age, thanks to his mother's 
 teachings. And he knew, too, a great deal more than she 
 taught him. 
 
 He was a big lad for his years, handsome and quick- 
 tempered, the Sultan's acknowledged heir. On every side 
 there were people anxious to spoil him and curry favour 
 with him. In the scented, sensual atmosphere of the harem, 
 he learnt things his mother would have kept from him. 
 But she was powerless among so many, all ready to flatter 
 her boy and gain his good graces. 
 
 "When I grow up," he said to her one day, "I shall have 
 a hundred wives, like my father." 
 
 "In the France I come from a man has but one. Yon 
 must always remember that, Raoul." 
 
 "Only one! Then, mother, I call that a poor country. 
 How can a man be satisfied with one woman? My father 
 has promised me wives of my own when I am sixteen." 
 
 It seemed to Annette that in this profligate atmosphere 
 her boy was drifting further and further away from her 
 and his own nation; becoming daily more akin to the 
 barbaric people around him. 
 
 Every day she felt she must tell him the truth. Yet 
 every day she put it off. For her boy was only a child 
 still, and in his anger and rage he would not be able to 
 keep his knowledge from the Sultan; then evil would befall 
 him. 
 
 It was written that many years were to pass before Raoul 
 Le Breton learnt the truth about himself.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 15 
 
 Soon after this episode the Sultan took the boy with him 
 on some thieving expedition. 
 
 Whilst they were away, one of the deadly epidemics 
 that occasionally visited El- Am m eh swept through the 
 city, claiming among its many victims Annette Le Breton.
 
 CHAPTEE IV 
 
 WITH the passing years, the Sultan Casim Ammeh increased 
 in wealth and power. He gave very little thought to France 
 now. It was a vague power, too far away to trouble him, 
 and only once had it really sent a feeler in his direction; 
 that ill-fated expedition headed by Colonel Le Breton. 
 
 Emboldened by his success, he had extended his maraud- 
 ing. But, if he heard nothing more of France, France 
 occasionally heard of him, in the form of complaints from 
 various parts of the Protectorate, from other chiefs whose 
 territory he had raided. The Government knew his name 
 but it had no idea where he came from. 
 
 On one occasion the Sultan and his robber horde swept 
 down to within a hundred miles of St. Louis. But there he 
 met with a severe defeat. He retired to his desert strong- 
 hold, deciding not to adventure in that direction again. And 
 he owed his defeat to strange guns such as had not come 
 into his life before. Guns that fired not a couple of shots, 
 but a whole volley; an endless fusillade that even his wild 
 warriors could not face. 
 
 He went back to El-Ammeh determined to get hold of 
 some of those wonderful guns. 
 
 Obviously it was out of the question to attack St. Louis 
 where they came from. If they were to be obtained, they 
 must be searched for in some other direction. 
 
 Sore with defeat, he brooded on the strange guns. And 
 very often he talked of them to the boy he called his son. 
 
 Eaoul Le Breton was about thirteen when the Sultan 
 met with his first rebuff at the hands of France. And he 
 had the welfare and prestige of the desert kingdom at 
 heart, and was as anxious as the Sultan to possess this 
 new weapon. 
 
 19
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 17 
 
 Far away in the south was the outpost of another Euro- 
 pean power; just a handful of white men struggling to keep 
 a hold on a country an indifferent and short-sighted govern- 
 ment was inclined to let slip. 
 
 Eound and about the River Gambia the British had a 
 footing. Among the men most determined to keep a hold 
 on this strip of territory was Captain George Barclay. 
 
 He was a man of about twenty-eight, of medium height 
 and wiry make, with a thin face and steady grey 
 eyes where tragedy lurked. His confreres said that Bar- 
 clay had no interests outside of his work. But they were 
 wrong. 
 
 He had one thing that was more to him than his own life ; 
 a tiny, velvety-eyed, golden-haired daughter. 
 
 He had come out to North-West Africa in quest of 
 forgetfulness. 
 
 At twenty-three, although he was only a penniless 
 lieutenant, the beauty of the London season, the prospective 
 heiress of millions, had thought well to marry him. It was 
 a runaway match. For his sake Pansy Carrington had risked 
 losing both wealth and position. She was only nineteen, 
 and her guardian and godfather, whose acknowledged 
 heiress she was, had disapproved of George Barclay; gossip 
 said because he was madly in love with her himself, although 
 he was nearly thirty years her senior. 
 
 However, whether this was so or not, Henry Langham 
 had forgiven the girl. He had taken her back into his good 
 graces, and, in due course, had become godfather to the 
 second Pansy. "Grand-godfather," the child called him as 
 soon as she could talk. 
 
 It had seemed to George Barclay that no man's life could 
 be happier than his. Then, without any warning, tragedy 
 came upon him after five years of bliss. For one day his 
 girl-wife was brought back to him dead, the result of an 
 accident in the hunting-field. 
 
 With her death all light had gone out of his lifa. To 
 escape from himself he had gone out to Gambia; and his
 
 18 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 tiny daughter now lived, as her mother had lived before 
 her, with her godfather, Henry Langham. 
 
 But it was not of his daughter Barclay was thinking 
 at that moment; other matters occupied his mind. 
 
 He stood on the roof of a little stone fort, gazing at the 
 landscape in a speculative manner. 
 
 The building itself consisted of four rooms, set on a 
 platform of rock some three feet from the ground. All the 
 windows were small, and high up and barred. One room 
 had no communication with the others: it was a sort of 
 guardroom entered by a heavy wooden door. To the 
 other three rooms one solid door gave entry, and from one 
 of them a ladder and trap-door led up to the roof which 
 had battlements around it. 
 
 Below was a large compound, rudely stockaded, in which 
 half a dozen native huts were built. 
 
 In that part of Gambia Captain Barclay represented 
 the British Government. He had to administer justice 
 and keep the peace, and in this task he was aided by a white 
 subaltern, twenty Hausa soldiers, and a couple of maxim 
 guns. 
 
 On three sides of the little British outpost an endless 
 expanse of forest showed, with white mist curling like 
 smoke about it. On the fourth was a wide shallow valley, 
 with dwarf cliffs on either side, alive with dog-faced baboons. 
 The valley was patched with swamps and lakes, and 
 through it a river wended an erratic course, its banks heavily 
 fringed with reeds and mimosa trees; a valley from 
 which, with approaching evening, a stream of miasma rose. 
 . Barclay's gaze, however, never strayed in the direction of 
 the shallow valley. 
 
 He looked to the north. 
 
 A week or so ago word had come through that a notorious 
 raider was on the move ; a man whom the French Government 
 had been endeavouring to catch for the last five years or 
 more. What he was doing so far south as Gambia, the 
 district officer did not know. But he knew he was there.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 19 
 
 Only the previous day news had come that one of the villages 
 within his, Barclay's, jurisdiction had been practically 
 wiped out. A similar fate might easily fall to the lot of 
 the British outpost, considering that the Arab chief's force 
 outnumbered Barclay's ten to one. 
 
 From the roof of his quarters the Englishman saw the 
 sun set. It seemed to sink and drown in a lake of orange 
 that lay like a blazing furnace on the horizon; a lake that 
 spread and scattered when the sun disappeared, drifting 
 off in islands of clouds, gold, rose, mauve and vivid red, 
 sailing slowly across a tense blue sky, getting ever thinner 
 and more ragged, until night came suddenly and swallowed 
 up their tattered remains. 
 
 A dense, purple darkness fell upon the land, soft and 
 velvety, that reminded Barclay of his little daughter's eyes. 
 And in a vault as darkly purple, a host of great stars flashed. 
 Away in the forest an owl hooted. From the wide valley 
 came the coughing roar of a leopard. Every now and again 
 some night bird passed, a vague shadow in the darkness. 
 In silver showers the fireflies danced in the thick, hot 
 air. Down in the compound glow-worms showed, look- 
 ing like a lot of smouldering cigarette ends cast carelessly 
 aside. 
 
 Upon the roof, with gaze fixed on the misty, baffling 
 darkness that soughed and hissed around him, Barclay 
 stayed, until the gong took him down to dinner. 
 
 There his junior waited, a round-faced youngster of about 
 nineteen. 
 
 The meal was a poor repast of tinned soup, hashed tinned 
 beef, yams and coffee, all badly cooked and indifferently 
 served. 
 
 During the course of the meal the youngster remarked: 
 
 "What a joke if we nabbed the Sultan Casim Ammeh, 
 or whatever he calls himself, and went one better than the 
 French johnnies." 
 
 "It would be more than a joke. It would be a jolly good 
 riddance," Barclay responded.
 
 20 A SOK OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "It's queer nobody knowing where he really comes 
 from." 
 
 "You may be sure he doesn't play his tricks anywhere 
 near his own headquarters. More likely than not, he and 
 his cut-throat lot start out disguised as peaceful 
 merchants, in separate bands, and join up when they reach 
 the seat of operations. There are vast tracts of Senegal 
 practically unexplored. They would give endless cover to 
 one of his kidney." 
 
 "If you had the luck to bag him, what should you do?" 
 
 "Shoot him straight off, knowing the earth was well rid 
 of a villain." 
 
 "But what's his idea in coming as far south as this? 
 He's never been heard of on this side of the Senegal River 
 before." 
 
 "Plunder. Guns, most likely. 'He's heard we're none 
 too welcome, and hardly settled here, and thinks we shall 
 prove an easy prey." 
 
 However, the little English force was not to prove 
 quite the easy prey the Sultan had imagined when he came 
 south in quest of new weapons. 
 
 The next night, without any warning, he attacked 
 Barclay's headquarters. 
 
 He struck at an hour when all was darkest; not with 
 his usual swoop of wild horsemen, but stealthily. 
 
 Unchallenged and unmolested, he and his following scaled 
 the stockade and crept towards the tiny fort, vague shadows 
 moving silently in the purple darkness. 
 
 But each night Barclay had laid a trap for Ms expected 
 foe. 
 
 He knew the enemy force outnumbered his, and that his 
 little handful could be starved out within a week, if the 
 Arab chief wanted to make a siege of it. 
 
 Barclay had no intention of letting this come to pass. 
 
 He did a bold thing. 
 
 Each night, after dark, the little British garrison divided 
 into three units. A Hausa sergeant and fifteen men were
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 21 
 
 left on the roof of the fort. Barclay, two soldiers and one 
 maxim guu, his junior, with two more soldiers and the other 
 gun, crept out from the place, and hid in the dense under- 
 growth, at different points outside of the stockade; first 
 removing a plank here and there in the enclosure to enable 
 them to work their guns through. 
 
 Barclay's ruse succeeded. 
 
 Whilst the Sultan and his followers were busy trying 
 to scale the fort and get at the handful of men peppering 
 at them from its roof, without any warning there came 
 an unexpected fusillade from the rear. He turned and at- 
 tacked in that direction, only to find a further fusillade 
 pouring in on him from another point. 
 
 The Sultan sensed that he had fallen into a trap; 
 that he was surrounded on all sides. Sore and furious 
 he turned to go, more quickly than he had come. But 
 before he had reached the stockade, the world slipped from 
 him suddenly.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHEN the skirmish was over, Barclay and his junior, with 
 half a dozen Hausas and a lantern or two, made a round of 
 the compound, counting the dead and attending to the 
 wounded. 
 
 His own garrison was practically unscathed, but his guns 
 had played grim havoc with the attacking party; fully 
 fifty dead and wounded lay within the stockade. 
 
 Barclay went about his task cautiously. He knew Arabs 
 and their little ways. Giving no quarter themselves, they 
 expected none, and would sham death and then stab those 
 who came to succour them. 
 
 Among the prisoners was a lean, lithe man of about forty, 
 who appeared more stunned than hurt from a bullet that 
 had grazed his forehead. Barclay came across the wounded 
 man just when the latter was coming back to conscious- 
 ness. Although in dress he differed in no way from the 
 rest of his following, the knives in his belt were heavily 
 jewelled, and gems flashed on his brown fingers. 
 
 By the light of a lantern the Englishman scanned him, 
 noting his array of jewels and his cruel, arrogant, command- 
 ing face, the face of a savage leader. 
 
 "My son," be said to the subaltern, "I believe your joke 
 has come to pass." 
 
 "My joke ! ; ' the youngster repeated blankly. 
 
 Then the light of understanding came to his face. 
 
 "You don't mean to say this cruel-looking cuss is the 
 Sultan Casim Ammeh!" 
 
 "I'd be surprised to hear he wasn't," Barclay responded. 
 
 Suspicious of his man, and knowing him to be no more 
 than stunned, the captain had him handcuffed and locked 
 up in one of the inner rooms of the fort. 
 
 When the wounded had been attended to they were left 
 
 22
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 23 
 
 in the guardroom, and the little garrison retired once more 
 within the fort. 
 
 The enemy had had such a thorough beating that Barclay 
 did not expect another attack. For all that, he was taking 
 no risks. 
 
 Just before daybreak, when the world was a place of 
 curling white mist and greyness, there came a stampede of 
 horses. And, above the thunder of hoofs, the wild Moham- 
 medan war-cry. 
 
 "Deen! Deen Hfuhammed!" 
 
 That wild swoop and yell was the Sultan's usual way of 
 attacking. 
 
 "It seems we didn't get our man last night," Barclay re- 
 marked, as the guns were trained in the direction of the 
 sound. "According to report, this is his usual method of 
 attack." 
 
 Out of the greyness of approaching morning a melee of 
 wild horsemen appeared. Their leader was hardly the man 
 Barclay had pictured to himself as the blood-stained Arab 
 chief, but a smooth-faced youth in white burnoose, mounted 
 on a huge black stallion. 
 
 More than this Barclay did not wait to see. He opened 
 fire on the massed horsemen, his guns playing deadly havoc. 
 Within a few minutes their ranks broke. In wild disorder 
 they turned and stampeded back, soon to be lost in the 
 screening mist. 
 
 "I don't think they'll face another dose/' the junior 
 remarked. 
 
 However, he was wrong. 
 
 Presently from out of the fog came the same wild war- 
 cry and the thunder of hoofs. There was another charge 
 with sadly depleted numbers. 
 
 For reckless courage Barclay had never seen anything to 
 equal their youthful leader. Again and again he rallied his 
 men and brought them on, until finally, with only about a 
 dozen men, he swept through the deadly zone and on 
 towards the fort.
 
 24 A SON OF THE SAHAKA 
 
 In the very teeth of the Maxims his black horse literally 
 flew over the high stockade. But the youngster was the 
 only one who faced the guns. His following broke up and 
 turned back under the fierce fusillade. 
 
 Although the leader got over the stockade alive, his horse 
 did not. It crashed and fell dead beneath him. With a 
 quick side spring a marvellous piece of horsemanship 
 he avoided injury and, with drawn sword, rushed on to- 
 wards the little fort. 
 
 The Hausas would have shot down the reckless youngster, 
 but Barclay slopped them. 
 
 "We don't make war on children," he said in their 
 dialect. 
 
 A closer inspection showed the leader of the Arab horde 
 to be hardly more than a child; a handsome boy of about 
 fourteen who, suddenly, realising that his followers had 
 deserted him, now stood gazing round in a fierce, thwarted 
 fashion. 
 
 On finding he was alone he did not retreat, although 
 Barclay gave him every opportunity. Instead, he stood his 
 ground and hurled a challenge in Arabic at the men clustered 
 on the top of the fort. 
 
 Since there was no reply to that, he shouted again, this 
 time in French. 
 
 "Who and what is the youngster?" Barclay asked. 
 "He doesn't look any more Arabian than I do. And now he's 
 yelling at us in pure Parisian French." 
 
 However, nobody could find any reply. So Barclay de- 
 scended alone to interview the one remaining member of 
 the Sultan Casim's forces. 
 
 He was hardly out in the compound before he wished he 
 had not gone. 
 
 He had just time to draw his sword when the boy fell 
 upon him. 
 
 Barclay was a skilled duellist, but in this wild youth 
 from the desert he met his match. 
 
 For all his finesse and superior height and weight, the
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 25 
 
 Englishman had his cheek laid open and his arm ripped 
 up in the course of a minute. Things would have gone 
 badly with him, except that a shot from his junior put the 
 boy's sword arm out of action. 
 
 With a rattle his weapon fell to the ground, his arm useless 
 at his side. 
 
 But, even then, there was no plea for mercy. With a 
 proud gesture he threw up his head, facing his enemy in ar- 
 rogant fashion. 
 
 "Kill me," he said in French, "but let my father live." 
 
 "Who is your father?" Barclay asked, as with a hand- 
 kerchief he tried to stop the blood gushing from his cheek. 
 
 "The Sultan Casim Ammeh," the boy answered proudly. 
 
 The reply told Barclay that the man he had under lock 
 and key really was the marauding Arab chief. 
 
 He scanned the boy closely. 
 
 Except for his coal-black hair and eyes and fierce, arro- 
 gant expression, there was no resemblance between father 
 and son. If he had not heard to the contrary, he would 
 have said the boy was as Frencli as the language he spoke. 
 
 "I've no intention of killing you" Barclay remarked. 
 "On the "ratrary, young man, I'm going to have your arm 
 set and bound up before you bleed to death." 
 
 The blood was dripping from the boy's fingers, making a 
 pool on the ground. But he paid no heed to his own hurt. 
 All his thoughts were for the Sultan Casim. 
 
 "I'm not asking mercy for myself, but for my father," 
 he said haughtily. 
 
 "I'm afraid that's useless, considering two Governments 
 have condemned him." 
 
 "You will dare to kill him?" 
 
 Barclay said nothing. But his very silence was ominous. 
 
 A dazed, incredulous look crossed the boy's face. 
 
 As the Englishman watched him it seemed that, blood- 
 stained murderer as the Sultan was, at least this big, hand- 
 some son of his loved him. 
 
 Like one stunned, the youngster submitted to being led
 
 26 A SON OF THE SAHALA 
 
 into the fort, where his arm was set and his wounds 
 bound up. 
 
 When this was done he said to Barclay: 
 
 "I'll give you wealth in jewels that will amount to three 
 hundred thousand francs in French money if you will let 
 my father go free and take my life instead." 
 
 Barclay made no reply. 
 
 "You will murder my father?" the boy went on, dread- 
 ing the worst from Barclay's silence. 
 
 The word made the Englishman wince. For it did seem 
 like murder with this fierce, handsome boy pleading des- 
 perately for his father's life. 
 
 Again he said nothing. 
 
 To escape from the sight of the pain and anguish his 
 silent verdict had aroused, Barclay went from the room, 
 leaving the youngster in the charge of a couple of soldiers. 
 
 About noon that day, at the hands of the British Govern- 
 ment, the Sultan Casim Ammeh met a well-deserved end. 
 He met it bravely, (refusing to be blindfolded), with a slight, 
 cruel smile facing the guns levelled at him. 
 
 It was evening before Barclay summoned up enough 
 courage to meet his youthful prisoner. And when he did, 
 it seemed he had never seen so much concentrated hatred 
 on any face. 
 
 "So, you shot my father?" the boy said in a slow, savage 
 manner. 
 
 Barclay had not come to discuss the dead malefactor. 
 He wanted to learn more about the son where he had learnt 
 his excellent French ; how he came to differ so in appearance 
 from the Arab chief and his wild following. 
 
 "Your father has paid the penalty of his crimes," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 "And you shall pay the penalty of yours!" the boy 
 cried passionately; "for I shall kill you as you have killed 
 my father. Your daughters I shall sell as slaves. Your 
 sons shall toil in chains in my city. Your wives shall be- 
 come the bondswomen of my servants. Remember, white
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 87 
 
 man, for I do not speak lightly. I will be avenged. I, 
 Casim Ammeh, whose father you have thought well to 
 murder !" 
 
 The savage threats of a wild, heart-broken boy did not 
 trouble George Barclay much. But his mind did go to his 
 tiny four-year-old daughter, and he was glad she was safe 
 in England and not within reach of this savage lad. 
 
 At that moment he was more worried about his youthful 
 captive than the latter's wild threats. 
 
 He did not want to make a criminal of the boy; for, 
 obviously, whatever wrong he had done was done under the 
 influence of his savage father. And there looked to be the 
 makings of a fine man in him, if only he had good guidanca. 
 
 Barclay decided to put the case before the French 
 Government, together with a suggestion of his own that 
 the youngster should be sent somewhere where he could 
 be brought up to be of use to the country, not a constant 
 thorn in its flesh, as his father had been. 
 
 But Captain Barclay need not have troubled himself with 
 making plans for the future of the youthful Sultan of El- 
 Ammeh, for that night the boy escaped, and his future was 
 left in his own hands.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 AFTER some two years out in Gambia, George Barclay 
 returned to England. He returned with a scar across his 
 right cheek. 
 
 That scar was the first thing his little daughter remarked 
 upon when the excitement of reunion had died down. 
 
 Perched on his knee, she touched it with gentle little 
 fingers and kissed it with soft lips. 
 
 "Who has hurt my nice new Daddy?" she asked dis- 
 tressfully. 
 
 Then there followed the story of the youthful Sultan 
 Casim Ammeh. 
 
 "Oh, what a wicked boy !" she exclaimed. 
 
 Then she glanced across at her godfather who was sitting 
 near. 
 
 "Isn't he a bad, naughty boy, Grand-godfather, to want to 
 kill my Daddy and sell me as a slave?" 
 
 Henry Langham had listened to the story with interest, 
 and very heartily he agreed with her. 
 
 "I shall tell Bobby," the little girl went on indignantly, 
 "and he'll go and kill the Sultan Casim Ammeh." 
 
 "Who's Bobby?" her father asked. 
 
 "My sweetheart. Master Robert Cameron." 
 
 "So in my absence I've been cut out, have I ?" her father 
 said teasingly. "I'm dreadfuDy jealous." 
 
 But Pansy snuggled closer to him, and her arms went 
 round his neck in a tight hug. 
 
 "There'll never be anyone as nice as my Daddy," she 
 whispered. 
 
 George Barclay held the tiny girl closer, kissing the golden 
 head. 
 
 28
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 29 
 
 Often during his months in England, Pansy would 
 scramble on his knee and say: 
 
 "Daddy, tell me the story of Casim Ammeh. That 
 naughty boy who hurt your poor face." 
 
 To Pansy it was some new Arabian Nights, vastly inter- 
 esting because her father was one of the principal characters. 
 Although she had heard it quite fifty times, she was ready 
 to hear it quite fifty times more. 
 
 "But, my darling, you've heard it scores of times," 
 Barclay said one day. 
 
 For all that he told the story again. 
 
 Quietly she listened until the end was reached. Then 
 she said : 
 
 "I don't like him. Not one little bit. Do you like him, 
 Daddy ?" 
 
 "To tell you the truth, Pansy, I did like him. He was a 
 very brave boy." 
 
 "I shall never like him, because he hurt you," she said 
 firmly, her little flower-like face set and determined. 
 
 "Well, my girlie, you're never likely to meet him, so it 
 won't make much difference to him whether you like him 
 or not." 
 
 But in the Book of Fate it was written otherwise.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 SOMEWHERE off the Boulevard St. Michel there is a cabaret. 
 The big dancing hall has red walls painted with yellow 
 shooting stars, and, overhead, electric lights blaze under red 
 and yellow shades. There is a bar at one end, and several 
 little tables for the patrons' use when they tire of dancing. 
 In the evenings a band, in seedy, red uniforms with brass 
 buttons, fills, with a crash of sound, an atmosphere ladened 
 with patchouli and cigarette smoke, and waiters, in still 
 more seedy dress-suits, attend to the tables. Never at any 
 time is the gathering select, and generally there are quite 
 a few foreigners of all colours present. 
 
 One night, the most noticeable among the patrons was 
 an Englishman, well-groomed and tailored, and a big youth 
 of about eighteen in a flowing white burnoose. 
 
 They were in no way connected with each other, but 
 chance, in the shape of their female companions, had 
 brought them to adjacent tables. 
 
 The girl with the youngster was very pretty in a hard, 
 metallic way, with the white face and vivid red lips of the 
 Parisienne, and brown eyes, bright and polished-looking, 
 that were about as expressionless as pebbles. She was 
 attired in a cheap, black evening dress, cut very low, and 
 about her plump throat was a coral necklace. Her hair 
 was elaborately dressed, and her shoes, although well worn, 
 were tidy. 
 
 By day, Marie Hamon earned a meagre living for herself 
 in a florist's shop. At night, she added to her earnings in 
 the recognized way of quite a few of the working girls of 
 Paris. And this particular cabaret was one of her hunting 
 grounds. 
 
 30
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 31 
 
 As Marie sat there "making eyes" at the youth in the 
 white burnoose, the man at the next table remarked in 
 French, in an audible and disgusted tone : 
 
 "Look at that girl there making up to that young nigger. 
 A beastly spectacle, I call it." 
 
 Before his companion had time to reply the youth was 
 up, his black eyes flashing, and he grasped the English- 
 man's shoulder in an angry, indignant fashion. 
 
 "I am no nigger!" he cried. "I'm the Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh." 
 
 "I don't care a damn who you are so long as you keep 
 your black paws off me !" 
 
 The youth's hands were not black, but deeply bronzed 
 like his face, which looked darker than it really was against 
 the whiteness of his hood. 
 
 "Take back that word," he said savagely, "or, by Allah, 
 it shall be wiped out in blood !" 
 
 He drew his knife. The girls screamed. Excited waiters 
 rushed towards the table. The mixed company stopped 
 dancing and pressed forward to watch what looked like 
 the beginning of a royal row. Such incidents were by no 
 means unusual in the cabaret. 
 
 Only the Englishman remained calm. He grasped his 
 opponent's wrist quickly. 
 
 "No, you don't," he said. "You damned niggers seem 
 to think you own the world nowadays." 
 
 There was a brief scuffle. But the Englishman was big 
 and heavy, and half a dozen waiters were hanging on to 
 the enraged and insulted youth. His knife was wrested 
 from his hand. He was hustled this way and that; 
 and, finally, worsted and smouldering, he retired, to 
 be led to another and more distant table by his female 
 companion. 
 
 The episode was over in a couple of minutes. Dis- 
 appointed at the lack of bloodshed, the spectators returned 
 to their dancing. Relieved, the waiters went back to their 
 various spheres. The Englishman seated himself again as
 
 32 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 if nothing had happened. At a distant table the youth sat 
 and glowered at him. 
 
 "Who is that man?" he asked presently, pointing a lean 
 forefinger at his late opponent. 
 
 Marie shrugged her plump shoulders. 
 
 "I've never Been him here before. He looks to me like 
 an Englishman." 
 
 "With renewed interest the youth studied the distant 
 figure, hate smouldering in his black eyes. 
 
 So he was one of the nation who had murdered his father ! 
 This man who had insulted him. 
 
 But, for all his hatred of the Englishman, reluctantly he 
 admired his coolness and his clothes. 
 
 The world had enlarged for Annette Le Breton's son since 
 his first experience with the English. 
 
 On escaping from Barclay, with the remaining handful 
 of the defunct Sultan's following, he had returned to El- 
 Ammeh, at the age of fourteen its recognised ruler. 
 
 The boy was not lacking in sense. Defeat at the hands 
 of both British and French made him decide to give up 
 what had been the late Sultan's chief source of income 
 marauding. With a wisdom beyond his years, Casim 
 Ammeh, as he was now always called, decided to go in for 
 trading; and before many years had passed he sa\r 
 it was a better paying game than marauding, despite its 
 lack of excitement. 
 
 Then he extended his operations. 
 
 There were always caravans coming to his desert city, 
 and a great demand for articles that came from the Europe 
 his mother had told him of. 
 
 With one or two of his principal merchants he went down 
 to St. Louis, but he did not go as the Sultan Casim Ammeh ; 
 that name was too well known to the French Government. 
 Instead, he went under the name his mother used to call 
 him, Eaoul Le Breton. And under that name he opened a 
 store in St. Louis. 
 
 There was a new generation in the town since his real
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAKA 33 
 
 father's day, and the name roused no comment. It was an 
 ordinary French one. In St. Louis there were quite a few 
 half-breed French-Arabs, as the youth supposed himself to 
 be, living and trading under European names. 
 
 His business ventures were so successful that he opened 
 several more stores at various points between St. Louis and 
 his own capital; but the whereabouts of his own city he 
 did not divulge to strangers. 
 
 At sixteen it had seemed to the boy that St. Louis was 
 the hub of the universe*; but at eighteen a craving 
 that amounted to nostalgia drove him further afield to 
 Paris. 
 
 And he went in Arabian garments, for he was intensely 
 proud of his sultanship and the desert kingdom he ruled 
 with undisputed sway. 
 
 To his surprise, he felt wonderfully at home in his 
 mother's city. It did not feel as strange as St. Louis had 
 felt, but more as if he had once lived there and had forgotten 
 about it. 
 
 He had been a couple of days in Paris, wandering at will, 
 when on the second evening his wanderings had brought 
 him in contact with Marie Hamon. She was by no means 
 the first of hei sort to accost him, but she was the first he 
 had condescended tc take any notice of. She had smiled 
 at him as, aloof and haughty, he had stalked along the 
 Boulevard St. Michel, and had fallen into step beside him. 
 He had looked at her in a peculiar manner that was half 
 amusement, half contempt, but he had not shaken her off. 
 
 She had suggested they should have dinner together, and 
 he had fallen in with her suggestion; not exactly with 
 alacrity, but as if he wanted to study the girl further. For 
 all her plump prettiness and profession, there was a shrewd, 
 sensible air about her. Afterwards, at her instigation, they 
 had repaired to the cabaret. 
 
 As the youth continued to scowl at the distant English- 
 man, with the idea of preventing further trouble, Marie 
 tried to get his mind on other matters.
 
 34 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "Casim, let's have a dance ?" she suggested. 
 
 "I can afford to pay for hired dancers, so why should I 
 posture for the benefit of others?" he asked scornfully. 
 
 She tittered. 
 
 "Well, get me another drink instead, then." 
 
 He beckoned a waiter and gave a curt order. However, 
 he did not touch the cheap champagne himself. Instead, 
 he kept strictly to coffee. 
 
 "Have a drop of cognac in it to cheer you up a bit," 
 Marie said. "You make me feel as if I were at a funeral." 
 
 "I'm a Mohammedan, and strong drink is forbidden." 
 
 "You are the limit! I shouldn't quarrel with the good 
 things of this life even if I were a Mohammedan." 
 
 "By my religion women have no souls," he replied in a 
 voice that spoke volumes. 
 
 But Marie was not easily abashed. 
 
 "The lack of a soul doesn't trouble me in the least," she 
 responded lightly. "A pretty body is of greater use to a 
 woman any day. Do you think I'm pretty, Casim?" she 
 finished coquettishly. 
 
 "I shouldn't be with you unless you were," he replied, 
 as if her question were an insult to his taste. 
 
 For some minutes there was silence. As the girl sipped 
 her champagne she watched her escort in a calculating 
 manner. 
 
 "You've got lots of money, haven't you?" she said 
 presently. 
 
 "Not as much as I intend to have," he replied. 
 
 "But enough to buy me a new frock ?" she questioned. 
 
 "Fifty, if you want them." 
 
 Marie threw her arms around his neck. 
 
 "You nice boy !" she cried, kissing him soundly. 
 
 He resented her attentions, removing her arms in a none 
 too gentle manner. 
 
 "I object to such displays of affection in public," he said, 
 with an air of ruffled dignity. 
 
 "Come home with me, then," she suggested.
 
 A SON" OF THE SAHARA 35 
 
 "Home" to Marie was an attic in a poor street. There 
 Casim Ammeh went, not as a victim to her charms, as she 
 imagined, but seeing in her a means to his own end. 
 
 The next morning as he sat at breakfast with the girl 
 a meagre repast of black coffee and rolls from somewhere 
 out of his voluminous robes he produced a string of pearls 
 and dangled it before his hostess. Marie looked at them, 
 her mouth round with surprise, for they were real and worth 
 at least ten thousand francs. 
 
 "If I give you these, Marie, will you teach me to become 
 a Frenchman ?" he asked. 
 
 "Won't I just!" she cried enthusiastically, and without 
 hesitation continued: "First of all we must get an apart- 
 ment. And, mon Dieu! yes, you must cut your hair short." 
 
 The youth wore his hair long, knotted under his hood in 
 the Arab fashion. 
 
 It was three months before Casim Ammeh left Paris. 
 And he left it in a correctly cut English suit and with his 
 smooth, black hair brushed back over his head. In the 
 spick-and-span young man it would have been difficult to 
 recognise the barbaric youth who had come there knowing 
 nothing of civilised life except what his mother had told 
 him and what he had seen in St. Louis; and, what was 
 more, he felt at ease in his new garments, in spite of having 
 worn burnoose and hood all his life. 
 
 The day before he left, Marie sat with him in the salon 
 of the pretty flat they had occupied since the day 
 they struck their bargain. And she looked very different, 
 too. 
 
 Her evening frock was no longer of shabby black. It was 
 one of the several elaborate gowns she now possessed, thanks 
 to the young man. And she no longer wore a string of coral 
 beads about her pretty throat, but the pearl necklace. 
 
 Although Marie had taken on the youth as a business 
 speculation, within a few days she loved him passionately. 
 She was loath to let her benefactor go, but all her wiles 
 failed to keep him.
 
 36 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "When you're back in Africa you won't quite forget your 
 little Marie who taught you to be a man, will you?" she 
 whispered tearfully. 
 
 Her remarks made him laugh. 
 
 "I've had women or my own for at least a year before I 
 met you," he replied. 
 
 It seemed to Marie she had never really known the youth 
 who had come to her a savage and was leaving her looking 
 a finished man of the world. He never talked to her of 
 himself or his affairs. Although kind and generous, he 
 demanded swift obedience, and he treated her always as 
 something infinitely inferior to himself. 
 
 "Say you love me," she pleaded. "That you'll think of 
 me sometimes." 
 
 "Love!" he said contemptuously. "I don't love women. 
 I have them for my pleasure. I'm not one of your white 
 men who spend their days whining at some one woman's 
 feet pleading for favours. Women to me are only toys. 
 Good to look upon, if beautiful, but not so good as horses." 
 
 "Oh, you are cruel!" she said, weeping. "And I thought 
 you loved me." 
 
 "It is the woman's place to love. There are other things 
 in a man's life." 
 
 Marie realised she had never had any hold on her protege. 
 She had been of use to him, and he had paid her well for it, 
 and there, as far as he was concerned, the matter ended. 
 
 Being sensible, she sat up and dried her tears, gathering 
 consolation from the fact that he had been a good specula- 
 tion. There would be no immediate need to return to 
 the florist's shop when he had gone. In fact, if she liked 
 to sell the necklace, she could buy a business of her own. 
 
 "Shall you come to Paris again, Casim?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh yes, often. It's a good city, full of beautiful women 
 who are easy to buy." 
 
 But he made a reservation to himself. 
 
 When he came again he would come under the name his
 
 A SOX OF THE SAHABA 37 
 
 mother used to call him Raoul Le Breton, and he would 
 come in European clothes. Then the English he hated 
 would not be able to hurl that detestable word "nigger" 
 at him.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN a select French boarding-school a girl sat reading a 
 letter. She was about fifteen years old, a slender, lovely 
 child, light and graceful, with a cascade of golden curls 
 reaching to her waist, and wide, purple eyes. Her com- 
 plexion was perfect. She had a vivid little red mouth, 
 impulsive and generous, and a pink rose on each cheek. 
 
 On reading the letter, sorrow clouded her face. For it 
 ran: 
 
 "MY DEAE LITTLE PANSY, 
 
 When you get this letter I shall be with your mother. 
 I am leaving you the money she would not have. And it was 
 worth having, you will agree, for it will bring you in about 
 60,000 a year. The only condition I make is that you take 
 the name your mother refused, your own second name. And 
 my one hope is that you will be more successful in love than I 
 was. 
 
 Your affectionate 'grand -godfather/ 
 HENRY LANGHAM." 
 
 For some minutes Pansy sat brooding on her godfather's 
 end. The poor old boy had been awfully ill for a long time, 
 and now he was dead. 
 
 She blinked back a couple of tears. Then her thoughts 
 went to the fortune she had inherited. 
 
 Presently she crossed to the mirror and looked at herself. 
 
 "No, old girl," she said to her reflection, "your head 
 isn't turned." 
 
 Then she slipped the letter into her pocket and made 
 straight for her great friend and confidante. 
 
 To the average eye there was nothing about Miss Grainger 
 to attract a vivid, beautiful girl like Pansy Barclay Pansy 
 Langham as she would be now. Miss Grainger was middle- 
 
 38
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 39 
 
 aged, grey-haired, thin and depressed-looking: the down- 
 trodden English mistress, with no qualifications except 
 good breeding. 
 
 She was poor and friendless, and life had gone hard with 
 her, but these facts were sufficient to fill Pansy's heart 
 with a warmth of generous affection and sympathy. 
 
 The girl's principal thought as she went along was not 
 so much of the millions she had just inherited, but that she 
 had always wanted to do something for Miss Grainger, and 
 now she saw a way of doing it. 
 
 She entered the room that served the English mistress as 
 bedroom, study and sitting-room, disturbing the latter in 
 the midst of correcting an accumulated pile of exercise 
 books. 
 
 "What is it, Pansy?" she asked, smiling at her favourite. 
 
 "Miss Grainger, you'll be pleased to hear I'm a mil- 
 lionaire." 
 
 The English mistress put down her pen carefully, and 
 then sat staring at the child. 
 
 "Really, my dear," she said in a bewildered tone, "you 
 have a way of saying the most surprising things in the 
 most matter-of-fact manner. But, since you're saying it, 
 it must be true." 
 
 "That's a character in itself," Pansy remarked, smiling, 
 a smile that brought to view several bewitching dimples. 
 
 She produced the letter and handed it to her friend. 
 
 The English mistress read it through. 
 
 "Sixty thousand pounds a year!" she exclaimed. "It 
 makes my head reel." 
 
 "Then yours can't be so firmly screwed on as mine. 
 Mine isn't turned one little bit. I looked at myself in a 
 glass to see." 
 
 "But what are you going to do with it all?" the govern- 
 ess asked helplessly. 
 
 "Spend it, of course. I take after my father and never 
 shirk an unpleasant duty," she went on, a mischievous 
 glint in her eyes. "To begin with, you, Miss Grainger,
 
 40 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 are going to be my companion, and we'll have a yacht and 
 go all round the world together, and see and do every- 
 thing that can be seen and done." 
 
 "You'll get married, Pansy," the governess said, looking 
 lovingly at the beautiful flower-like, little face. 
 
 "Not much! You dear old antiquated thing. I'm not 
 going to be tied by the leg in that fashion." 
 
 "As the English mistress, I must remind you that 'tied 
 by the leg 5 is slang." 
 
 "When you're my companion you'll be talking slang 
 yourself. I'm not so sure I won't make that one of the 
 stipulations," the child went on teasingly. "It'll be such 
 a change for you after thirty years of correcting stupid 
 exercises." 
 
 "It will be rather," Miss Grainger said wistfully. 
 
 "And I shall come out at seventeen," Pansy went on. 
 "I must start as early as possible if I'm to spend all that 
 money. I shall write and ask my father if I may come out 
 at seventeen. Do you think he'll refuse?" 
 
 "No man will ever refuse you anything, Pansy. You're 
 too sweet and good and beautiful." 
 
 "And rich. Don't forget the rich. That'll be a tremen- 
 dous draw." 
 
 Miss Grainger smiled at her favourite. 
 
 "I hope the man who marries you will pick you for your 
 good heart and generous nature, not your looks and money," 
 she remarked. 
 
 "Still harping on that old string, Mrs. Noah. Women 
 don't get married nowadays if they can afford to stay 
 single." 
 
 Then the school dinner-bell ringing sent Pansy from the 
 room, but not before she had given an impetuous hug and 
 kiss to her friend.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 PARIS always has a welcome for millionaires. And it always 
 had a specially warm welcome for Kaoul Le Breton, the 
 African merchant-prince. Not only was he fabulously rich, 
 but he was young and remarkably good-looking. It was 
 whispered that he had Arab blood in his veins, but he was 
 wealthy enough for the majority to overlook this drawback. 
 
 Like many modern Frenchmen, he dabbled in "le sport." 
 He was a brilliant tennis player, a worthy opponent at bil- 
 lards, and he kept a stud of race-horses. There was hardly 
 an actress of any repute and with any pretence to youth and 
 beauty who had not had his patronage at one time or the 
 other. Match-making mothers with marriageable daughters 
 laid snares about his feet. With surprising agility he 
 avoided their traps. None of the daughters proved suf- 
 ficiently tempting to turn him from the broad, smooth way of 
 gay Parisian bachelorhood to the steep and jagged path of 
 matrimony. 
 
 Eaoul Le Breton was about twenty-five when he paid his 
 sixth visit to Paris. He came now for about three months 
 every year. And he always came in style, with a whole 
 retinue of Arab servants silent, discreet men who never 
 gossiped about their master. It was whispered also that out 
 in Africa he had a whole harem of his own ; moreover, that he 
 was some big chief or the other. In fact, many things were 
 whispered about him, for, on the whole, Paris knew very 
 little except that he was wealthy and wild. 
 
 His French acquaintances tried to learn more of his doings 
 through the medium of his own private doctor, a stout 
 Frenchman who accompanied the young millionaire to and 
 fro. But Dr. Edouard refused to gossip about his friend and 
 patron. 
 
 41
 
 43 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 In spite of his success, the young Sultan of El-Ammeh had 
 not forgotten George Barclay. 
 
 On getting more in touch with civilisation and its ways 
 he had tried to find out the name of the man who was respon- 
 sible for the death of his supposed father. It was not an 
 easy task. George Barclay had left Gambia five years before 
 Eaoul Le Breton set about his investigations. There had 
 been a succession of men since Barclay's time, and the shoot- 
 ing of a native malefactor was not a matter of great note in 
 the annals of a Government. 
 
 However, eventually Le Breton managed to establish 
 the identity of the man he looked upon as his father's 
 murderer. 
 
 But to trace George Barclay in England proved an even 
 more difficult task than tracing him in Africa. 
 
 The Englishman had not stopped long in his country. 
 In search of forgetfulness, he had gone from one place to 
 another, holding posts in various parts of the Empire. 
 
 The Sultan Casim Ammeh was twenty-five when he heard 
 that Barclay was in the Malay Straits. 
 
 The news came to him in Paris just when he was setting 
 out for an evening's amusement in company with Dr. 
 Edouard. The letter was brought to him as he stood in 
 dress-suit, opera hat in hand, in his own private sitting- 
 room at the palatial hotel he always patronised when in 
 Paris. 
 
 On perusing it he turned to his companion, and said, 
 with an air of savage triumph: 
 
 "Well, Edouard, I've managed to trace my man at 
 last." 
 
 The doctor knew who the man in question was, for he, 
 Edouard, was the Sultan Casim's one confidant Bather 
 uneasily he glanced at his patron. He wished the young 
 man would be content with money and the many joys and 
 pleasures it could buy for Casim Ammeh was no longer 
 a strict Mohammedan and would not be always hankering 
 after vengeance, a vengeance that might embroil him with
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 43 
 
 England and bring his wild and brilliant career to an 
 abrupt close. 
 
 ''Where is George Barclay?" Edouard asked uneasily. 
 
 "In the Straits Settlements." 
 
 The doctor experienced a feeling of intense pleasure on 
 hearing Barclay was in so remote a spot. 
 
 "It'll be difficult for you to get hold of him there/' he 
 remarked, trying to keep out of his voice the relief he was 
 feeling. 
 
 "He won't stay there for ever. I've waited eleven years 
 for my vengeance. I can go on waiting a little longer, until 
 Fate thinks well to place him in a more accessible position." 
 
 With a savage expression Le Breton turned to a desk. 
 Sitting down, he wrote to his agents telling them to keep 
 him informed of George Barclay's movements.
 
 PART II
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE harem in the palace of El-Ammeh led into a large hall 
 with carved doors and tiny arabesque windows, fretted 
 and scrolled, with no one spot big enough to squeeze more 
 than a hand through. 
 
 Generally speaking, the women of the harem preferred the 
 large hall, where they could gossip among themselves and 
 with their attendant women, to the little rooms that were 
 their own private quarters. 
 
 But there was one special apartment that they all in 
 turn had striven after and, in turn, had failed to attain. 
 No one in the harem had seen the room except old Sara, 
 and she had plenty of tales to tell about its magnificence. 
 It was a big gilded chamber, with a ceiling like the sky on 
 a desert night, and great golden, jewelled lamps. There 
 was a wonderful bathroom, a fretted gallery that gave a 
 wide view of the desert, a walled garden full of roses, and, 
 above all, a door that led into the Sultan's private suite. 
 The room had had no occupant since the days of the 
 Sultan's mother, the Lady Annette, the first wife and 
 favourite of his father. And Sara had been her special 
 slave and attendant. 
 
 It could be reached from the harem. At one point behind 
 the silken curtains a narrow stairway led upwards, and 
 ended in a scented, sandalwood door. But the door was 
 always locked, and only the Sultan had the key. It was 
 common harem gossip that in that room he would place 
 the one among his slaves whom he deigned to make his 
 first wife. 
 
 Although the law allowed him four, and as many slaves 
 as he fancied, so far he had no legal wife. It was strange, 
 
 47
 
 48 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 considering he was nearly thirty. But, in many ways, he 
 differed from all the previous Sultans. According to old 
 Sara, it was because his mother belonged to quite another 
 race, and had come from a land as remote from El-Ammeh 
 as Paradise, where the women were all white, a land that 
 the Sultan now visited yearly. 
 
 For that land he was starting to-morrow. 
 
 He had just been to the harem to say farewell to the 
 half-dozen girls there, departing with promises of new 
 jewels and novelties to please and amuse these toys of his 
 on his return. And now he lingered with his newest slave 
 and favourite, Rayma, the Arab girl he had bought but 
 six weeks ago. 
 
 Envious glances were cast towards the door behind which 
 the Sultan Casim Ammeh and his new slave. Rayiiia, took 
 farewell of one another. 
 
 One girl more than the others watched the door with 
 hurt, angry, jealous eyes. 
 
 She was about twenty-three, with a full figure, a creamy skin, 
 a profusion of long black curls, and great soft, languid eyes 
 a half-breed Spanish-Moorish girl of the true odalesque type. 
 
 Her attire was scanty. A red silk slip draped her from 
 shoulder to knee, held on by ribbon straps; and on her 
 hands and wrists and neck a quantity of barbaric jewelery 
 flashed. 
 
 "I pray to Allah that on his travels our Sultan will find 
 some woman he loves better than Rayma," she said, spite 
 and jealousy in her soft voice. 
 
 "No, I don't pray that, Leonora," one of her companions 
 remarked. u For you took him from me, and what am I 
 now? Like you, a scent that has lost its savour; for it 
 is but a shred of love that the Lord Casim has now for me. 
 No; I pray may he Know what it is te love and be denied, 
 for too easily do women's hearts go to him. And no man 
 values what comes to him cheaply. Our day is done, mine 
 and yours, Leonora, as Rayma's will be when another
 
 JS 
 O 
 
 u 
 S 
 o 
 o 
 
 1 
 
 V 
 
 K
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 49 
 
 woman takes his fancy. No, pray as I do, that he may 
 love a woman who has no desire for him, who spurns his 
 love a woman whose people will not sell her, who is no 
 slave put up for auction, as we were. May his heart ache, 
 as mine has ached. May passion keep him sleepless, with 
 empty arms and craving desire. May love prove to him a 
 mirage that he can see yet never grasp !" 
 
 Unconscious of these wishes, the Sultan Casim Ammeh 
 and the slave girl Kayma lingered together behind closed 
 doors. 
 
 The moon shone into the little apartment, showing a 
 big man in a white burnoose, and at his side a girl lay, look- 
 ing at him with tearful, love-laden eyes. 
 
 She was about seventeen, with an amber skin and a 
 cloud of straight black hair that reached to her heels 
 A cloud out from which looked a little oval face, with great 
 black eyes and a small red mouth, a perfect type of Arab 
 beauty. 
 
 "My Lord Casim, beloved, my heart breaks at the thought 
 of your going," she said tearfully. 
 
 Smilingly he watched her, caressing her in an indulgent 
 fashion. 
 
 "But, my desert flower, I shall come back again/' 
 
 "But it is so far. And in that Paris there are so many 
 women. I know, because Sara has told me. And all their 
 arms will be stretched out to keep you there." 
 
 "No arms have kept me there for longer than three 
 months," he replied. 
 
 "And mine! Mine are not strong enough to keep you 
 here?" she sobbed. 
 
 He drew the sobbing little beauty into his embrace, and 
 kissed her tear-stained face. 
 
 "Tell me, my jewel, what favour can I grant you before 
 I go?" 
 
 "I want nothing but just to rest upon your heart for 
 ever."
 
 50 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 With a tender hand he stroked her long black hair, and 
 tried to soothe away the tears; flattering tears, resulting 
 from his coming departure. 
 
 "Don't go to Paris, Casim, beloved/' she whispered. 
 "Stay in El-Ammeh. Paris is so far, and I am so ignorant 
 of all outside of the desert. Ignorant of everything except 
 love and you. Think, my lord, only six weeks have we 
 been together, and now you would go! Only six weeks 
 since my father brought me from the desert to sell me to the 
 Sultan Casim Ammeh. How afraid I was until I saw you. 
 And then I was afraid I might not find favour in your sight. 
 For my heart was yours the moment our eyes met. Only 
 six weeks ago! Casim, don't go," she implored. "Stay 
 with me, for my heart is breaking." 
 
 "Little one, there is business as well as love," he said 
 gently. 
 
 "I think of nothing but love." 
 
 "Love is quite enough for any girl to think of." 
 
 "And those women in Paris, do they think only of love ? " 
 
 "No; they think of money as well. That's why I prefer 
 you." 
 
 She slipped her slim arms about his neck, pressing, her 
 slight form against him, kissing him passionately. 
 
 "Let me live in the gilded chamber until you come back," 
 she whispered, "and then I should feel the most honoured 
 among your slaves." 
 
 However, he avoided this suggestion. 
 
 "We'll see about that when I return," he answered with an 
 amused, indulgent air. 
 
 Then he held the girl closer. 
 
 "Now, before I go, Eayma, is there nothing you want? 
 Nothing I can do for you ? " 
 
 "There is one thing, my Sultan. Sell Leonora. I hate 
 her. She's a great fat toad, always plotting and planning 
 to steal your heart from me." 
 
 "I couldn't do that. I'm not quite like your desert men,
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 51 
 
 remember. I can't sell a woman who has once pleased me. 
 But, on my return, I'll find her a nice husband, if that will 
 satisfy you." 
 
 There was a note in his voice that brooked no argument; 
 and the girl, reared for the harem, was quick to notice it. 
 
 She gave a sharp glance at her owner. It seemed that 
 a man she did not know stood behind her Sultan, indulgent 
 master as he had proved. A man she had no hold over.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN one of the hotels in the Island of Grand Canary dinner 
 had just been served. Around the door of the large dining- 
 hall the manager, the head waiter and several underlings 
 hovered, with an air of awaiting the arrival of some import- 
 ant personage. 
 
 Presently two people appeared in the doorway. 
 
 One was a middle-aged woman with grey hair and a prim 
 expression. She was wearing a plain black silk evening 
 dress, and she had the look of a retired governess. Her 
 companion was of quite another type. She was a slender, 
 graceful girl of medium height, with a mop of short, golden 
 curls dancing round a small, frank face, that gave her the 
 look of some lovely, delicate schoolboy. She wore a simple 
 white silk frock, and her only mark of wealth was a large 
 diamond hanging from a thin platinum chain about her 
 slender neck; a gem in itself worth a fortune. 
 
 Evidently she was the personage expected. As she 
 appeared the manager went forward to meet her. She 
 smiled at him in a friendly, affable manner. With him at 
 her side, she and her companion went up the big room, 
 towards a specially reserved table, the head-waiter and a 
 little group of others following behind. 
 
 As she came up the room, a man seated at one of the 
 table? in the center of the room said to his neighbour : 
 
 "Who is that girl? The whole hotel is falling over itself 
 to wait on her." 
 
 The speaker was a short, thick-set man, with a red face 
 and fishy eyes. 
 
 "That's Pansy Langham, the millionairess/' his neigh- 
 bour replied. "She came over in her yacht from Teneriffe 
 
 52
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA '53 
 
 this afternoon. Barclay her name was before she came 
 into her money/' 
 
 "A millionaire, is she? That's the second one of the 
 species in Grand Canary then. For there's a French 
 millionaire staying in a villa at the back here. Le Breton, 
 his name is. Bnt what's brought the girl to these parts? 
 There's not much here to attract a woman with money." 
 
 "She's here for her health, I believe." 
 
 "Not lungs, surely ! She looks healthy enough." 
 
 "No, she had an accident about a couple of months ago. 
 Some half-mad horse mauled her horribly, all but killed 
 her. I remember reading about the case in the papers. 
 They say she's a very decent sort, in spite of her millions. 
 Gives an awful lot away in charity." 
 
 As the girl approached the table, the red-faced man 
 screwed an eyeglass into one fishy eye and surveyed her 
 from head to foot. 
 
 "She's not bad looking," he said in a condescending 
 manner, as if it were his prerogative to criticise every woman 
 who crossed his horizon. "But she's not a patch on the 
 red-haired woman in the villa at the back here. Now, 
 she's what I call a beauty." 
 
 He did not trouble to lower his voice, and his words 
 reached Pansy. 
 
 She glanced in his direction and wrinkled her pretty nose, 
 as if she were smelling a bad smell. And with no more 
 notice than that, she passed on to her own table.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 JUST off the main road between the Port and the city of 
 Las Palmas, Grand Canary, a villa stood. It was situated 
 on a hill; a white, flat-roofed building, set in a pleasant 
 garden. Long windows opened on a lawn surrounded by 
 trees. 
 
 Out from one of the windows a flood of light streamed 
 and mingled with the silver of the night. The apartment 
 it came from was elaborately furnished, in an ornate 
 French style, with gilded furniture, bevelled mirror^ and 
 satin-covered chairs and lounges. 
 
 On one of the latter a woman lolled back amongst an 
 array of soft cushions. She was big and voluptuous- 
 looking, with a dead-white skin, a mass of flaming red 
 hair, and eyes green as the emerald necklace she wore. 
 
 She had on an extremely low-cut, black satin dress, that 
 suited her style and colouring. And she made a striking, 
 if somewhat bizarre, picture. 
 
 But attractive and unique as she looked, the man sitting 
 with her appeared more interested in the view from the 
 window than in his companion. 
 
 From there, a glint of moonlit sea showed between the 
 vaguely moving trees; a peaceful stretch that spread away 
 to the purple, misty horizon. 
 
 He was a big man of about thirty, well groomed and 
 handsome, with smooth black hair, close-clipped moustache, 
 and dark, smouldering eyes that had a latent searching 
 look at the back of them. He was in evening attire, with 
 black pearl studs in his pleated dress shirt. 
 
 For some time the two had been sitting in silence; the 
 man's gaze on the sea ; the woman's on the man, in a hungry, 
 anxious manner. 
 
 54
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 55 
 
 "You've got one of your restless moods on to-night, 
 Raoul," she said presently. 
 
 "I get them frequently nowadays. Nothing ever satisfies 
 me for long." 
 
 She smiled at him, a soft, slow smile. 
 
 "Yet I have satisfied you longer than most, for you are 
 still here with me." 
 
 "If s not you so much, Lucille, as business that keeps 
 me here." 
 
 "I believe you have no heart at all," she cried, a catch 
 of pain in her voice. ''You look upon all women as animals.'" 
 
 "You are a most handsome animal, you must agree/' 
 he replied. 
 
 "You talk as if you'd bought me." 
 
 "I don't know that I ever put it quite so crudely as 
 that." 
 
 "Put it as crudely as you like," she cried in a sudden 
 gust of temper. "You have taken all from me and given 
 me nothing in return." 
 
 He made no reply. In a slightly amused manner his 
 glance rested on her emerald necklace. 
 
 "You may look," she went on passionately. "But I want 
 more than gifts. I want love, not just to be the crea- 
 ture of your passions." 
 
 "Then you want too much. There's no such thing as love 
 between men and women. There's only passion." 
 
 "You are cruel," she moaned. 
 
 "Cruel! Merely because I refuse to be enslaved by 
 any one woman, eaten up in mind and body and soul, as 
 some of the men I know are? I wasn't brought up to look 
 upon women as superior beings, and I've never met one 
 yet to make me want to change my sentiments. They 
 are here for my convenience and pleasure, and nothing 
 more." 
 
 There was silence agnin. 
 
 Lucille sighed. 
 . She knew she had xio hold over him other than her sex,
 
 Kg A SON OP THE SAHAEA 
 
 and never had had. Heroics, temper and entreaties had no 
 effect on him whatsoever; he remained always unmoved and 
 indifferent. 
 
 With a shrug she picked out a chocolate from a large 
 box at her side. Then she changed the conversation. 
 
 '^What's the business, Raoul? I'd no idea you had any 
 here. I thought ours was a pleasure trip, purely or 
 impurely." 
 
 "The business is strictly private," he replied, a savage 
 note in his voice. 
 
 A month before, on leaving Paris, when Le Breton had 
 asked Lucille Lemesurier, the actress, to accompany him 
 on his yacht and spend a week or so in Grand Canary, it 
 had been for pleasure solely. 
 
 But a few days ago a letter had reached him. 
 
 A letter to the effect that his enemy, now Sir George 
 Barclay, had been appointed governor of Gambia, The 
 Sultan Casim Ammeh was waiting in Grand Canary until 
 certain that his man was en route for his new post.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ON the balcony of her bedroom Pansy Langham stood, slim 
 and boyish-looking in a suit of silk pyjamas. 
 
 Beneath, the hotel grounds spread, running down to the 
 shore. Beyond, the sea stretched, a silver mirror, away to 
 the sparkling, frosty mist of the horizon. In the milky sky 
 the moon soared, a molten globe, touching the drooping palms 
 and making their quivering fronds look like silver fountains. 
 A little line of waves lapped murmurously on the shore, 
 in a running ridge of white fire. The stone wall edging the 
 garden was turned into marble. Here and there across the 
 beach the taller trees threw thick, ebony shadows. 
 
 On the whole expanse of silvered sea, only one mark 
 showed like a black dot in the distance. 
 
 Pansy had seen the mark when it had been much nearer 
 the shore; a man's dark head. He had swum out and out, 
 away into the mist and moonlight. 
 
 It was long after midnight. In the whole white world 
 there was no sign of life except that dark head and the 
 girl on the balcony who was watching the swimmer. 
 
 The black dot grew bigger, as, with powerful overhand 
 strokes, the man made his way shorewards. 
 
 When about two hundred yards away from the beach 
 the strong ease of his limbs altered suddenly. They grew 
 contorted. He threw up his arms, and a moment later 
 vanished completely. 
 
 Pansy gave a quick gasp of alarm. 
 
 But the man appeared again, trying to float, as a level- 
 headed swimmer does when cramps seize him, in order 
 to get air between the spasms that send him writhing under 
 water; a hopeless task usually, unless aid is quickly forth- 
 coming. 
 
 57
 
 58 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 For just one second Pansy watched with horror and dis- 
 tress on her face. Then she turned sharply and vanished 
 into her bedroom. A moment or so later she was out of 
 the hotel and runing swiftly through the silent garden 
 towards the shore. 
 
 To Le Breton out there with the water choking his power- 
 ful lungs, gasping and fighting for his life against a death 
 that only his own nerve and wit kept at bay, that struggle 
 seemed an eternity. 
 
 All at once, he was caught and held from behind, just 
 on the surface of the water; a slight support, but sufficient 
 to keep him from going under when the spasms were on. 
 
 Unlike the average swimmer in difficulties, he did not 
 snatch at his unseen rescuer. For all his dire straits he 
 had the presence of mind to let his preserver alone. 
 
 For another ten minutes or more the attack lasted. Then 
 his muscles unknotted and strength came back to his 
 limbs. 
 
 He turned himself over to see who had come to his aid. 
 
 Out of the misty moonlit sea a young face looked at 
 him from under a mop of short curls. 
 
 <r 5Tou didn't come a moment too soon, my boy," he 
 said. 
 
 There was a tired look about Pansy, but that did not 
 prevent her dimpling in an effort not to smile. And to 
 hide her mirth she dived suddenly and struck out towards 
 the land. 
 
 Le Breton struck out too. He reached the shore first. 
 
 Pansy, however, did not go in his direction. She turned 
 off and landed where the shadows were the thickest. 
 
 From where the man stood, he saw what looked to be a 
 slim, fragile boy of about fourteen, who staggered slightly 
 with fatigue as he made towards the most shadowed pair of 
 steps leading into the hotel grounds. 
 
 Quickly Le Breton went towards his rescuer, with the 
 idea of lending a hand, for it looked aa if the boy were 
 thoroughly worn out.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 59 
 
 By the time he reached her Pansy wa8 leaning against 
 the wall under cover of the thickest shadows. 
 
 "I'm afraid you've over-exerted yourself on my account," 
 he said in a solicitous way. 
 
 "I don't usually get knocked out so quickly," she re- 
 plied. "But I had a nasty accident some weeks ago, and 
 I've not quite recovered yet." 
 
 The answer was in French, as fluent and Parisian as 
 his own. 
 
 "You must let me help you back to the hotel," he 
 said. 
 
 "Oh no, if s not necessary. I shall be all right in a 
 moment." 
 
 "What you need, my boy, is a dose of brandy," he re- 
 marked. "That would soon put you right." 
 
 Pansy put her hand to her mouth to hide her smiles. Her 
 short hair, pyjamas, and the shadows had deceived him 
 completely. 
 
 "It wouldn't be a bad idea," she replied; "but I don't 
 happen to have any." 
 
 "Ring for some, then, when you get back to the hotel." 
 
 "I wouldn't dream of disturbing people at this hour of 
 the night," she said in an indignant tone of voice. 
 
 "What else are the servants there for?" he asked in a 
 surprised and peremptory way. 
 
 "They're not there for me to root out of bed at two 
 o'clock in the morning." 
 
 He laughed in an amused manner. 
 
 "I'm not eo considerate of menials as you appear to be. 
 But tell me the number of your room and I'll bring you 
 some." 
 
 There was a brief pause. 
 
 Out from the shadows Pansy scanned the man. She 
 could not see much, except that he was big and of splendid 
 proportions. But he had a well-bred air, and his deep 
 voice, if imperious, was pleasant and cultured. 
 
 Then her eyes started to sparkle with mischief.
 
 60 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "My room is number three on the first floor/* she said. 
 "Don't knock; come straight in. I'll leave the door ajar. 
 I don't want to disturb my neighbours with my midnight 
 prowls." 
 
 "Very well. I'll be there in ten minutes or so." 
 
 They parted company, Le Breton going along the shore, 
 Pansy up the shadowed steps. 
 
 On reaching her own room she switched on the light. 
 
 Slipping off her sodden garments, she dried herself quickly 
 and put on a low-necked, short-sleeved, silk nightgown 
 embroidered with purple pansies. Giving a quick, vigorous 
 rub to her curls, she opened the door an inch or so. Then 
 she skipped into bed and sat there, bright-eyed and rosy- 
 cheeked, delighted with the surprise she had prepared for 
 Che man. 
 
 Unaware of what was in store for him, Le Breton returned 
 ta the hotel. Knowing the place well, he made his way 
 noiselessly along the dim, deserted corridor towards a door 
 that stood slightly ajar, letting out a sharp knife of light. 
 He was in shirt and trousers, and in his hand he carried a 
 small jewelled flask. 
 
 Without any preamble he went into the room. 
 
 The apartment he entered was a sumptuous one to aver- 
 age eyes, the best the hotel boasted. 
 
 On the wide dressing-table was a litter of silver toilet 
 appointments, each with a pansy in purple enamel on 
 it. 
 
 Le Breton did not give the room a glance. 
 
 He had eyes for nothing but the figure sitting up in bed. 
 A. figure no longer in pyjamas they lay in a wet heap in 
 the middle of the floor but in a pretty nightgown; and 
 from beneath a flood of golden curls wide, purple eyes looked 
 at him, sparkling with innocent mischief. 
 
 It was no boy who had come to his assistance, but a girl ! 
 A lovely girl with a full, perfect mouth, vividly red, a milk- 
 white skin and cheeks where roses bloomed. 
 
 He backed slightly and locked the door, as if the situa-
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 61 
 
 tion were one he was quite accustomed to and equal to 
 dealing with. 
 
 '''There's no need to lock the door/' Pansy said. 
 
 "It's on your account, not mine. A little incident of 
 this sort won't damage my reputation." 
 
 "I'd forgotten about my reputation," she said, a note 
 of concern in her voice. "I only thought about giving you 
 a surprise." 
 
 "It is. A most delightful one, too. In fact, I don't 
 think I've ever experienced anything quite so delightful 
 and unexpected," he responded drily. 
 
 He crossed to the bed, and stood looking at the girl with 
 a critical, appreciative air. And Pansy looked at him with 
 candid, friendly gaze, taking stock of him equally. 
 
 He struck her as being remarkably good-looking, but his 
 expression was too arrogant, his mouth too hard; it even 
 had a suspicion of cruelty. He had an air, too, of having 
 ridden rough-shod over people all his days. In spite of his 
 well-groomed, well-bred appearance, there was a suggestion 
 of the wild about him, as if he had never been properly 
 broken in. 
 
 There was a brief silence as the two surveyed one another. 
 
 Le Breton was the first to speak, and his remark was of 
 a critical nature. 
 
 "Why do you wear your hair short? It would suit you 
 far better long, as a woman's hair ought to be." 
 
 "I like it short. It's less trouble." 
 
 There was a note in her voice as if his or any man's 
 opinion about her appearance did not worry her in the 
 least; an air of thorough independence, out of keeping 
 with her years, that he was quick to notice. 
 
 "Do you always do as you like?" he asked. 
 
 "Always. It's an excellent habit to cultivate, and one 
 you've cultivated to the fullest by the look of you, since 
 criticism is the order of the day," she replied. 
 
 Le Breton thought of the desert kingdom he had ruled 
 with undisputed sway for sixteen years.
 
 62 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "I dare say I do as I like more than most people you've 
 come across/' he answered with emphasis. 
 
 Pansy dimpled. 
 
 There was an air about her visitor as if he expected and 
 were accustomed to people standing in awe of him. How- 
 ever, he did not inspire her with this feeling, only with a 
 desire to tease and plague him; he was so big and masterful 
 looking, as if he thought himself "monarch of all he sur- 
 veyed," even herself, at that moment. 
 
 "Are you in the habit of asking strange men to your 
 bedroom ?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "If I remember rightly, you volunteered to come." 
 
 "And now I'm here, what am I supposed to do?" 
 
 "To be most surprised. To give me a drink of brandy; 
 and then go, nicely and quietly, like a good *boy.' ' ; 
 
 An amused look crossed Le Breton's face. Innocent mis- 
 chief had not come into his life before. 
 
 "I am most surprised," he said. "I flattered myself I 
 could tell a woman anywhere." 
 
 "I'm not a woman, not until next year. So that must 
 account for your deplorable mistake." 
 
 "You look even younger than twenty. Are you English 
 or American?" 
 
 "Why can't I have a choice of being oither French or 
 Russian or Italian or Spanish or German ?" 
 
 "Only an English or an American girl would play this 
 sort of a trick. Not that I've had any dealings with either. 
 I'd like to hear you were American." 
 
 "What's wrong with being English?" 
 
 "I dislike and despise the English," he replied, a latent 
 note of savagery in his deep voice. 
 
 "Then you'll have to dislike and despise me, because I'm 
 one of them." 
 
 Pansy stretched out her hand. The action brought into 
 view a network of disfiguring red ridges and Bears on her 
 upper arm, marring an otherwise perfect limb. 
 
 "Please give me a drink," she finished.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 63 
 
 The excitement of the surprise she had prepared was dying 
 down, leaving her looking what she really was worn out 
 with the exertion of saving him. 
 
 Crossing to the wash-stand, Le Breton picked up a glass. 
 Pouring a small dose of brandy into it, he added the requisite 
 water and brought it back to the girl. 
 
 Then he seated himself on the bedside, watching her as she 
 drank it. 
 
 "What a nasty scar you have on your arm," he remarked, 
 ts if any flaw on such perfection annoyed him. 
 
 "I've worse scars here and here/' she replied, touching her 
 side and thigh; "and they don't look at all pretty. "The 
 Sultan' did them." 
 
 He started slightly. 
 
 "The Sultan! What Sultan?" 
 
 "A brown Sultan. A very nice Sultan, but we under- 
 stand one another now." 
 
 Le Breton took the girl's arm into his grip with the light, 
 firm, careful touch of a man who is used to handling women. 
 
 "They're the marks of a horse's teeth," he remarked after 
 a brief survey. 
 
 With an air of relief, Pansy held the empty glass towards 
 him. 
 
 "Thank goodness that's finished. Now, with your permis- 
 sion, I'll go to sleep." 
 
 He took the glass, placing it on a table near; but he did 
 not move from his seat on the bedside. 
 
 "You must tell me your name," he said. 
 
 "You'll find out quite soon enough without my telling you. 
 It's not at all necessary for me to advertise myself nowadays." 
 
 "Won't you tell me?" he asked in a cajoling tone. 
 
 Pansy shook her head. 
 
 "Then I must find a name for you," he said. "A flower 
 name would suit you admirably. Let me see, what do you 
 call the flower in English?" 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 "Pansy," he finished, after a moment's thought.
 
 64 A SON OP THE SAHAKA 
 
 "But why Tansy' specially?" she asked, smiling at him. 
 "Why not Lily or Rose or May, since I'm to be given a stupid 
 flower name?" 
 
 "There are pansies in your eyes, on your nightgown, on 
 the appointments of your dressing-table, on your handker- 
 chief here." 
 
 With a deeply bronzed hand he touched a scrap of em- 
 broidered muslin that peeped out from beneath her pillow 
 and which had a pansy worked on it in one corner. 
 
 Pansy laughed, amused at his perception. 
 
 "Now, I'm too tired to entertain you any longer," she 
 said. "Good night, and thank you for bringing the brandy." 
 
 Le Breton was not accustomed to being dismissed when he 
 was prepared to stay. " 
 
 "Are you really anxious to get rid of me ?" he asked. 
 
 "Most anxious. I'm dying to go to sleep." 
 
 In a reluctant manner he got to his feet. 
 
 Stooping over the bed, he gave a caressing pat to the tired, 
 small face. 
 
 "Good night, Pansy, little flower," he said softly. "I'll 
 go if you really want me to, but I'm not in the habit of going 
 unless I want to." 
 
 "What an autocrat you sound ! And please don't forget 
 my reputation. I can't afford to lose it so early in life." 
 
 There was anxiety in the girl's voice, for all her light 
 tone. 
 
 "Your reputation will be quite safe with me," he said. 
 
 He stood for a moment watching her, an amused expres- 
 sion lurking in his dark, fiery eyes. Then he turned and, 
 switching off the light, went noiselessly from the room. 
 
 It was not until he had gone that Pansy recollected that 
 he had touched her twice and she had not minded or re- 
 proved him, and usually she very strongly resented being 
 touched by men. And it was not until Le Breton reached 
 his villa that he remembered the girl had not even troubled 
 to ask his name. In fact, once the trick had been played, 
 her only desire had been to get him out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN one of the private sitting-rooms of the hotel, Miss 
 Grainger was lolling back in a comfortable wicker chair read- 
 ing a newspaper. 
 
 The door opening made her look round. 
 
 A slim, boyish figure entered the room, clad in a well-cut 
 white riding suit, the neatest of brown boots and leggings, 
 and a wliite felt hat pulled well on to a mop of curls. 
 
 "You're late starting this morning, Pansy." 
 
 "I am. But last night I saved a man's life." 
 
 "Saved a man's life! Really, my dear, what a way you 
 have of springing surprises on one." 
 
 Teasingly Pansy glanced at her old governess. 
 
 "Miss Grainger, I must remind you that 'springing sur- 
 prises' is slang." 
 
 Miss Grainger ignored the reprimand. 
 
 "But what man did you save, and how did you save him ?" 
 she asked in a slightly bewildered manner. 
 
 "I forgot to ask his name. I fished him out of the sea. 
 He had cramps." 
 
 "But he might have -dragged you under!" her companion 
 said in a horrified voice. "I should have thought that last 
 experience of yours with that awful horse would have taught 
 you not to go diving headlong into danger." 
 
 " 'The Sultan' isn't awful. You know it was all a mis- 
 take on his part. Besides, nothing will keep me from 'diving 
 headlong into danger,' as you call it, when I see things being 
 hurt. It's all part of my silly, impetuous nature." 
 
 "Well, I hope the man was grateful. He never even 
 thanked me." 
 
 Such gross ingratitude left Miss Grainger aghast. 
 
 "My dear!" she exclaimed. 
 
 65
 
 66 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "He thought I was a boy, and when he found I was a 
 girl he was too astonished to remember his manners/' Pansy 
 explained. "But don't say anything about it to anybody. 
 You know I hate a fuss." 
 
 "What was he like?" 
 
 "Big and dark and awfully good-looking, with an arro- 
 gant, high-handed manner. He badly needed taking down 
 a peg or two." 
 
 "Quite different from Captain Cameron," Miss Grainger 
 suggested. 
 
 "Oh, quite. Bob's a kid beside him." 
 
 There was a brief pause. 
 
 Miss Grainger glanced at the girl. 
 
 "Do you know, Pansy, I'm sorry for Captain Cameron." 
 
 "So am I," the girl replied, a touch of distress in her 
 voice. "But my sorrow refuses to blossom into love." 
 
 "He's a very good sort." 
 
 "I know; but then I'm not given to falling in love." 
 
 "Some day you'll find yourself in love before you know it." 
 
 Pansy smiled at her old governess in a merry, whole- 
 hearted fashion. 
 
 "What a persistent bird of ill-omen you are!" she said. 
 
 Then she glanced at the clock. 
 
 "Now I'm off. I shan't be back for lunch. So-long," 
 she finished. 
 
 She went, leaving Miss Grainger with the feeling of a 
 fresh, sweet breeze having been wafted through the room.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IN the large palm-decked patio of the hotel, Le Breton sat 
 sipping coffee as he went through the newspapers solicitous 
 waiters had placed on a table at his elbow. It was not 
 often he came to the hotel, but when he did the whole staff 
 was at his disposal, for he scattered largess with a liberal 
 hand. He had lunched there, his gaze wandering over the 
 crowded dining-room as if in search of someone; and after- 
 wards he had stayed on. 
 
 It was now about three in the afternoon, an hour when 
 the patio was practically deserted. 
 
 As he sat there reading, Pansy entered the big hall, still 
 in breeches and leggings, just as she had returned from her 
 ride. She would have passed through the patio without 
 coming within his vision, except that something about the 
 smooth black head was familiar. 
 
 So she changed her route and went in Le Breton's direc- 
 tion instead. 
 
 "Have you gotten over your disappointment?" she asked. 
 
 In an unperturbed manner he looked round. Then he 
 got to his feet leisurely, surveying the slim, boyish figure 
 with disapproval. 
 
 Pansy stood with her hands deep in her pockets, smiling 
 at him, a smile that deepened under his lack of appreciation 
 of her attire. 
 
 "What disappointment?" he asked. 
 
 "Of finding I was a girl you had to be polite to instead 
 of a boy you could bully." 
 
 "I'm inclined to go back to my first impression," he 
 said. 
 
 "Don't you like my get-up?" 
 
 67
 
 68 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "Decidedly I do not. Why don't you wear something 
 feminine? Not go about masquerading as a man." 
 
 Adverse criticism rarely came Pansy's way. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "What a back number you are! All women ride in 
 Dreeches nowadays. But, since you don't approve of me, 
 come along and see if you like 'The Sultan' any better. 
 You were most interested in his mark and seal." 
 
 There was an air about her as if she never expected to 
 be gainsaid if she felt like favouring a man, for she turned 
 at once and led the way towards the main entrance. 
 
 Picking up his hat, Le Breton followed. 
 
 Once outside, he said: 
 
 "I've not yet thanked you for saving my life." 
 
 "I couldn't do less than lend a hand/' she replied with 
 a casual air. 
 
 "It was a risky thing to do. I might have dragged you 
 under." 
 
 "Well, you didn't. And we're neither of us any the 
 worse for the little adventure." 
 
 "I hope we shall be all the better. That we shall be 
 excellent friends," he replied. 
 
 Then he drew a leather case from his pocket and held it 
 towards her. 
 
 "I've brought you a little memento," he finished. 
 
 With inquisitive hands Pansy took the case and snapped 
 it open. Inside was a string of pearls worth at least 500. 
 He watched the girl as she opened the case, but none of 
 the coos of delight and surprise at his generosity, that he 
 expected and was accustomed to under such circumstances, 
 were forthcoming. Instead, she closed the case and handed 
 it back to him. 
 
 "It's very pretty, and very kind of you to think of it," 
 she said. "But I couldn't keep it." 
 
 To have his gift thrust back on him was the last thing" 
 Le Breton was prepared for or desired. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked abruptly.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 69 
 
 "I never take presents from men, but I appreciate your 
 kindness all the same." 
 
 He glanced at her, a peculiar look at the back of his eyes. 
 
 To get off the topic Pansy hurried forward. 
 
 From a building close at hand there came a gentle 
 whinny. 
 
 "That's 'The Sultan/ she remarked. "He hears me 
 coming." 
 
 When the stables came into view, over the open door of 
 a box a long brown head and neck were seen stretched 
 towards the approaching girl. 
 
 "I'm going to let him out," she said; "but you mustn't 
 come too close. He hates strangers; and so should I if 
 I'd been through the hell he's been through." 
 
 Le Breton laughed, as if anyone, more especially the slim 
 girl with him, telling him to be careful of anything in the 
 shape of a horse had its intensely funny side. 
 
 As Pansy opened the door his glance ran swiftly over the 
 animal. 
 
 It was a huge, gaunt beast, a chestnut, with wild, roving 
 eyes; a great, vicious-looking creature, well on in years and 
 undoubtedly an old race-horse, for speed was written all over 
 it. And on it, too, were scars and weals that spoke of past 
 ill-treatment. 
 
 Pansy kissed its soft nose, and patted and stroked it and 
 pulled its ears ; and the great animal fawned on her. 
 
 Then she led it out, keeping a tight grip on its mane. 
 For it bared its teeth at Le Breton, and stood shivering and 
 expectant, as if suspecting every man's hand to be against it. 
 
 He, however, ignored its attentions and came closer. But 
 it swung round and lashed at him with iron heels. 
 
 "Oh, do be careful ! Don't come so close," Pansy cried. 
 
 In spite of its snarls and the iron hoofs, she kept her 
 grip on its mane. But neither teeth nor hoofs, were in her 
 direction. 
 
 Ignoring her entreaties, Le Breton came closer, all the 
 time talking to the horse gently in a strange language.
 
 70 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 The animal seemed to recognize a friend. It quietened 
 down suddenly, and stretched a long neck in his direction. 
 Still talking, he patted and stroked it. The horse sub- 
 mitted to his attentions, and before many moments had 
 passed was rubbing its nose against him. 
 
 All interest, Pansy watched the two make friends. 
 
 "What are you saying to him?" she asked. "Usually he 
 won't let a stranger near him." 
 
 "I was talking to him in the language all race-horses 
 understand Arabic," he replied. "But how did you come 
 by such a brute?" 
 
 The animal was of the type only the most hardened of 
 stable-men could handle; the very last horse for a girl 
 to ride. 
 
 "I dropped across him quite by accident." 
 
 Le Breton thought of the scars he had seen on the girl' a 
 arm, and he had heard there were others and worse beyond 
 his view. 
 
 "I should say it was 'by accident,'" he remarked drily. 
 "I'd like to hear the story." 
 
 Pansy patted the big horse fondly. 
 
 "We met in a London slum," she said. "I happened 
 to be passing a stable yard when I heard a noise like a 
 horse being hurt or frightened, and men laughing. So I 
 opened the gate and went in. There was poor old Sultan 
 tied up in one corner and half a dozen roughs baiting him, 
 all the time taking good care not to get within his reach, 
 for he was almost mad with terror and rage and ill-treat- 
 ment. I told them what I thought, and in the telling I 
 got too close to 'The Sultan,' and he grabbed me by the 
 arm. In ten minutes he had made such a mess of me that 
 it took a month to patch me up. And the men were such 
 cowards that they never tried to rescue me. It was 'The 
 Sultan' himself who seemed to realise he'd set on his best 
 friend, for he stopped chewing me, and stood sniffing at me., 
 and let me crawl away. And I didn't remember anything 
 more until I found myself back home. Then I remembered
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 71 
 
 the poor horse left to the mercy of those cruel wretches ; and 
 I sent someone along to buy him and take him away from 
 his awful surroundings. It was so obvious he had known 
 better days, although he had sunk right down to dragging 
 some East End coal higglers cart. The first time I was al- 
 lowed out I went to his paddock and had a look at him. 
 And I'm sure he knew me. He stretched his long neck over 
 the gate and sniffed and snuffed at me and seemed quite 
 conscience-stricken. At the end of a fortnight I was on his 
 back, and now I take him everywhere I go, as he gets wor- 
 ried if he doesn't see me about. He can't believe his awful 
 days are over unless I'm here to reassure him." 
 
 As Pansy told the tale she leant against the big horse; 
 and she told it as if her own hurts were nothing. 
 
 "And you took him into your favour after he had treated 
 you so abominably !" Le Breton said. 
 
 "I couldn't be hard on him for what was the result of 
 his awful surroundings." 
 
 "You are very magnanimous." 
 
 Pansy smiled. 
 
 "You'll forgive me for not accepting that pretty necklace, 
 won't you?" she asked. 
 
 "Some day, when we know each other better, you'll honour 
 me by accepting it," he said. 
 
 He spoke to the girl now as if she were his equal, not just 
 some pretty toy he happened to have fancied. 
 
 "I never take anything from men except perhaps a few 
 flowers." 
 
 There was a subtle contempt for his sex in her voice 
 which Le Breton was quick to note. 
 
 "So you despise men?" 
 
 "Not that exactly, but I've had rather an overdose of 
 them. Since I've been here, Sultan and I go off early every 
 morning usually, and are miles away before there are any 
 men about to bother us." 
 
 With this Pansy turned and led the horse back to its box. 
 .'"Now," she said, when this was done, "I mustn't keep
 
 72 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 you. Good-bye, and I'm glad you're none the worse for 
 last night." 
 
 Again Le Breton was dismissed when he would have lin- 
 gered. And on this second meeting she still had not trou- 
 bled to ask his name. 
 
 There was a curious glint in his eyes as they rested on 
 the slim, white, indifferent figure of the girl who was making 
 her way back to *he hotel without a further glance in his 
 direction.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AT six o'clock in the morning the road that joins the port 
 and the city of Las Palmas shows very little sign of the 
 peaceful English invasion. It is given over to the Islanders. 
 To peasant women with baskets of produce on their heads; 
 to men driving .donkeys laden with fruit and vegetables, 
 and creaking bullock carts. 
 
 The early morning was Pansy's favourite time; the 
 world was a place of dew and brightness with the sun 
 glinting gold on sandy hills and air that sparkled like 
 champagne. 
 
 She trotted along on her big horse towards the white 
 city, its flat roofs, low houses and palms giving it an 
 oriental aspect. Eiding through the town, she crossed a 
 wide bridge and went upwards through a grove of palms, 
 past banana gardens, into a deserted world, with a blue 
 sky overhead and an endless stretch of sea behind. 
 
 As she mounted higher, the hill grew vine-clad, and 
 great ragged eucalyptus trees stood in tatters by the road- 
 side. Here and there was a stunted pine, the deep green 
 of a walnut tree, a clump of bamboo, a palm and occasion- 
 ally, a great patch of prickly cacti, whose flaming flowers 
 stood out red against a dazzling day. 
 
 She rode without spurs or whip, when necessary urging 
 her horse with hand and voice only. 
 
 A village was reached, where black-browed men in slouch 
 hats and blanket cloaks lounged in groups, smoking and 
 gossiping, and swarthy women with bright handkerchiefs 
 around their heads stared at the girl astride the big 
 horse. 
 
 In the dust of the road a little group of half-clad, bare- 
 footed children dragged a trio of unfortunate lizards along 
 
 73
 
 74 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 by strings around their necks, and screamed with delight 
 at the writhings of the tortured reptiles. 
 
 The sight brought a look of distress to Pansy's face. 
 
 Eeining in her horse, she slipped of and went towards 
 the group. 
 
 In indifferent Spanish she gave a brief lecture on cruelty. 
 There was a sprinkling .of small coins, and the lizards 
 changed owners. 
 
 Pansy stooped. Loosening the strings from their soft 
 throats, she picked them out of the dust. They were pretty, 
 harmless little things, each about eighteen inches long and 
 bright green in colour, that hung limp in her gentle hands, 
 and looked at her with tortured eyes. Holding them care- 
 fully, she went back to her horse, and with the reins over 
 her arm, made her way through the village. 
 
 Once well out of sight of the place, she seated herself 
 on a bank at the side of the road, and laid the three limp 
 little forms on a warm, flat, sunny rock. Then she tried 
 to coax them back to life and their normal state of bright 
 friskiness. 
 
 As she sat rubbing, with a gentle forefinger, their soft, 
 panting throats, crooning over them with pitying words, too 
 intent on her task to notice what was going on around her, 
 a deep voice said with an unexpectedness that made her 
 jump : 
 
 "They'll do exactly the same with the next lizards they 
 catch." 
 
 She looked round quickly. 
 
 In the middle of the road, mounted on a huge black 
 horse, was the man whose life she had saved. 
 
 Pansy's gaze rested on him for a moment before she 
 replied. He made such a picture on the black horse, with 
 his strong, sunburnt face and well-cut khaki riding suit; 
 the most perfect combination of horse and man she had 
 ever seen. 
 
 "I know they will," she said. "But still, I've done my 
 best for these three."
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 75 
 
 "Do you always try to do your best for everything that 
 comes your way, Pansy?" he asked tenderly. 
 
 "Only a few privileged people are allowed to call me 
 'Pansy/ " she said tartly. 
 
 "What else can I call you, since you refuse to tell me 
 your name ?" 
 
 "You mean to say you haven't found out yet?" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "I never gossip," he replied in a haughty tone. 
 
 "I don't know yours," she answered, "so we're what is 
 called in English 'quits.' ' : 
 
 "What exactly does 'quits' mean? I don't know much 
 English." 
 
 As Pansy petted the lizards she explained the meaning 
 of the word. During the explanation one of her proteges 
 recovered, and darted off in a most thankless manner into 
 a crevice in the rocks. 
 
 "My name is Le Breton," he said when he had grasped 
 her meaning. "Eaoul Le Breton." 
 
 Pansy stared at him. 
 
 She had surprised him on the occasion of their first 
 meeting, but he had turned the tables on her. 
 
 During her stay in Teneriffe she had heard of Raoul Le 
 Breton. He was a French millionaire, an African merchant 
 prince, so rumour said. 
 
 She had had a feeling that he had followed her that 
 morning, and she was inclined to be angry about it. Now 
 she saw that if he sought her out, it was not from mercenary 
 motives, since he was quite as wealthy as she was. What 
 was more he had no idea who she was. 
 
 "I'm always interested in millionaires," she said, a 
 mischievous glint in her eyes. 
 
 "All women are," he responded grimly. 
 
 "But you're not the only millionaire in the islands," 
 she remarked. 
 
 "So I've gathered. There is, or was, one here quite 
 recently. An Englishwoman of the name of Langnam.
 
 76 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 I detest women with money. They are invariably ugly and 
 conceited." 
 
 Pansy laughed a ripple of sheer enjoyment. 
 
 "Perhaps their independence annoys you/' she sug- 
 gested. "I believe you're what is known as the 'masterful' 
 type." 
 
 With that, her attention went back to the lizards. 
 
 Dismounting, Le Breton came to her side. 
 
 "You speak French remarkably well," he commented, 
 as the moments passed and no notice was taken of him. 
 
 "I was educated in Paris." 
 
 She glanced at him, her eyes brimming with mischief. 
 and, as she glanced, another of her proteges frisked thank- 
 lessly away. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to know my name?" she asked. 
 
 "At present it's sufficient that you are Tansy.' 
 'Heart's Ease/ don't you say in English?" 
 
 "I wish I could ease this one poor little beast/' she said, 
 touching the remaining lizard. "But I fear it's hurt beyond 
 redemption." 
 
 Stooping he picked up the little reptile and examined 
 it. It hung limp in his grasp; a hopeless case. 
 
 "The best thing to do with it is to kill it," he com- 
 mented. 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't," she said quickly. 
 
 But it appeared he could. He went some distance 
 away from the girl and placed the lizard on a flat rock. 
 In a moment he had ground all tortured life out of it 
 with his heel. 
 
 "Thank you," she said gratefully. "I knew it was 
 suffering, but I couldn't have done that to save my 
 life. As a reward, will you come and have breakfast with 
 me?" 
 
 "There's nothing I should like better/' he answered. 
 
 Pansy got to her feet. 
 
 He helped her to mount. Then he rode at he? side up the 
 hill.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 77 
 
 "I love the clear heights/' she remarked presently. 
 
 "I don't know much about them. The miry depths 
 are more in my line," he replied. 
 
 Critically she surveyed him. 
 
 "You don't look so specially muddy." 
 
 "No? What do I look like to you?" he asked, a 
 caressing note in his voice. 
 
 "Very proud, very passionate, very strong, and as if 
 you could be cruel." 
 
 "Then I can't look very attractive," he said, smiling 
 slightly. 
 
 "Being proud is all right, so long as it makes you too 
 proud to do mean things." 
 
 "And what about the passionate?" he asked, "since 
 you're making excuses for me. 
 
 "I don't know anything about it." 
 
 "Well, what about my being strong then?" 
 
 "I don't like men unless they are." 
 
 "And the cruelty?" 
 
 "I hate it." 
 
 "Life sometimes combines to make people cruel who 
 otherwise might not be," he remarked, as if unaccustomed 
 to finding excuses for himself. "You can't judge a person 
 fairly until you know all that has gone to form their 
 character." 
 
 Pansy patted her gaunt steed. 
 
 "I know that," she said, "that's why I stuck to 'The 
 Sultan' when my friends tried to persuade me to have 
 him shot. There's a lot in his life that I don't know. 
 These marks tell me that." 
 
 She pointed to the various old scars on the animal. 
 
 "Now you shall ;see what 'The Sultan' can do," she 
 went on. "I'll race you to the farm over there, where 
 breakfast is waiting," she finished, pointing to a green 
 patch away in the distance. 
 
 A touch of her spurless heel sent the gaunt beast flying 
 along the dusty, deserted road, in a long, loping gallop
 
 78 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 that grew more and more rapid, egged on by the sound 
 of another horse persistently at his heels. 
 
 Pansy had not expected that her escort would be able 
 to keep up with her. No horse she had met could keep pace 
 with her protege. At the end of half a mile she had been 
 prepared to rein up and wait for Le Breton. 
 
 But at the end of a mile he was a length behind her. 
 And at the end of two he was there just the same. 
 
 Pansy tired before either the man or the horses. 
 
 "Oh!" she panted, as Le Breton drew up beside her. 
 "I wasn't trained as a jockey." 
 
 "You didn't get away from me quite so easily as you 
 expected," he remarked with curious emphasis. 
 
 "I didn't know there was a horse in the Islands to touch 
 'The Sultan/ in spite of his years." 
 
 "This horse I'm on has won several races in Paris. And 
 you challenged me, Pansy, without pausing to consider 
 what you might be let in for," he said, watching her in a 
 fierce, fond manner. 
 
 "I always leap before I look. It's my besetting sin," 
 she replied. 
 
 Then she pointed to a side track, leading to a low building, 
 half white-washed mud, half timber. 
 
 "That's the way to my farm," she said. "But I don't 
 know that my breakfast will appeal to millionaires." 
 
 "Don't thrust that down my throat just now," he 
 answered. "I want to see life from your point of view." 
 
 The farm they were approaching was a tiny place, with 
 a spreading garden where orange and fig trees grew. In 
 one corner a little summer-house stood, wreathed with 
 red roses, that gave a wide view of the island and a glimpse 
 of the sea. 
 
 Evidently Pansy was expected. A coarse white cloth 
 was spread on the table in the summer-house, and it was 
 set with thick crockery and leaden-looking forks and 
 spoons.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 79 
 
 Leaving Le Breton to attend to the horses, she made 
 her way to the tiny homestead, to announce her presence 
 and the fact of a guest. 
 
 Then she passed on towards the summer-house. 
 
 Tossing her hat on a seat, she sat with the light glinting 
 on her golden curls, her elbows on the table, watching the 
 scene dreamily, in a frame of red roses. 
 
 This vision of her greeted Le Breton as he turned the 
 corner, bringing a hungry glint to his eyes. 
 
 Breakfast proved a simple repast. 
 
 There was a thick jug full of coffee, another of milk, a 
 large omelet, a dish of fruit, rolls, butter and honey. 
 
 "Now," she said when it was set before them, "how 
 do you like your coffee?" 
 
 "As it should be according to the orientals black as 
 sin, hot as hell, sweet as love," he finished, lingering over 
 the word. 
 
 She poured his out, and handed it to him, black as he 
 desired. 
 
 "I can get on very well without either the sin or the 
 love," she remarked as she helped herself to a cup that was 
 mostly milk, and with no sugar in it. 
 
 "I thought all girls liked sweet things and lived for love," 
 he said as he set about serving the omelet. 
 
 "There's a lot more in life for women nowadays than 
 love." 
 
 "Being in love is a woman's normal condition," he said 
 in a forcible, dogmatic manner. 
 
 Pansy smiled. 
 
 "I always thought you had come out of the Ark, and 
 now I'm sure of it. You've got such antiquated, early 
 Victorian ideas about women. They mustn't wear knickers. 
 They must always be yearning after some mere male. 
 Very flattering to him, I'm sure," she finished, wrinkling 
 a disdainful nose. 
 
 Le Breton's gaze rested on the vivid, beautiful little 
 ace, with the full, perfect, generous mouth, telling of an
 
 80 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 unselfish, disinterested nature that would love swiftly and 
 deeply. 
 
 "Some day you'll find yourself in love before you know 
 it/' he commented. 
 
 "So other people have said. And it makes me horribly 
 nervous at times. Like a blind man walking on the edge 
 of a precipice/' 
 
 "So long as you fell in love with a man who could ap- 
 preciate you, it would be all right, a man sufficiently versed 
 in women to know you have qualities beyond your beauty to 
 recommend you." 
 
 With some surprise Pansy glanced at him. 
 
 A soft heart lay beneath her light manner. Quite half 
 her income was spent for the benefit of others. She won- 
 dered how he knew about these "qualities/' considering 
 their brief acquaintance. And she wondered, too, why she 
 was sitting there discussing love with him; a subject she 
 never would let any man approach, if it could be avoided. 
 She put it down to the fact that her identity was unknown 
 to him, and she could talk to him freely, knowing her 
 millions were no temptation. 
 
 "One thing," she said mischievously, "money will 
 never attract me. I've no expensive tastes. I like 
 views and flowers and sunsets. Moons and stars and 
 seas and sago pudding. Horses and chocolates and 
 my own way. All things that don't require a tremendous 
 income." 
 
 There was a brief silence. 
 
 In a calculating manner Le Breton watched her. She 
 was a new type to him; a girl who could not be approached 
 in the way most women could be by the easy route of 
 costly presents. 
 
 The air was heavy with the scent of roses. In the dis- 
 tance a guitar was playing; a throb of melody, faint and 
 seductive, that fed the craving in the man'g heart. 
 
 Pansy glanced at him.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 81 
 
 "How quiet you are all at once. What are you thinking 
 about?" 
 
 "Ways and means," he replied, smiling slightly. 
 
 "I thought only hard-up people were troubled in that 
 way." 
 
 "The trouble with me now is that I want something 
 which I fear can't be bought with money." 
 
 "What an unpleasant position for a millionaire to be in. 
 Still, it makes you 'realise your limitations,' as on old 
 governess of mine used to say." 
 
 She paused for a moment, watching him with an air of 
 subtle mockery. 
 
 "And, Mr. Le Breton, it won't do you any harm to have 
 to go without a few of the things you want. There's a 
 look about you as if you always had things too much your 
 own way." 
 
 "I'm not so sure yet that I'm going to do without it. 
 Fortunately I have two other courses left open to me 
 persuasion and power," he replied. 
 
 "Power! I thought that was the prerogative of kings." 
 
 Le Breton said nothing. He knew if this English girl 
 had any idea who he was, she would not be sitting there 
 talking to him so freely. Although he was the Sultan of 
 El-Ammeh, in the eyes of her nation he was a "nigger." 
 
 There was a further silence which Pansy broke. 
 
 "What made you swim out all those miles the other 
 night?" she asked. 
 
 "I get moods when I want to lose the earth and find a 
 heaven to my own liking." 
 
 "What sort of heaven would that be?" 
 
 "Where there would be only one houri, and she all- 
 sufficing." 
 
 "A houri? Why that's a sort of Mohammedan angel- 
 woman." 
 
 Evidently Le Breton* was in a confessional mood, for 
 he said:
 
 82 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "Nowadays I often wonder what use my life is. There's 
 no pleasure in it except, perhaps women." 
 
 "So long as it's 'women/ it's all right 1 . The trouble 
 starts when it comes to 'woman.'" 
 
 These words from the innocent girl's lips made him 
 laugh. 
 
 "Who told you that?" he asked. 
 
 "Captain Cameron. He likes to pose as an authority 
 on such subjects." 
 
 "And who is Captain Cameron?" 
 
 There was a suspicion of jealousy in Le Breton's voice. 
 
 "At present he's possessed with a demon of tennis. But 
 when the devil has been cast out, he's my father's secretary." 
 
 "And how can the devil be cast out?" 
 
 "There's no really permanent cure, but it can be assuaged 
 pro tern, if he meets someone who can beat him. In Tene- 
 riffe, he carried all before him. And he's coming over here 
 to-morrow to beat all the local champions. He's one of 
 the few people I really like. I've known him all my 
 life." 
 
 These remarks of hers had the effect of reducing L 
 Breton to silence again.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN the library of the villa, Le Breton sat alone. The hour 
 was late, getting on to midnight. He was stretched in a 
 deep chair smoking, his gaze fixed on a desk close by, on 
 which was a wide, shallow, crystal bowl full of water where 
 half a dozen purple pansies floated. 
 
 As he sat there indulging in some dream of his own, a 
 door opened and he looked round sharply, by no means 
 pleased at being roused from his reverie. The room was 
 his special sanctum; no one was supposed to enter without 
 his permission. 
 
 In the doorway Lucille stood, in a foamy white dressing- 
 gown, her wealth of red hair in two thick ropes down her 
 back. 
 
 On seeing her, a look of suppressed annoyance crossed 
 his face. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked in a none too cordial tone. 
 
 She crossed to his side, and stood looking down at him 
 anxiously. 
 
 "What has happened to you the last two days?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Happened to me ! What do you mean ?" 
 
 "You've been so very indifferent." 
 
 "Was I ever particularly effusive?" 
 
 She laid her hand on his sleeve with a lingering, caressing 
 touch. 
 
 "I see nothing of you now except at meals," she said. 
 
 With an impatient gesture he drew his arm away. 
 
 "I'm not always in the mood for women," he said 
 coldly. 
 
 "Perhaps it would be nearer the truth if you said some 
 .other woman has taken your fancy," she suggested. 
 
 83
 
 84 A SON OP THE SAHARA 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 Le Breton got to his feet and crossed to the desk, stand- 
 ing there with his back to her as if he resented her presence. 
 
 It was most obvious to Lucille that she was not welcome. 
 
 "What is this new fancy of yours like?" she asked in a 
 hurt, jealous tone. 
 
 He made no answer, but his very back oozed annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 "What's her price, Raoul?" she asked in a wild manner. 
 "Is it emeralds or pearls or diamonds ? Or is she one whose 
 price is above rubies ?" 
 
 He faced round suddenly, anger flashing in his eyes. 
 
 "Be quiet, woman!" he said savagely. 
 
 She laughed hysterically. 
 
 "So she's something too good for me to talk about, is 
 she? Does she know of all your gay doings in Paris?" 
 
 "Oh, you women!" he ejaculated contemptuously. "Can 
 you never learn the virtue of silence?" 
 
 In an angry manner he went from the room, leaving 
 Lucille in possession. She watched him Until the door 
 closed. Then she sank down into the chair he had vacated 
 and stayed there with bowed head, weeping bitterly.
 
 CHAPTEE IX 
 
 AT a spot about ten miles away from Las Palmas there 
 are some well-known orange groves. Stretch upon stretch 
 of scented trees, they made a lattice-work of smooth boughs 
 and shiny leaves overhead, with a glint of blue sky here 
 and there. The ground was strewn with white petals, and 
 clusters of white blossoms made fragrant the gilded green- 
 ness. A glimpse of the sea could be had, and the waves 
 filled the air with a constant, soft, distant murmur. 
 
 At one spot in the scented grove preparations had been 
 made for an elaborate picnic. Piles of soft silk cushions 
 were set upon the ground. On a cloth of finest linen was 
 spread an array of frail china and heavy silver, with here 
 and there some golden dish holding dainties. 
 
 Two impassive men with lean, brown faces, clad in flow- 
 ing white robes, stood near. Beyond all view of the feast 
 came a faint rattle of pots and pans, and a little wavering 
 column of smoke rose from a fire where breakfast was being 
 prepared. 
 
 When Pansy had come down the hotel steps for her usual 
 early morning ride she had not been very surprised to find 
 Le Breton there waiting for her. 
 
 She had had a wide experience of men and their ways, 
 and she knew what she called "the symptoms." Generally 
 "the symptoms" annoyed her; she felt they had more 
 to do with her money than herself. But Le Breton's case 
 was different. She knew who he was, but he had no idea 
 of her identity. 
 
 "I'm going to take you out for breakfast this time," he 
 said on seeing her. 
 
 "Where are we going?" she asked. 
 
 "To the orange groves beyond Telde/' 
 
 85
 
 86 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 They had ridden through the white city, and then on, 
 skirting the coast, past banana plantations, cindery-looking 
 cliffs and a lava bed where the poisonous euphorbia grew, 
 ten to twelve feet High, stiff and straight, like gigantic 
 candelabras. 
 
 "I was thinking about you last night/' Pansy remarked 
 once, between their canters. "What you said about the 
 miry depths. And I remember having read somewhere 
 that water can always reach to the level it rises from. When 
 people get into the depths they should remember that; 
 it'll help them to scramble out." 
 
 The miry depths of dissipation into which he occasion- 
 ally plunged had never troubled Le Breton in the least. 
 He was not actively aware that they did now, although he 
 hoped that Pansy would not get to hear of them. But it 
 was all part of the girl's nature to have ready the helpful 
 hand. 
 
 "So, Pansy/' he said, "having saved my body, you're 
 now after my soul." 
 
 "Oh no, I'm not a missionary! But if you like people, 
 there's no harm in giving them a word in season." 
 
 He brought his horse closer, and bent towards the girl. 
 
 "So you like me?" he said in a caressing tone. 
 
 "I shouldn't be here if I didn't," she answered candidly. 
 
 "And what if I say I like you?" he asked, laughing 
 softly. 
 
 "I should say it's very nice of you, considering you know 
 nothing at all about me." 
 
 "I can see you are beautiful. I know your heart is kind. 
 Circumstances have shown me you are not mercenary. 
 What more could I wish to know about you? Isn't the 
 combination enough to attract any man?" 
 
 "Considering you are French, you've missed the vital 
 point," she said demurely. "You haven't said anything 
 about a dot." 
 
 "No man in his senses would want a dot with you/' 
 
 "He wouldn't get much money out of my father, any-
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 87 
 
 how/' she said. "He's a poor man who has to work hard 
 for his living; and I love him better than anyone in the 
 whole wide world." 
 
 "I'd like to meet him," Le Breton remarked. 
 
 "So you will, if you behave yourself. He's coming out 
 here very soon." 
 
 "What constitutes behaving myself?" he asked. "People 
 have never complained of my behaviour so far." 
 
 Pansy knew he was arrogant and overbearing. By his 
 own telling, she guessed he was inclined to be wild. She 
 suspected him of having little or no respect for women, 
 although he had been unfailingly courteous to her. 
 
 "I might complain if I had much to do with you, though," 
 she said. 
 
 "It would be refreshing, to say the least," he re- 
 marked, with a slight smile hovering on his lips. "And 
 what would you complain of especially?" 
 
 "You need a lot of reforming in quite a few ways." 
 
 "Tell me, and I'll endeavour to mould myself according 
 to your ideals," he said with laughter. 
 
 "You know you're very well pleased with yourself as 
 you are." 
 
 "But I'm even better pleased with you, Pansy," he 
 answered, watching her with glowing gaze. 
 
 This Pansy knew quite well. To get off the topic, she 
 touched her horse lightly and broke into a canter. For it 
 seemed to her "the symptoms" were coming to a head 
 even more rapidly than she had expected. 
 
 When the edge of the orange grove was reached, a couple 
 of white-robed men came forward to take their horses dark 
 men, with hawk-like faces, lean and sun-scorched, who 
 bowed low before her escort with the utmost servility. 
 
 "They look like Arabs," Pansy said. 
 
 "They are Arabs; some of my servants from Africa. 
 I generally have half a dozen with me." 
 
 It seemed to Pansy the whole half-dozen were in the 
 grove, ready to wait on her.
 
 88 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 No sooner was she settled among the cushions than one 
 of the servants placed a little box before her, about six 
 inches long and four wide: a costly trifle made of beaten 
 gold, inlaid with flat emeralds and rubies. 
 
 "Is it Pandora's box?" she asked, picking it up and 
 examining it with curiosity. 
 
 "It and the contents are for you," Le Breton replied. 
 
 She turned the tiny golden key. Inside, three purple 
 pansies reposed on a nest of green moss, smiling up at her 
 with velvety eyes. 
 
 "I'll have the contents," she said. "The box you can 
 keep for another time." 
 
 With slim white fingers she picked out the pansies and 
 tucked them into her coat. 
 
 "Still only a few flowers, Pansy?" he said, annoyed, 
 yet pleased that her friendship was disinterested. "Sug- 
 gest something else that you would accept." 
 
 "Breakfast," she said promptly. "I'm dying of hunger." 
 
 A sumptuous feast was spread for her benefit, served in 
 gold and jewel-encrusted dishes; an array of the most 
 expensive luxuries. If Le Breton's idea had been to impress 
 her with his wealth and magnificence, he failed. It seemed 
 to pass her by unnoticed; for Pansy was much more in- 
 terested in his Arab servants, the grove, the distant view of 
 the sea, than any of the regal extravagance immediately 
 before her. 
 
 When the meal was over she sat, wistful and dreamy- 
 looking, listening to the sigh ef the sea. 
 
 For some moments Le Brevon watched her. Just then 
 her mood appeared very out of keeping with her boyish 
 attire. 
 
 "I'd like to see you dressed in something really feminine," 
 he remarked presently. 
 
 "What's your idea of something 'really feminine?'" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "Just one garment, a robe that would come from your
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 89 
 
 shoulders to your knees, loose and clinging, soft and white, 
 with a strap of pearls to hold it on." 
 
 "It sounds draughty/' she commented; "and it might 
 show my horrid scars." 
 
 "It would suit you admirably." 
 
 "And, I suppose, it would suit you admirably, too, to be 
 lying about on cushions with me so attired waiting on you," 
 she said quickly. "Bringing you sherbet and hubble- 
 bubbles, or whatever you call those big pipe things that 
 men smoke in Eastern pictures and on cigar-box lids. And 
 I shouldn't dare call my soul my own. I should tremble 
 at your look. That one garment would place me at a 
 terrible disadvantage." 
 
 "I might not be a severe task-master. I might only ask 
 you to do one thing." 
 
 "And what would that be?" 
 
 "In English, I could say it in two words; spell it in 
 six letters." 
 
 Pansy darted a quick look at him, and a little mocking 
 smile came and hovered on her mouth. 
 
 She was too accustomed to men and their ways not to guess 
 what the two words that could be spelt in six letters were. 
 
 She sat quiet for a moment or two, an impish look on 
 her face. Then she rattled off a riddle in English : 
 
 "My first is in apple, but not in pie, 
 My second is in do, but not in die, 
 My third is in veal, but not in ham, 
 My fourth is in sheep, but not in lamb, 
 My fifth is in morning, but not in night, 
 My sixth is in darkness, but not in light, 
 My whole is just a word or two, 
 Which is known to me as well as to you." 
 
 Le Breton knew more English than he pretended, but 
 riddles did not often come his way. 
 "Say it again slowly," he requested. 
 Pansy repeated her composition.
 
 90 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 He stored it up in his mind, deciding to go into the 
 matter later on when there was no lovely little face, dimpled 
 with mischief, looking at him teasingly from beneath a halo 
 of golden curls. 
 
 Soon after this Pansy glanced at her wrist watch. 
 
 "I mustn't stay any longer," she said, getting to her feet. 
 
 "It's not nine o'clock yet," he remarked. "I didn't 
 hurry away from you so quickly yesterday." 
 
 This Pansy knew quite well. 
 
 He had sat on, and on, with her in the summer-house 
 with the red roses, and she had been pleased to let him 
 stay. In fact, it had been afternoon before they had come 
 down to earth again. 
 
 "Captain Cameron is coming this morning," she said. 
 "And I promised to be on the quay to meet him." 
 
 So saying, she turned towards the spot where the 
 horses were waiting, leaving him to follow or not as 
 he liked. 
 
 Pansy wanted to linger in the grove with Baoul Le 
 Breton as she had been pleased to stay with him among 
 the red roses on the previous day; but she decided the 
 mood was not one to be encouraged, especially considering 
 his desire for the two words, containing in all six letters, 
 and her own desire for untrammelled liberty.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 UNDEE the trees that shadowed one corner of the tennis- 
 courts of the hotel a couple stood. One was a young man 
 of about twenty-four, in white flannel trousers and shirt- 
 sleeves, who held a tennis racket in one hand and a couple 
 of balls in the other. He was of medium height, fresh and 
 fair and boyish looking. 
 
 At his side Pansy stood, in short skirt and blouse and 
 Panama hat. 
 
 "Well, old pal, is there anything doing yet?" he was 
 asking cheerfully. 
 
 "There's nothing doing, Bob, much as I try." 
 
 "Anyhow, it's a standing order," he said. 
 
 "I know; and I'm doing my best," she said. "I try to 
 go to bed every night with your name on my lips, but 
 more frequently I go with a yawn. All for the sake of the 
 'dear dead days beyond recall.' " 
 
 "Which ones especially?" Cameron inquired. 
 
 "When I was five and you were nine, and we were all 
 the world to one another." 
 
 "In the days of my, 'dim and distant' youth I learnt a 
 rotten poem, from dire necessity, not choice, you bet. 
 About some bore of a Scotch king and a spider, and the 
 chorus or the moral, I've forgotten which, ran, 'If at first 
 you don't succeed, try again.' Perseverance, Pansy. It's 
 a wonderful thing. You'll find yourself there in the 
 end." 
 
 Pansy smiled a trifle wistfully at the boy she had known 
 all her life, who always gave her nonsense for nonsense, 
 and, incidentally, his heart. 
 
 "Bob, I wish I could love you," she said, suddenly 
 grave. 
 
 91
 
 92 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 Smiling at her, he started juggling with the two balls. 
 
 "So the spirit is willing, etc. ?" he responded. "Well, 
 I shall go on hoping for a triumph of mind over matter." 
 
 For some reason Pansy felt intensely sorry for her old 
 playmate. 
 
 She caught herself making comparisons, and something 
 within her suddenly whispered that they would never be 
 more than friends, something she did not quite realise 
 some change that had taken place within herself since they 
 had parted in Teneriffe only a week before.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 EAOUL LE BRETON took Pansy's riddle home to solve. He 
 went about it in his own private sanctum. Seating himself 
 at the desk, he wrote out the verse, with a French-English 
 dictionary, making sure his spelling was correct. Then he 
 set out to find the solution. 
 
 He was not long in doing so. 
 
 Afterwards he sat on, gazing at the pansies in the crystal 
 bowl on the desk, a tender look on his arrogant face. 
 
 A daring little creature, that beautiful English girl, frank 
 as the boy she looked in her riding suit, with attractions 
 beyond those of her sex and beauty; a courage that roused 
 his admiration; a kindness that moved his heart; a dis- 
 interestedness sweet as it was novel; an ability to touch 
 parts of his being no woman had touched before, and with 
 a subtle something about her that brought him an ease of 
 spirit he rarely experienced. "Heart's Ease," truly! 
 
 As he brooded on Pansy he forgot his vengeance that 
 he was only waiting in Grand Canary until quite certain 
 Sir George Barclay was on his way to Gambia. 
 
 He thought only of the velvety-eyed girl who had an- 
 swered him so deftly and laughingly. 
 
 The riddle had told him the one thing he would ask her 
 to do; his two words, spelt with six letters: 
 
 "Love me." 
 
 The fact sent Le Breton to the hotel that evening for 
 an interview with the verse-maker. 
 
 The place was a blaze of light and a crash of music. In 
 the big patio the usual bi-weekly dance was taking place, 
 and a crowd of people disported themselves to the strains 
 of a ragtime band. 
 
 Le Breton made a striking figure in evening clothes, and 
 
 93
 
 94 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 more than one woman glanced at him with invitation. He 
 took no notice of them. All he wanted was a slim 
 girl with a mop of short, dancing, golden curls. The 
 room was BO crowded that he could get no glimpse of his 
 quarry, although he altered his point of view several times. 
 
 At the end of half an hour he decided to take a turn 
 round the grounds. 
 
 The garden was soft with moonlight, filled with a misty 
 brightness, and the palms hung limp and sighing. From 
 beyond the wall came the murmur of the sea. Syringa 
 and roses filled the night with perfume. At one spot a 
 fountain sang sweetly to itself. 
 
 There Le Breton lingered with the moonlight and the 
 ebony shadows, the tropical trees sighing languorously 
 around him. 
 
 As he waited there, deep in some reverie of his own, the 
 sound of footsteps reached him. Then, from an adjacent 
 path, voices talking in English a man's thick, low, and 
 protesting, then a girl's clear and indignant. 
 
 "When did I encourage you?" she asked, her voice raised 
 in righteous anger. "Once you brought me a cup of tea I 
 didn't want. Twice you mixed my books and papers with 
 somebody else's. I was three times your partner at Bridge, 
 and that wasn't any fault of mine. I defy you to mention 
 more encouragement than that. Go to your woman with 
 red hair, and don't talk nonsense to me." 
 
 The man's voice came again. Then there was a little 
 cry of anger and the sound of a struggle. 
 
 The girl's voice brought Le Breton out of his reverie. 
 He knew it, although he could not follow a quarter of what 
 was said. But the little cry and the subsequent scuffle sent 
 him quickly in that direction. 
 
 He saw Pansy struggling vainly to get away from a 
 short, thick-set man with a red face and fishy eyes, who 
 held her by one bare arm. 
 
 Le Breton was not long in covering the distance that lay 
 between himself and the couple. His coming made Pansy's
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 95 
 
 persecutor let go quickly, and make off. The girl had 
 been struggling with all her might to escape from his coarse, 
 hot grip. And she was too intent on getting out of an 
 undesirable situation even to notice that someone's approach 
 was responsible for her sudden freedom. 
 
 The force of her struggles sent her staggering backwards, 
 right on Le Breton. His arm went round her. He held her 
 pressed against him, his hand on her heart. 
 
 It seemed to Pansx she had gotten out of the frying-pan 
 into the fire. 
 
 Quivering with indignation she looked up. Then she 
 laughed in a tremulous manner. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, is it? I wondered who else was on my 
 trail." 
 
 "You ought not to be out at night alone," he said severely. 
 "A beautiful girl is a temptation to any man." 
 
 "I'm no temptation. It's my money. He likes women 
 with red hair." 
 
 Le Breton scanned Pansy more closely. 
 
 He had noticed she was dressed in white, but with her 
 unexpectedly in his arms he had not troubled to look 
 further. 
 
 She was wearing a dress of chiffon, light as air, vague as 
 moonlight, that clung about her like a mist, caught up 
 here and there with tiny diamond buckles which made the 
 garment look as if studded with dewdrops. And on a thin 
 platinum chain about her neck was hung one great sparkling 
 drop of light. 
 
 Le Breton knew real gems when he saw them, and that 
 one diamond alone was worth a fortune. 
 
 He bent his proud head, until his lips just touched the 
 fluff of golden curls. 
 
 "Who are you really, Pansy?" he asked softly. 
 
 "You despise and dislike me already, so why should I get 
 further into your black books ?" 
 
 "I, despise and dislike you?" 
 
 "You said you disliked all the English."
 
 96 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "I'm quite willing to make an exception in your favour/' 
 
 ''When you learn the truth you'll 'detest' me." 
 
 "Never !" he said emphatically. 
 
 "Well then, I'm 'that woman of the name of Langham.' n 
 
 "You!" he exclaimed. 
 
 Then he laughed. 
 
 "Pansy, you're a little creature of rare surprises." 
 
 The surprise held him silent for some moments. Or else 
 it was sufficient to have the girl there, unresisting against 
 his heart. 
 
 Up till now Pansy had avoided all male arms as far as it 
 was possible for a girl who was beautiful, wealthy and light- 
 hearted. Whenever caught she had wriggled out indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 From the arm that held her now she made no attempt 
 to escape. A fearsome fascination lay within its embrace. 
 It seemed that he would have but to close the hand that 
 rested on her bosom, and her heart would be in his grip, 
 snatched out of her keeping before she knew it. 
 
 Suddenly it dawned on Pansy that if she stayed there 
 much longer she would want to stay for ever. 
 
 One by one she lifted the sinewy, brown fingers from her 
 dress, holding them in one hand as she went about her 
 task with the other. 
 
 With a slight smile Le Breton watched her. But when 
 the last of his fingers was removed, she was still a prisoner, 
 held secure within his arm. 
 
 Then Pansy descended to strategy. 
 
 "Mr. Le Breton, will you lend me your handkerchief?" 
 she asked in a mild tone. 
 
 "Why do you want it ?" the voice of the master demanded. 
 
 "To dip it in the fountain there and wash my arm. 
 It feels all horrid and nasty and clammy where that odious 
 man touched it," she said meekly. 
 
 The sentiment was one Le Breton approved of and sym- 
 pathised with. 
 
 Letting her go, he drew out his handkerchief.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 97 
 
 Taking it, Pansy turned towards the fountain. He fol- 
 lowed and stood beside her, obviously waiting until her task 
 was finished before carrying the situation further. 
 
 As Pansy scrubbed away at her arm, she kept a rather 
 nervous eye on him. 
 
 When the task was completed, she screwed the handker- 
 chief up into a loose, wet ball. But she did not throw it on 
 the ground as Le Breton expected and was waiting for her to 
 do, before taking her into his arms again. 
 
 Instead, she threw it into his face. 
 
 It took him by surprise; an indignity that had not come 
 his way hitherto. People were not in the habit of throwing 
 wet handkerchiefs with stinging force into the face of the 
 Sultan Casim Ammeh. 
 
 The force and wetness temporarily blinded him. He was 
 perhaps ten seconds in recovering his sight and his dignity. 
 
 Then he looked for the girl. 
 
 She was running as fast as she could away from him, 
 down a misty, moonlit path, in her chiffon and diamonds 
 looking a shimmer of moonlight and sparkling dew herself. 
 
 Pansy's only desire just then was to get out of the white, 
 romantic moonlit world with its scents and sighs and seduc- 
 tive murmurs, back to one of electric light and ragtime, 
 where there was no Raoul Le Breton looking at her gravely, 
 with glowing eyes. 
 
 He had suddenly become a startling menace to her 
 cherished liberty, this big, dark man with his masterful air 
 and high-handed ways. 
 
 Whatever he said she would have to listen to. Perhaps 
 even agree with!
 
 CHAPTEE XII 
 
 LE Breton did not run after the girl. He watched her go, 
 with a feeling that he could afford to bide his time. But 
 at six o'clock the next morning he was round at the hotel 
 waiting for Pansy to come for her usual ride. 
 
 However, there was no sign of her either that morning or 
 the following. In fact, it was not until the afternoon of 
 the second day that he saw anything of her. 
 
 A tennis tournament was taking place at the hotel. 
 Le Breton went feeling sure Pansy would be there, and 
 incidentally, to find out what Captain Cameron, the local 
 tennis champion, was like. 
 
 He saw a fresh-faced youngster, decidedly better-looking 
 than the rest of the men there, but too much like the girl 
 herself ever to be able to hold her. 
 
 Then he looked for Pansy. 
 
 She was seated with a group of acquaintances, awaiting 
 her turn on the courts. 
 
 On seeing Le Breton, she vouchsafed him a smile and a 
 nod, but no further attention. 
 
 After a three days' tournament, Cameron emerged victor, 
 but Le Breton had managed to get no word with Pansy. 
 Whenever he came within speaking distance she edged away, 
 taking cover behind someone. To catch her was like setting 
 a trap to catch a moonbeam. 
 
 At the end of the tournament word went round that a 
 rank outsider had challenged the victor. 
 
 "Who is it, Bob?" Pansy asked when the news reached 
 her. 
 
 Cameron pointed with his racket across the court, to 
 where Le Breton stood, in panama hat and grey flannels. 
 
 98
 
 A SOX OF THE SAHAEA 99 
 
 "That big chap over there/' he said. "He's got a nerve, 
 hasn't he?" 
 
 "And did you accept?" Pansy asked. 
 
 "Of course I. did. I couldn't let that sort of cheek pass." 
 
 Other people had heard what was happening. An inter- 
 ested crowd collected around the court. For word had gone 
 round that the man who had challenged the English cham- 
 pion was Raoul Le Breton, the French millionaire. 
 
 Captain Cameron had not been long on the court before 
 he discovered he had met his equal, if not his superior. 
 
 With a long, lithe movement Le Breton was all over the 
 ground, seemingly unhurried, but always there at the right 
 moment, making his opponent's play look like a heated 
 scramble. But Le Breton's serving was his great point; a 
 lightning stroke that gave no hint as to where the ball would 
 land; sometimes it was just over the net; sometimes just 
 within the furthermost limits of the court. 
 
 Cameron was beaten; a beating he took with a boyish 
 smile, as he congratulated the winner. 
 
 Others crowded round Le Breton, anxious to add their 
 quota to the praise. 
 
 When the crowd dispersed Pansy approached him, as he 
 stood cool and dignified, despite the strenuous game. 
 
 "You never told me you could play tennis," she remarked. 
 
 "There are lots of things about myself I haven't told 
 you," he replied drily. 
 
 "What are they?" she asked. "You mustn't rouse my 
 curiosity and then not satisfy it." 
 
 "You needn't worry. I shall tell you some day," he 
 answered. 
 
 As Pansy talked to him she played battledore and shuttle- 
 cock with her racket and ball. 
 
 "When will that day be?" she asked. "The sooner, the 
 better. It's bad for my health to be kept in a state of 
 inquisitive suspense." 
 
 "The sooner the better will suit me admirably," he said. 
 ."For I shall tell you when we are married."
 
 100 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 Pansy just stared at him. 
 
 "Then I shall never hear," she said, when she had recov- 
 ered her breath. "For I shall never get married. Never. 
 At least, not before I'm forty/' 
 
 There was a brief pause. 
 
 "Why are you avoiding me?" he asked presently. 
 
 "What a stupid thing to say! Aren't I here talking to 
 you now?" 
 
 "With a whole crowd of people round, yes." 
 
 She tapped the tennis ball from her racket to his chest, 
 hitting it back and back again, as if he were a wall. For 
 some minutes Le Breton watched her in an amused manner, 
 as if she were something so favoured that she could do 
 what she liked with him. Then he caught the ball and 
 stopped the game. 
 
 "I've a challenge for you, too, Pansy," he said. 
 "Will you meet me to-night, after dinner, near the foun- 
 tain?" 
 
 "It wouldn't require a great amount of courage to do 
 that." 
 
 "Will you come then ?" 
 
 "You said I wasn't to wander about in the grounds alone 
 at night." 
 
 "I'll come for you then, since you're so anxious to comply 
 with my desires." 
 
 " 'Comply with my desires,' " she repeated mockingly. 
 "That's a nice useful phrase to hurl about." 
 
 There was an air of unusual and unaccustomed patience 
 about Le Breton, as he argued with his moonbeam. Curious 
 glances were cast in the direction of the couple. Miss 
 Langham had never been seen to favour a man as she was 
 favouring the French millionaire. 
 
 "Birds of a feather," someone remarked. 
 
 With some surprise young Cameron watched her. 
 Another watched her too. The red-faced, fishy-eyed man 
 from whose undesired attentions Le Breton had rescued 
 her a few nights before.
 
 101 
 
 "If you don't come I shall know what to think/' Le 
 Breton said. "That you dare not." 
 
 A suspicion of a blush deepened the pink in the girl's 
 cheeks. 
 
 "And if I do come, what shall you think then?" she 
 asked him with a nonchalant air. 
 
 "It'll be quite time enough to tell you when that comes 
 to pass," he answered. 
 
 Pansy had no intention that it should come to pass. 
 Eaoul Le Breton might keep the tryst if he liked, but she 
 would not be there. 
 
 Not if she could help it a little voice within her added.
 
 CHAPTEE XIII 
 
 WHEN" night came Pansy tried not to think of Le Breton, 
 but the idea of him out there in the moonlight haunted 
 her. She wondered how long he would wait; patience did 
 not look to be one of his virtues. 
 
 There was a dance at the hotel again that evening. As 
 she whirled round and round, slim and light, looking in 
 her chiffon and diamonds a creature of mist and dew, her 
 thoughts were with none of her partners. They were out 
 in the garden with the big, masterful man who was so dif- 
 ferent from all others of his sex who had come into her life. 
 
 By midnight the gaieties were over. Pansy went up to 
 her room. But she did not go to bed. Dismissing her maid, 
 she went out on the balcony, and stood there watching the 
 sea, as she had watched it barely a week before, when Le 
 Breton had come into her life. 
 
 The world was as white and peaceful as then; the sea 
 a stretch of murmurous silver; the garden vaguely "sighing ; 
 the little, moist, cool puffs of wind ladened with the scent 
 of roses and the fragrance of foreign flowers. 
 
 As she watched the scene, an overpowering desire to go 
 and see if Le Breton were still there seized her; a desire 
 that rapidly became an obsession. 
 
 Of course he would not stay from nine o'clock until after 
 midnight ! 
 
 For all that Pansy felt she must go. That she must 
 linger for a moment in the spot where he had lingered. 
 
 She turned quickly into her room; then out into the 
 corridor; down the stairs and on towards a door that led 
 out into the grounds. 
 
 Once there, the moonlight drew her on towards the 
 fountain. 
 
 102
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAKA 103 
 
 On reaching the trysting-place there was no sign of any- 
 body there. 
 
 With a feeling of intense disappointment Pansy turned 
 towards the sea-wall, and stood there with the soft light 
 shimmering on her, her face wistful as she watched the 
 molten sea. 
 
 Now that she had come, to find Le Breton gone hurt her. 
 
 If he really liked her, he would have stayed all night on 
 the chance of her coming. She would, if she were really 
 fond of anybody. 
 
 A tear came and sparkled on her long, dark lashes. 
 
 He could not love her very much, or he would not have 
 left. 
 
 A slight movement in the shadows behind made her face 
 round quickly, her heart giving a sudden bound. 
 
 "Well, Pansy," the voice she knew so well said in a caress- 
 ing tone. 
 
 She laughed tremulously. 
 
 "I thought you'd gone hours ago," she said. 
 
 Le Breton came to her side, a mocking look in his dark, 
 smouldering eyes as he watched her. 
 
 "There are two things a man will always wait for if they 
 cut deeply enough," he replied. "Love and revenge." 
 
 "How dramatic you sound! Which has kept you on the 
 prowl to-night?" she asked lightly, edging away from him. 
 
 But his arm went round her quickly, and she was drawn 
 back to his side. 
 
 "No, my little girl, not this time," he whispered. 
 
 She tried to free herself from his embrace. 
 
 "I didn't mean to come. I really didn't," she said 
 breathlessly. 
 
 He laughed in a tender, masterful fashion. 
 
 "Possibly not, but since you're here I intend that you 
 shall stay." 
 
 "No, no," she said quickly. "Let me go." 
 
 Pansy struggled after a liberty that she saw rapidly
 
 104= A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 vanishing. But he just held her, firmly, strongly, watching 
 her with an amused air. 
 
 "I shall spoil my dress if I have to wrestle with you like 
 this," she panted presently. 
 
 "Don't wrestle then," he said coolly. "Stay where you 
 are, little moonbeam, and no harm will come to the dress." 
 
 It was fatal to be in his arms again. She stopped strug- 
 gling and stayed passive within his embrace. 
 
 With easy strength Le Breton lifted her. Going to a 
 bench, he sat down with her on his knee. 
 
 "Why did you run away from me the other night?" he 
 asked. 
 
 A slim finger played rather nervously with a black pearl 
 stud in the front of his dress shirt. 
 
 "I don't know," she said, her eyes avoiding his. 
 
 Then she laughed. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do," she went on. "Because I couldn't do 
 as I liked if I stayed with you." 
 
 "I could never be a hard taskmaster. Not with you," 
 he said softly. 
 
 "Are you with some people?" she asked. 
 
 Le Breton thought of the desert kingdom he ruled alone, 
 and he laughed. Then he kissed the little mouth so tempt- 
 ingly close to his own ; a long, passionate caress that seemed 
 to take all strength from the girl. Her head fell on his 
 shoulder, and she lay limp within his arms, watching him 
 in a vague, dreamy manner. 
 
 For a time there was silence. Le Breton sat with her 
 pressed against his heart, as if to have her there were all- 
 sufficient. 
 
 "I feel like Jonah," Pansy said presently. "All swal- 
 lowed up. There seems to be nothing in the whole wide 
 world now but you." 
 
 With a loving hand he caressed her silky curls. 
 
 "And I, Heart's Ease, want nothing but you, henceforth 
 and forever."
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 105 
 
 Pansy snuggled closer to him. 
 
 "To think I'm sitting here on your knee," she whispered. 
 "A week ago I didn't know there was any you. And now 
 I only know your name and " 
 
 She broke off, a blush deepening the roses on her cheeks. 
 
 "And what, my darling ?" he asked tenderly. 
 
 "Put your ear quite close. It's not a matter that can be 
 shouted from the house-tops." 
 
 He bent his proud head down, close to the girl's lips. 
 
 "And that I love you," she whispered. 
 
 Then she kissed the ear the confession had been made 
 into. 
 
 "And that you will marry me," he added. 
 
 "Perhaps, some day, twenty years hence," she said airily. 
 "When I've had my fling." 
 
 Le Breton had never had to wait for any woman he 
 fancied, and he had no intention of waiting now. 
 
 "No, Pansy, you must marry me now, at once," he said 
 firmly. 
 
 "What a hustler you are, Eaoul. You must have Ameri- 
 can blood in you." 
 
 She said his name as if she loved it: on her lips it was 
 a caress. 
 
 With a touch of savagery his arms tightened round the 
 girl. Even with her in his embrace he guessed that if 
 she knew of the Sultan Casim Ammeh there would be no 
 chance for him. His dark blood would be an efficient bar- 
 rier; one she would never cross willingly. 
 
 "Say you will marry me next week, my little English 
 flower," he said in a fierce, insistent tone. 
 
 "I couldn't dream of getting married for ages and ages." 
 
 He held her closer, kissing the vivid lips that refused 
 him. 
 
 "Say next week, my darling," he whispered passionately. 
 "I shall keep you here until you say next week." 
 
 Pansy looked at him with love and teasing in her eyes.
 
 106 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "It's midnight now, or perfc*ps it's one, or even two 
 in the morning. Time flies so when I'm with you. But at 
 six o'clock the gardeners will be here with rakes and brooms, 
 and they'll scratch and sweep us out of our corner. Six 
 hours at most you can keep me, but the gardeners won't 
 let you keep me longer than that. Good-night, Eaoul, I'll go 
 to sleep in the meantime." 
 
 In a pretence of slumber Pansy closed her eyes. 
 
 With a tender smile he watched the little face that looked 
 so peacefully asleep on his shoulder. 
 
 "Wake up, my flower, and say things are to be as I wish," 
 he said presently. 
 
 One eye opened and looked at him full of love and 
 mischief. 
 
 "In ten years' time then, Eaoul. That's a great con- 
 cession." 
 
 "In a fortnight. That would seem eternity enough," he 
 replied. 
 
 "Well, five years then," Pansy answered, suddenly wide 
 awake. "I could see and do a lot in five years, if I worked 
 hard at it. Especially with the thought of you looming 
 ominously in the background/' 
 
 "In three weeks, little girl. I've been waiting for you 
 all my life." 
 
 Pansy stroked his face with a mocking, caressing hand. 
 
 "Poor boy, you don't look like a waiter." 
 
 He took the small, teasing hand into his own. 
 
 "Never mind what I look like just now," he said. "Say 
 in three weeks' time, my darling." 
 
 "Two years. Give me two years to get used to the 
 cramped idea of matrimony." 
 
 "A month. Not a day longer, Heart's Ease, unless you 
 want to drive me quite mad," he said, a note of desperate 
 entreaty in his voice. 
 
 Suddenly Pansy could not meet the eyes that watched her 
 with such Jove and passion in their smouldering depths.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 107 
 
 This big, dark man who had come into her life so strangely, 
 seemed to leave her nothing but a desire for himself. At 
 that moment she could refuse him nothing. 
 
 "In a month then, Eaoul. But it's very weak-minded of 
 me giving in to you this way." 
 
 He laughed in a tender and triumphant manner. 
 
 "My darling, I promise you'll never regret it," he said, 
 p slight catch in his strong voice. 
 
 Then he sat on, with Pansy pressed close against him. 
 And the latent searching look had gone from his eyes, as 
 if the girl lying on his heart had brought him ease and 
 peace. 
 
 And Pansy was content to stay. 
 
 Just then it was sufficient to be with him; to feel the 
 tender strength of his arms; to listen to the music of his 
 deep, caressing voice; to have his long, passionate kisses. 
 Nothing else mattered. Even liberty was forgotten.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE next morning the sun streaming into Pansy's bedroom 
 roused her. She awoke with the feeling of having indulged 
 in some delightful dream, which, like all dreams, must melt 
 with the morning. 
 
 She thought of the episode with Le Breton in the garden. 
 A gentle look lingered on her face. He was a darling, the 
 nicest man she had ever met ; the only one she had ever liked 
 enough to let kiss her; the only one in whose arms she had 
 been content to stay. But about marrying? 
 
 A frown came and rested on her white brow. 
 
 Marrying was quite another matter. In a month's time. 
 impossible. A thing not to be contemplated. 
 
 Pansy sat up suddenly, hugging her knees as she gazed 
 thoughtfully at the brilliant expanse of dancing, shimmer- 
 ing sea that sparkled at her through the open bedroom 
 window. 
 
 She, engaged to be married! She who had vowed never 
 to fall in love until forty! 
 
 It was love Pansy had wanted in the moonlit garden 
 with Le Breton's arms about her. But it was liberty she 
 wanted now, as she sat hugging her knees, amazed at her- 
 self and her own behaviour. 
 
 She had bartered her liberty for a man's arms and a few 
 kisses ! 
 
 Pansy could hardly believe herself capable of such folly. 
 
 She had been swept off her feet over her depth before 
 she knew it. 
 
 By daylight her freedom and independence were as sweet 
 to her as Le Breton's love had been by the romantic light 
 of the moon. In the sober light of morning she tried to 
 struggle back to where she had been before the hot flood 
 
 108
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 109 
 
 of love he had poured over her had made her promise more 
 than she was now prepared to fulfill. 
 
 "It's a woman's privilege to change her mind." 
 
 Pansy grasped at the old adage; but to her a promise 
 was a promise, not lightly given or lightly snatched away. 
 So she did not derive much comfort from dwelling on the 
 old saw. 
 
 She was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees and frown- 
 ing in dire perplexity when her maid came in with the early 
 morning tea. And the frown was there when the woman 
 came to say her bath was ready. 
 
 A thoughtful mood enveloped her during her dressing. 
 And out of her musing this note was born: 
 
 "MY DEAREST RAOUL, 
 
 I can call you that because you are dearer to me than any 
 one on this earth, dearest beyond all things except my liberty. 
 Do not be horrid and cross when I say I cannot marry you, in 
 spite of all I promised last night. Not for ten years at least. 
 And even then I cannot bind myself in any way, for I might be 
 still hankering after freedom. I do love you really, more than 
 anything in the whole wide world except my independence. 
 
 You must not be too hard on me, Raoul. I am not quite the 
 same as other women. It is not every girl of twenty who is her 
 own mistress, with 60,000 a year to do what she likes with. 
 It has made life seem so vast, matrimony such a cramped, every- 
 day affair. And I do not want to handicap myself in any way. 
 
 This letter sounds awfully selfish, I know. I am not selfish 
 really. Only I love my liberty. It is the one thing that is dearer 
 to me than you. 
 
 Always your loving 
 PANSY." 
 
 When the letter was written, Pansy suddenly remembered 
 she did not know his address. 
 
 Once satisfied that he was disinterested, she had bothered 
 about nothing else. And after that one day spent among 
 the red roses he had become something quite apart from the 
 rest of the world, not to be gossiped about to mere people. 
 
 However, she knew that twenty pesetas given to the hall- 
 porter would ensure the noie reaching its destination. The
 
 110 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 hotel staff would know where he was staying, even if she 
 did not. 
 
 Because the note was to Le Breton, Pansy took it down 
 herself and gave it to the hall-porter. When this was done 
 she wandered as far as the spot where she had made her fleet- 
 ing vows, to see how it looked by daylight. 
 
 She lingered there for some minutes, and then returned 
 to her suite. 
 
 In the interval a message had come from Le Breton. 
 
 It stood on one of the little tables of her sitting-room a 
 huge gilded wicker basket full of half -blown, red roses. In 
 the midst of the flowers a packet reposed, tied with red 
 ribbon. 
 
 Pansy opened the package. 
 
 Inside was the gold casket she had once refused. It was 
 filled with purple pansies, still wet with dew. On them a 
 ring reposed, with one huge sapphire, deeply blue as her own 
 eyes. 
 
 There was a note in with the flowers, written in a strong 
 masculine hand. 
 
 With a flutter about her heart, Pansy picked it out and 
 read it: 
 
 "HEART'S EASE, MY OWN DEAB LITTLE GIRL, 
 
 This little gift comes to you with all my love, my heart, 
 my soul, my very life indeed, given forever into your keeping. 
 
 A week ago, if anyone had. told me I should write such words 
 to a woman, I should have laughed at them. Until meeting 
 you I did not know what love was. I had no idea one woman 
 could be so satisfying. In you I have found the heaven I have 
 been searching for all my life. My one houri, and she all- 
 sufficing my little English flower, so sweet and winsome, so 
 kind and wayward, so teasing and yet so tender, who has 
 brought a new fragrance into my life, a peace my soul has never 
 known till now, a love and gratitude into my heart that will 
 keep me hers for ever. 
 
 Your devoted lover now and through all eternity. 
 
 RAOUL LE BRETON." 
 
 As Pansy read the note her lips trembled.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 111 
 
 She wished she had never tasted of the sweets of liberty 
 and independence; that the grand-godfather had not left her 
 his millions. She wished she was Pansy Barclay again, a 
 mere girl, not one with enormous riches luring her towards 
 all sorts of goals where love was not. Just Pansy Barclay, 
 who could have met his love with kisses and not a cruel 
 counter note.
 
 OHAPTEE XV 
 
 CONSIDERING it was nearly two in the morning before Le 
 Breton would let Pansy out of his arms, he did not expect 
 her to be out and about at six o'clock for her usual ride. 
 Nevertheless, he looked in at the hotel at that hour and then 
 rode on, indulging in blissful daydreams. 
 
 He knew Pansy had no idea who he really was. He was 
 prepared to marry her according to her creed, for her sake to 
 put aside the fierce profligate religion the late Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh had instilled into him. 
 
 And he was prepared to do very much more than this. 
 
 In spite of his colossal pride in his sultanship and his 
 desert kingdom, he knew that if Pansy got an inkling of that 
 side of his life his case would be hopeless. His one idea 
 was to keep all knowledge of the supposed Arab strain in 
 him from her. The sultanship could go, his kingdom be but 
 a source of income. He would buy a house in Paris. They 
 would settle down there, and he would become wholly the 
 European she imagined him to be. 
 
 Full of a future that held nothing but the English girl to 
 whom; he was betrothed, and a desire to keep from her all 
 knowledge of his dark, savage heritage, at least until it would 
 be too late for her to draw back, Le Breton rode on, rejoic- 
 ing in the early morning freshness that reminded him of the 
 girl he loved. 
 
 On returning to the villa he interviewed the head gardener. 
 Then he went to the library to write a note and tie up the 
 package he was sending to Pansy; and from there down to 
 breakfast, a solitary meal with no companion save a few 
 purple pansies smiling at him from a crystal vase. 
 
 As he sat at his light repast one of his Arab servants en- 
 tered with a note on a beaten-gold salver. 
 
 112
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 113 
 
 Le Breton took it. 
 
 On the envelope was just his name, written in a pretty, 
 girlish hand. Although he had never seen Pansy's writing 
 before, he guessed it was hers. A tender smile hovered about 
 his hard mouth as he opened it. 
 
 What had she to say to him, this slim, winsome girl, who 
 held his fierce heart in her small white hands ? Some fond 
 reply, no doubt, in return for his gifts and flowers. Thanks 
 and words of love that she could not keep until he went 
 round to see her. 
 
 There were many things Le Breton expected of Pansy, 
 but certainly not the news the note contained. 
 
 He read it through, unable to believe what he saw written 
 before him. And as he read his face lost all its tender, 
 caressing look and took on, instead, a savage, incredulous 
 expression. 
 
 Women had always come to him easily, as easily as Pansy 
 herself had come. But they had not withdrawn themselves 
 again : he had done the withdrawing. 
 
 For some moments he just stared at the note. 
 
 He, flouted and scorned and played with by a girl! He, 
 to whom all women were but toys! He, the Sultan of El- 
 Ammeh! 
 
 Le Breton was like one plunged suddenly into an icy cold., 
 bath. 
 
 The unexpectedness of it all left him numb. Then a 
 surge of hot rage went through him, finally leaving him cold, 
 collected, and furious. 
 
 She had dared to scorn him, this English girl! Dared 
 to hurl his love and protestations back into his teeth. Pro- 
 testations such as he had made to no other woman. 
 
 It was the greatest shock and surprise Le Breton had had 
 during the course of his wild life of unquestioned power and 
 limitless money. 
 
 He was in no mood to see the love her note breathed. H** 
 saw only one fact that he had been cast aside.
 
 114 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 A woman had dared to act towards him as he had often 
 acted towards women. 
 
 As he brooded on the note, trying to grasp the almost in- 
 credible truth, the cruel look about his mouth deepened. 
 
 Putting the note into his pocket, he poured himself 
 another cup of coft'ee. Then he sat on, staring at the purple 
 pansies, no longer lost in dreams of love and delight, where 
 his one aim was to be all the girl imagined him to be ; but in 
 a savage reverie that had love in it, perhaps, but of quite 
 another quality than that which he had already offered. 
 
 Full of anger and injured pride as Le Breton was, it did 
 not prevent him going over to the hotel and inquiring for 
 Miss Langham. 
 
 He learnt that she was out, on board her yacht. And it 
 seemed to him that she had fled from his wrath. 
 
 But he was wrong. 
 
 Pansy had gone there knowing he would be sure to come 
 and inquire into the meaning of her note. On board her 
 yacht there was more privacy ; a privacy she wanted for 
 Le Breton's sake, not her own. Considering his fiery Latin 
 temperament, he might not take his conge in the manner of 
 her more stolid nation. There might be a scene. 
 
 She never imagined he would take her decree calmly. 
 There was an air about him as if he had never been thwarted 
 in any way. She was prepared for some unpleasant minutes 
 minutes, nevertheless, that she had no intention of shirk- 
 ing, which she knew she had brought upon herself by her 
 impetuous promises. 
 
 She was sitting alone in her own special sanctum on the 
 yacht. 
 
 It was a large saloon boudoir, music-room, and study 
 combined; white and gold and purple, like herself, with a 
 grand piano in one corner, deep chairs upholstered in yellow 
 with purple cushions, a yellow carpet and white walls and 
 ceiling. 
 
 In the midst of it she sat cool and collected, in a simple 
 white yachting suit.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 115 
 
 As Le Breton entered she rose, scanning him quickly. 
 She had never seen him so proud and aloof-looking, his face 
 so set and hard. But there was a look of suppressed suffer- 
 ing in his eyes that cut her to the quick. 
 
 Neither said a word until the door closed behind the 
 steward. 
 
 Then Le Breton crossed to the girl's side. 
 
 "What nonsense is this?" he asked in a cold, angry voice, 
 holding her note towards her. "You promised to marry 
 me, and you must carry out your promise. I'm not going to 
 be put lightly to one side in this manner." 
 
 "I haven't put you lightly to one side," she answered. 
 " I think I explained exactly how things were in my note." 
 
 "Explanations! I'm not here for explanations," he said, 
 with cold impatience; <c but to insist that you fulfill your 
 promise." 
 
 "I couldn't do that," she replied quietly. 
 
 With the air of still moving in the midst of some incredi- 
 ble truth, he stared at her. 
 
 "You've been flirting with me," he said presently, a note 
 of savagery and scorn in his voice. "You are a true English 
 demievierge. You rouse a man without the least intention 
 of satisfying him." 
 
 Pansy flushed under his contempt. She hated being 
 called "a flirt"; she was not one. She did not know why 
 she had acted as she had done the previous night. But once, 
 in his arms, she had wanted to stay. And once he had started 
 talking of love, she wanted to listen. With him she had for- 
 gotten all about her own scheme of life and her cherished 
 liberty. 
 
 She knew she had not played the game with Le Breton. 
 From the bottom of her heart she was sorry. She did not 
 blame him, but herself. 
 
 "I'm not a flirt," she said quietly. "I've never let any 
 man kiss me before. I'm very sorry for all that happened last 
 night." 
 He laughed in a harsh, grating manner.
 
 116 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "Good God, Pansy ! there are a hundred women and more 
 plotting and scheming to try and make me feel for them 
 what I feel for you. And you say you're sorry !" 
 
 He broke off, his proud face twisted with pain and chagrin. 
 
 Pansy knew his was no idle boast. An army of women 
 must lie in wait for a man of his wealth combined with good 
 looks and such powers of fascination. 
 
 "I'm only sorry you picked on me," she said, a note of 
 distress in her voice. "More sorry than I can say. You 
 know I hate giving pain." 
 
 Like one dazed, the Sultan Casim Ammeh listened to a 
 woman saying she was sorry he had favoured her as he 
 had no other of her sex To an extent he had never im- 
 agined he would favour any woman, so that he was ready to 
 change his religion, his whole mode of life, for her sake. 
 
 "But I couldn't give up my liberty," her voice was saying. 
 "I couldn't get married. And I've a perfect right to change 
 my mind." 
 
 "It's not a privilege I intend to allow you," he said in a 
 strangled voice. 
 
 "Well, it's one I intend to assert," she answered, sud- 
 denly goaded by his imperious attitude. 
 
 "You've deliberately fooled me," he said savagely. 
 
 "No, I haven't really," she replied, patient again under 
 the pain in the fierce, restless eyes watching her. "I like 
 you immensely, but not enough to marry you." 
 
 "I suppose I ought to feel flattered," he said cuttingly. 
 
 Pansy laid a hand on his sleeve with a little soothing, 
 conciliatory gesture. 
 
 "Don't be so horrid, Eaoul. Do try and see things as I 
 see them. I didn't mean to say 'yes' last night; but when 
 you held me in your arms and kissed me there was nothing 
 else I could do." 
 
 His name on her lips, her touch on his arm, broke through 
 his seethe of cold anger. 
 
 "And if I held and kissed you again, what then?" he 
 asked, suddenly melting.
 
 A SON OP THE SAHABA 117 
 
 "Here in the 'garish light of day' it wouldn't alter my 
 intention in the least/' she said. "There are so many things 
 that call me in the daytime. But last night, Kaoul, there 
 was only you." 
 
 He bent over her, dark and handsome, looking the king 
 the Sultan Casim Ammeh had made him. 
 
 "Give me the nights, Pansy," he whispered, "and the 
 days I'll leave to you." 
 
 "Oh no, I couldn't. Before so long you'd have swallowed 
 up my days too. For there's an air about you as if you 
 wouldn't be satisfied until you had the whole of me. But 
 I shall often think of last night," she went on, a touch of 
 longing in her voice. "In days to come, when we're thou- 
 sands of miles apart, in the midst of my schemes, when 
 the lights are brightest and the bands their loudest and the 
 fun at its highest, I shall stop all at once with a little pain 
 in my heart and wonder where the nice man is who kissed 
 me under the palms in the Grand Canary. And I shall say 
 to myself, 'Now, if I'd been a marrying sort, I'd have married 
 him.' And twenty years hence, when pleasure palls, I shall 
 wish I had married him; because there'll never be any man 
 I shall like half as much as I like you." 
 
 As she talked Le Breton watched her, wild schemes bud- 
 ding and blossoming in his head. 
 
 "And I? What shall I be thinking?" he asked. 
 
 "You! Oh, you'll have forgotten all about me by next 
 year Perhaps next month, even," she replied, smiling at 
 him rather sadly. "One girl is much the same to you as 
 the next, provided she's equally pretty. And you'll be think- 
 ing, *What an idiotic fuss I made over that girl I met in 
 Grand Canary. Let me see, what was her name? Violet 
 or Daisy, or some stupid flower name. Who said yes in 
 the moonlight, and no in the cool, calm light of day. 
 Good Lord! but for her sense I should be married now. 
 Married! Phew, what an escape! For if she'd roped me 
 in there'd have been no gallivanting with other women'!" 
 , Le Breton laughed.
 
 118 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "Now I'm forgiven/' she said quickly. 
 
 "Forgiven, Heart's Ease, yes. But whilst there's life in 
 me you'll never be forgotten." 
 
 He paused, looking at her speculatively. 
 
 "So far as I see, there's nothing between us except that 
 you're too fond of your own way to get married," he re- 
 marked presently. 
 
 "Yes. I suppose that's it really." 
 
 " 'If I were a king in Babylon and you were a Christian 
 slave/ " he quoted, "or, to get down to more modern times, 
 if I were a barbaric Sultan somewhere in Africa and you a 
 girl I'd fancied and caught and carried off, I'd just take you 
 into my harem and nothing more would be said." 
 
 "I should fight like a wildcat. You'd get horribly 
 scratched and bitten." 
 
 "Possibly, but I should win in the end." 
 
 Pansy's face went suddenly crimson under the glowing 
 eyes that watched her with such love and deeire in their dark 
 depths. 
 
 "I think we're talking a lot of nonsense," she remarked. 
 
 "What is it you English say? 'There's many a true word 
 spoken in jest/ " he replied with curious emphasis. 
 
 It was not jest to him. 
 
 Even as he stood talking to Pansy he was cogitating on 
 how he could best get her into his power, should persuasion 
 fail to bring her back to his arms within a week or two. 
 
 His yacht was in the harbour. She was in the habit of 
 wandering about alone. He had half a dozen Arab servants 
 with him, men who would do without question anything 
 their Sultan told them. To abduct her would be an easy 
 matter. Once she was in his power, he would take her to 
 El-Ammeh and keep her there. As his wife, if she would 
 marry him; as his slave, if she would not. 
 
 Le Breton had no desire to do any such thing except as 
 a last resource, but he had no intention of letting Pansy go. 
 
 Her voice broke into his broodings. 
 
 "Since you've been so nice about everything, I'm going
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 119 
 
 to keep you and take yon for a cruise round the island. 
 I want to have just one day alone with you, so that in years 
 to come I shall know exactly how much I've missed." 
 
 He smiled in a slightly savage manner. It amused him 
 to hear the girl talking as if he were but a pleasant incident 
 in her life, when he intended to be the biggest fact that had 
 ever been there. 
 
 "In your way of doing things, Pansy, you remind me 
 rather of myself," he remarked. "You're carrying me off, 
 willy nilly, as I might be tempted to carry you." 
 
 "It must be because we're both millionaires," she replied. 
 "Little facts of the sort are apt to make one a trifle high- 
 handed." 
 
 She touched a bell. 
 
 When a steward appeared she put Le Breton into his care. 
 Leaving the saloon, she went herself to interview the captain 
 about her plans. 
 
 She was leaning against the yacht's rail, slim and white, 
 with the breeze blowing her curls when Le Breton joined her. 
 And she smiled at him in a frank, boyish fashion, as if their 
 little difference of opinion had never been. 
 
 "What can I do to amuse you?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't need any amusing when I'm with you," he said. 
 "You're all-sufficing." 
 
 "You mustn't say things like that, Raoul," she replied; 
 "they're apt to make one's decisions wobble." 
 
 For Pansy the morning sped quickly. For Le Breton it 
 was part of the dream he had dreamt before her note had 
 come and upset his calculations, making him rearrange his 
 plans in a manner that, although it would give him a certain 
 amount of satisfaction, might not be so pleasing to the girl. 
 
 The vessel skirted the rounded island, bringing glimpses 
 of quiet bays where white houses nestled, rocky cliffs, 
 stony barrancos cut deep into the hill-side, and pine-clad 
 heights. 
 
 There was a lunch a deux, with attentive stewards hover- 
 ing in the background. Afterwards they had coffee and
 
 ISO A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 liqueurs and cigarettes on deck. An hour or so was dawdled 
 away there, then Pansy took her guest back to her own 
 special sanctum. 
 
 He went over to the piano, touching a note here and 
 there. 
 
 "Play me something," she said, for he touched the instru- 
 ment with the hand of a music lover. 
 
 "I was brought up in the backwoods/' he replied, "and 
 I never saw a piano until I was nearly nineteen. After that 
 I was too busy making money and doing what I thought 
 was enjoying myself to have time to go in for anything of 
 the sort. But I'd like to listen to you," he finished. 
 
 Willingly Pansy seated herself at the piano. Le Breton 
 likewise sat himself in a deep chair close by, and gave himself 
 up to the delight of her playing. She wandered from one 
 song to another, quick to see she had an appreciative 
 audience. 
 
 In the end she paused and glanced at him as he sat quiet, 
 all his restless look gone, as if at peace with himself and the 
 world. 
 
 "Does music 'soothe your savage breast'?" she asked. 
 
 "It could nover be savage where you're concerned, Pansy." 
 
 "You talk as if I were quite different from other people." 
 
 "So you are. The only woman I've ever loved." 
 
 "When you talk like that, the wobbling comes on," she 
 remarked. 
 
 To avoid his reply, she started playing again. 
 
 Getting to his feet, Le Breton went to the piano. Stand- 
 ing behind her, his arms encircling her, he lifted the small, 
 music-making hands from the keys, and holding them, drew 
 her back until her head rested against him. 
 
 "Pansy, suppose I consent to a six months' engagement? 
 The waiting would be purgatory; but I could do it with 
 paradise beyond." 
 
 "I'm not taking on any engagements. Not for the next 
 ten years, at least." 
 
 He laughed softly and put the slim hands back on the
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 121 
 
 piano with a lingering, careful touch, letting them pursue 
 their way. Whether she liked it or not, this lovely, wayward 
 girl would be his before many weeks had passed. 
 
 Then he returned to his chair and sat there deep in some 
 reverie, this time not planning the sort of home he would 
 make for her in Paris, but how he would have certain rooms 
 in his palace at El-Ammeh furnished for her reception. 
 
 A steward announcing tea brought him out of his medi- 
 tations. 
 
 Tea was served on deck, with the sun glinting on the blue 
 water and running in golden cascades down the hill-side. 
 
 Together they watched the sun set and saw night barely 
 shadow the world when the moon rose, filling the scene with 
 silver glory. 
 
 Its white light led them back into harbour, and in its 
 flood the two walked to the hotel together. 
 
 In the garden Le Breton paused to take leave of his 
 hostess. 
 
 "Just one kiss, Heart's Ease, for the sake of last night," 
 he whispered. 
 
 Willingly Pansy lifted her flower-like face to his. 
 
 "Just one then, Raoul, you darling, since you've been so 
 nice about everything." 
 
 As Le Breton stooped to kiss her it seemed to him that he 
 would not have to resort to force in order to get the girl. 
 Only a little patience and persuasion were needed, and he 
 would win her in her own, white, English way.
 
 CHAPTEK XVI 
 
 ALONG the deserted corridor of the big hotel Pansy was 
 hurrying. Her outing with Le Breton had made her late. 
 By the time she was dressed and ready dinner was well 
 started. She went along quickly, still thinking over the 
 events of the day. 
 
 Everything had turned out exactly as she had hoped. She 
 wanted to keep Le Breton's love, and yet not be tied in any 
 way to have him in the background to marry if, or when, 
 she felt so disposed. 
 
 In the full glare of the electric light, going down the wide 
 stairs, she entered the large patio, looking a picture. 
 
 She was wearing a dress of some yellow, gauzy material 
 that matched her hair, a garment that clung around her 
 like a sunbeam, bright and shimmering. There were gold 
 shoes on her feet, and around her neck a long chain of yellow 
 amber beads. 
 
 As she crossed the big, empty hall, making towards the 
 dining-room, a man rose from his chair the short, red- 
 faced man from whom Le Breton had rescued her a few 
 nights before. 
 
 There was an air about him as if he had been waiting 
 there to waylay her. 
 
 Pansy saw him and she swerved slightly, but beyond that 
 she gave him no attention. 
 
 However, he was not so easily avoided. 
 
 He took up his stand immediately before her, leering at 
 her in a malicious, disagreeable fashion. 
 
 "You're fond of chucking red-haired women in my teeth," 
 he said. "Go and chuck 'em at the fellow you were spooning 
 with outside just now." 
 
 Annoyed that the man should have witnessed her part-
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 123 
 
 ing with Le Breton, Pansy would have passed without a 
 word; but he dodged, and was in front of her again. 
 
 "At least, she isn't my fancy woman," he went on. "I 
 don't run a villa for her, even if I do admire her looks/' 
 
 The weight of insinuation in his voice brought the girl to 
 a halt. 
 
 "What is it? What do you want to say?" she asked 
 coldly. 
 
 "You mean to tell me you don't know Le Breton runs 
 that French actress, Lucille Lemesurier?" 
 
 Pansy did not know. Nor did she believe a word the man 
 said. 
 
 "How dare you say such things about Mr. Le Breton?" 
 she flashed. 
 
 "Hoity-toity ! How dare I indeed !" 
 
 He laughed coarsely. 
 
 "It isn't only me that's talking about it Everybody 
 knows/' he went on. 
 
 Everybody did not know. Pansy among the number. 
 
 "I don't believe a word you say," she said in an angry 
 manner. 
 
 "Don't you? All right. Trot along then, and ask the 
 manager. Ask anybody. They're all talking about it. 
 You would be, too, except that you're so conceited that you 
 never come and gossip with the crowd. Ask who is running 
 that villa for Lucille Lemesurier. and they'll tell you it's 
 that high and mighty French millionaire chap, Le Breton, 
 the same as I do." 
 
 For a moment Pansy just stared at him, horror and dis- 
 belief on her face; then she turned quickly away. She did 
 not go towards the dining-room, but towards the main en- 
 trance of the hotel. 
 
 She had never troubled to make any inquiries about Le 
 Breton. She had liked him, and that was enough. 
 
 Pansy could not believe what the man said. 
 
 For all that, she was going to the fountain-head to Le 
 Breton to hear what he had to say on the subject
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A FLOOD of light poured out from Le Breton's villa, from 
 wide-open French windows on to a moonlit lawn. Around 
 the house, palms drooped and bamboos whispered. The 
 night was laden with the scent of roses and syringa, and 
 about the fragrant shrubs fireflies glinted like showers of 
 silver sparks. 
 
 In one of the apartments opening on the lawn Le Breton 
 sat at dinner with Lucille, over a little round table, sparkling 
 with crystal and gold, where pink-shaded electric lights 
 glowed among banks of flowers. 
 
 It was a large room, lavishly furnished, with priceless rugs, 
 and furniture that might have come out of some Paris 
 museum. There were three Arab servants in attendance, 
 deft-handed, silent men, well trained, and observant, who 
 waited upon their master as if their lives held nothing but 
 his wishes and desires. 
 
 Opposite to him Lucille sat, in a white satin gown 
 that left none of her charms to the imagination, with the 
 emerald necklace flashing against her dead-white skin. 
 
 She was talking in a soft, languid voice, sometimes witty, 
 often suggestive, but never at a loss for a subject, as women 
 do talk who are paid well to interest and amuse their masters. 
 
 Le Breton did not look either particularly interested or 
 amused. In fact, he looked bored and indifferent, answer- 
 ing her in monosyllables, as if her perpetual chatter inter- 
 rupted some pleasant reverie of his own. 
 
 As he sat, intent on his own thoughts, one of the servants 
 came to his side. Stooping, he said in a deferential voice 
 in Arabic: 
 
 "There is the English lady your Highness deigned to 
 breakfast with in the orange groves of Telde." 
 
 124
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAHA 125 
 
 Le Breton started. He glanced round, his gaze following 
 the Arab's to one of the wide French windows opening on 
 the lawn. 
 
 Standing there, light and slight, a graceful, golden reed, 
 was the girl who was now all the world to him. 
 
 But Pansy was not looking in his direction, but at Lucille, 
 as if she could not believe what she saw before her. 
 
 The sight brought Le Breton quickly to his feet. 
 
 "Pansy!" he exclaimed. 
 
 His voice and action made Lucille glance towards the 
 window. 
 
 She looked at the girl standing there; then she smiled 
 lazily, a trifle maliciously. 
 
 Lucille saw before her the rival she had suspected, who 
 had changed Le Breton's lukewarm liking into cutting in- 
 difference. With the perception of her kind she realised 
 that Pansy was something quite different from herself and 
 the women Le Breton usually amused himself with. That 
 slim girl with her wide, purple eyes and vivid, flower-like 
 face was no courtesan, no toy; but a woman with a spirit 
 and a soul that could hold and draw a man, apart from her 
 physical attractions; the sort of woman, in fact, that a 
 man like Eaoul Le Breton might be tempted to marry. 
 
 At sound of his voice Pansy came into the room, her eyes 
 blazing, her breast heaving, her two hands clutching the long 
 amber chain in an effort to keep herself calm and collected. 
 
 So it was true ! He was living here with that red-haired 
 creature, this man who had come to her vowing she was 
 the only woman he had ever loved ! This man whom she 
 had kissed and whom she had allowed to kiss and fondle 
 her! 
 
 Pansy looked at Lucille in her white satin and emeralds 
 Lucille, big and voluptuous, her profession written on her 
 face. 
 
 "Who is that woman?" she demanded. 
 
 Lucille did not wait for Le Breton to answer. 
 
 One glance at him told her everything. On his face were
 
 126 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 concern, love, and annoyance; the look that comes to a 
 man's face when the girl he would make his wife and the 
 woman who is his mistress by some unfortunate circum- 
 stance chance to meet. 
 
 Her star, never particularly bright, had waned and set 
 within a week, all thanks to this slim girl in the yellow 
 dress. Any day she, Lucille, might be shipped back to 
 France, with only the emera'd necklace to soothe her sore 
 heart. 
 
 As things were she could lose nothing, and she might 
 have the pleasure of parting Le Breton from the woman he 
 really loved. The girl looked one who would countenance no 
 backslidings. 
 
 Before he could say anything she said in a languid voice : 
 
 "My name is Lucille Lemesurier. I'm an actress. At Mr. 
 Le Breton'a invitation I came here with him from Paris, to 
 stay until he tires of me or I of him. Comme vous voulez," 
 she finished, with a shrug. 
 
 For a moment Pansy just stared at the truth confronting 
 her: the truth, lazy, languid, and smiling, in white satin 
 and emeralds. 
 
 There was a little noise, hard and sharp, like a shower 
 of frozen tears rattling down on the table. The hands 
 clinging to the string of amber beads clung just a thought 
 too hard, for the necklace snapped suddenly. The beads 
 poured down like tears the tears Pansy herself was past 
 shedding. The knowledge of Le Breton's treachery and de- 
 ceit had turned her into ice. 
 
 She cast one look at him of utter contempt and scorn. 
 
 Then, silently as she had come, she turned and went from 
 the room. 
 
 She did not get far, however, before Le Breton was at 
 her side. 
 
 Ignoring him, she hurried across the moonlit lawn, her 
 only desire to escape from his presence. 
 
 "Pansy " he began. 
 
 Like a whM-vind she turned on him. With a hand that
 
 A SON OF THE SAHABA 127 
 
 shook with rage, she pointed to the open dining-room 
 window. 
 
 "Go! Go back to that red-haired creature," she said in 
 a voice that trembled with anger. "I never want to see or 
 speak to you again. Never!" 
 
 At her words Le Breton's hands clenched and his swarthy 
 face went white. 
 
 "Do you think I'm going to be dismissed in this manner?" 
 he asked in a strangled voice. 
 
 Without a further word Pansy would have hurried on; 
 but, before she knew what was happening, he had taken 
 her into his arms. 
 
 "How dare you touch me! How dare you touch me!" 
 she gasped, struggling furiously after freedom, amazed at 
 his audacity. 
 
 But he laughed and, crushing her against him, kissed her 
 fiercely. 
 
 Le Breton knew his case was hopeless. No amount of 
 persuasion would bring the girl back to his arms. He was 
 no longer a polished man of the world, but the Sultan of 
 El-Ammeh, a barbaric ruler who knew no law save his own 
 desire. 
 
 Pansy was too furious to be afraid. With all her might 
 she struggled to get away from his arms and the deluge of 
 hot, passionate kisses, not because of the danger oozing from 
 the man, but because she knew he had held and kissed that 
 other woman. 
 
 But all her struggle? were in vain. She was helpless 
 against his strength; crushed within his arms; almost 
 breathless under the force and passion of the kisses she 
 could not escape from. 
 
 "If you go on behaving in this brutal manner I shall 
 scream," she panted presently. 
 
 Her words sobered him. 
 
 The road lay not twenty yards away, and her screams 
 
 might bring a dozen people to her rescue. He remembered 
 
 < that he was in Grand Canary, where even he had to conform
 
 128 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 with rales, Dot in El-Ammeh, where none would dare 
 question his doings. 
 
 He let Pansy out of his arms. 
 
 "Look what a state you've put me in!" she flashed 
 the moment she was free, as she endeavoured to tidy her 
 torn and crumpled dress with hands that shook with anger. 
 "You're a brute. A savage. I hate you!" she finished. 
 
 But Le Breton just stood and laughed. 
 
 To-night she might go; but to-morrow ! 
 
 To-morrow she would be on his yacht, where she might 
 scream to her heart's content without a soul coming to her 
 rescue. 
 
 His laughter, fierce and fond, followed Pansy from th 
 garden.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE hotel patio was full of people just out from dinner. In 
 the midst of a crowd of acquaintances Captain Cameron 
 stood, laughing and talking with those around him. 
 
 All at once a voice at his elbow said tensely: 
 
 "Bob, I want to speak to you alone for a moment." 
 
 He turned quickly. Then he stood surveying the speaker 
 with surprise, for the girl beside him looked very different 
 from the Pansy he knew. There was an almost tortured 
 air about her. Her face was set and white; there were 
 deep, dark rings under eyes that were limpid pools of pain. 
 
 "Hello, old pal, what has happened?" he asked, with 
 concern. 
 
 Pansy did not stop to answer him. With impatient hands 
 she led him away from the crowd of listening, staring people 
 into a quiet corner. 
 
 "I'm going back to England at once. To-night! Help 
 me to get off, please/' she said. 
 
 With blank amazement Cameron stared at her. 
 
 "What's got hold of you now?" he managed to ask. 
 
 "I'm going home," she said, "at once." 
 
 "But I thought you were staying here until Sir George 
 came out?" 
 
 "Well, I've changed my mind," she snapped. "And I'm 
 going back, even if you aren't." 
 
 All Pansy wanted now was to get to the one other man 
 she loved, her father. To get to him as quickly as possible 
 with her bruised and wounded heart. 
 
 "Of course I'll come with you, old girl," Cameron said, 
 a trifle helplessly. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you in 
 the lurch. But you have a way of springing surprises on 
 people. I'll send along and tell the captain to get steam up." 
 
 129
 
 130 A SON OF THE SAHAKA 
 
 "Yes, do, Bob, please," she said gratefully. "And ask 
 Miss Grainger to see about the packing. And find out 
 where Jenkins is, and send him along to the stables. I I'm 
 past doing anything/' 
 
 Cameron scanned the girl quickly, suddenly aware that 
 something more than a whim was at the bottom of her 
 hurried departure. 
 
 "What is it, Pansy?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothing,'* she answered bravely. "But I get moods 
 when I just feel I must see my old dad." 
 
 She turned away quickly to avoid any further questions, 
 leaving Cameron staring at ner receding back.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE next morning Le Breton set about his scheme for 
 trapping Pansy. 
 
 The task appeared easy. He would get one of his men 
 to note when she left the hotel and mark which route 
 she took. There were not many roads in the place, and it 
 would not be difficult to guess where she was going. He 
 and his men would follow, and waylay and capture her at 
 some lonely spot. They would take her across the island 
 to a little port on the far side, where his yacht would be 
 waiting. Once he had her safely on board, he would start 
 i'or Africa. 
 
 As he sat at breakfast, savage and brooding, craving for 
 the girl who had flouted him, one of his servants entered. 
 
 'Well?" he asked, glaring at the man. 
 
 The Arab made a deep obeisance. 
 
 "Your Highness, the English lady has gone." 
 
 "Gone!" the Sultan repeated in an incredulous tone. 
 "Gone! Where?" 
 
 "She left the island last night, in her yacht, about two 
 hours after she was here." 
 
 Like one thunderstruck, Le Breton stared at the Arab. 
 This unexpected move of Pansy's had upset his calculations 
 altogether. 
 
 Without a word he rose from the table. There and then 
 he went over to the hotel to see the manager, his only idea 
 to find out where the girl had gone. He could not believe 
 that she had escaped him; yet the mere thought that she 
 might have done so filled him with a seething passion. 
 
 By the time he reached the hotel he had recovered him- 
 self in some degree, sufficiently to inquire in a normal tone 
 for the manager. 
 
 131
 
 132 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 He was taken to the latter^s office. 
 
 "You had an English lady staying here, a Miss Lang- 
 ham," Le Breton said the moment he was ushered in. "I 
 wanted to see her rather particularly, but I hear she has 
 left. Can you tell me where she's gone?" 
 
 On seeing who the visitor was, the manager was anxious 
 to give all possible assistance, but he knew little more about 
 Pansy than Le Breton did. 
 
 "She left rather hurriedly," he said; "and, as far as I 
 could gather, she was going back to England." 
 
 "Do you know her address there?" Le Breton asked. 
 
 "No, I don't," the manager said regretfully. "Miss 
 Langham did not talk much about herself." 
 
 This was all Le Breton was able to learn. But he knew 
 one thing that the girl his fierce heart hungered for had 
 escaped him. 
 
 That morning his black horse had a hard time, for Le 
 Breton rode like a madman in a vain endeavour to get 
 away from the whirl of wild love and thwarted hopes that 
 raged within him the Sultan Casim Ammeh for the first 
 time deprived of the woman he wanted; wanted as he had 
 never wanted any other. 
 
 He went to the rose-wreathed summer-house where Pansy 
 had been pleased to linger with him; to the orange groves 
 at Telde where they had breakfasted together. Night found 
 him in the hotel gardens, near the fountain where they had 
 met and plighted their troth. 
 
 His hands clenched at the thought of all she had promised 
 there. Phantom-like, she haunted him. Her ghost was in 
 his arms, kissing and teasing him, a recollection that was 
 torture. The one real love of his life had proved but Dead 
 Sea fruit. 
 
 He would have given his kingdom, all his riches, to have 
 Pansy back in his arms as he had had her that night, un- 
 resisting, watching him with eyes full of love, wanting him 
 as much as he had wanted her. The one woman who had 
 ever scorned him!
 
 CHAPTEE XX 
 
 IN his study Sir George Barclay sat alone. Sixteen years 
 had passed since, in far-away Gambia, he had had to 
 condemn to death the marauding Arab chief. In a few 
 weeks' time he would be returning to the country, not in 
 any minor capacity, but as its Governor. 
 
 Although his thoughts just then were in Gambia, the 
 incident of the shooting of the Sultan Casirn Ammeh had 
 long since gone from his mind. And he never gave a thought 
 nowadays to the boy who, unavailingly, had come to the 
 Arab chief's rescue. But he still carried the mark of the 
 youngster's sword upon his cheek. 
 
 The passing years had changed Barclay very little. 
 His hair was grey, his face thinner, and a studious look 
 now lurked in the grey eyes where tragedy had once been. 
 For, in his profession, Barclay had found some of the for- 
 getfulness he had set out in search of. 
 
 As he sat at his desk the door opened suddenly. The 
 manner of opening told him that the daughter he imagined 
 to be a thousand or more miles away was home again. 
 For no one, save this cherished legacy from his lost love, 
 would enter his study with such lack of ceremony. 
 
 He looked round quickly, as a slim girl in ermine and 
 purple velvet entered. 
 
 "Why, Pansy, my darling, I thougnt you were in Grand 
 Canary," he said, rising quickly to greet her. 
 
 "So I was, father, five davs ago. And then . . . and 
 then !" 
 
 She paused, and laughing in a rather forced manner, 
 kissed him affectionately. 
 
 "Father, will you take me out to Gambia with you ?" she 
 finished. 
 
 133
 
 134 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 There was very little George Barclay ever refused his 
 daughter. On this occasion, he did make some sort of 
 stand. 
 
 "Gambia is no place for you, my darling. There's 
 nothing there to amuse and interest a young girl." 
 
 "Perhaps not," Pansy said as she took off her hat and 
 gloves, watching him with a rather set smile. "But I 
 don't care where I go so long as I can be with you and get 
 away from myself." 
 
 Her words made Barclay look at her sharply. 
 
 To want to get away from one's self was a feeling he 
 could understand and sympathise with, only too well. 
 But to hear such a sentiment on his daughter's lips sur- 
 prised and hurt him. 
 
 "My little girl, what has happened?" he asked gently. 
 
 Pansy laughed again, but there was a sharp catch of 
 pain in her mirth. 
 
 "I think my heart is broken, that's all," she said with 
 a would-be casual air. 
 
 Barclay did not wait to hear any more at that moment. 
 He drew her down on to a couch and sat there with 
 his arm about her. 
 
 "My poor little girl," he whispered. "Tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 Pansy laid her head on his shoulder, and smiled at him 
 with lips that trembled woefully. 
 
 "It's nobody's fault but my own, Daddy," she said. 
 "I brought it on myself with my silly, impetuous ways. 
 And it serves me right for hankering after strange men, 
 and not being content with my old father." 
 
 For all her light talk Barclay knew something serious 
 had happened. To him his daughter was but a new edition 
 of a well-read book ; the girl was her mother over again. 
 
 There was a brief pause as Sir George sat watching his 
 child, stroking her curls with a thin, affectionate hand, 
 wondering what tragedy had come into this bright, young life. 
 
 "Hearts are silly things, aren't they?" Pansy said
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 135 
 
 suddenly. "Soft, flabby, squashy sort of things that get 
 hurt easily if you don't keep a sharp eye on them. And 
 I'd so many things to keep an eye on that I forgot all 
 about mine. Hearts ought not to be left without protec- 
 tion. They should have iron rails put round them to keep 
 all trespassers off, like the rails we put round the trees 
 in the park to keep the cattle from "hurting them/' 
 
 There was a further pause, and a little sniff. Then 
 Pansy said: 
 
 "Father, lend me your handkerchief, I know it's a nice 
 big one. I believe I'm going to cry. For the first time 
 since it happened. It must be seeing you again. And I 
 shall cry a lot on your coat, and perhaps spoil it. But, 
 since it's me, I know you won't mind." 
 
 Sir George drew out a handkerchief. 
 
 "I was walking along in heaven with my Head up and 
 my nose in the air," the sweet, hurt voice explained, 
 "blissfully happy because he was there. There was a hole 
 in the floor of heaven and I never saw it. And I fell right 
 through, crash, bang, right down to earth again. A rotten 
 old earth with all the fun gone out of it. And I'm awfully 
 sore and bruised, and the shock has injured my heart. 
 It has never been the same since and will never be the same 
 again, because . . . because, I did love him, awfully." 
 
 As she talked Sir George watched her with affection 
 and concern, his heart aching for this slim, beautiful 
 daughter of his, to whom love had come as a tragedy. 
 
 "Oh, Daddy," she said, tears choking her voice, "why 
 is life so hard?" 
 
 Then the storm broke. 
 
 Sir George listened to her sobs, as with a gentle hand he 
 stroked the golden curls. All the time he wondered 
 who was responsible for her tears, who had broken the heart 
 of his cherished daughter. 
 
 He went over the multitude of men she knew. But he 
 never gave one thought to the savage boy who, sixteen 
 'years before, had scarred his face the Sultan Casim Ammeh.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IN a fashionable London hotel a little party of three sat 
 at dinner. The dining-room was a large place, full of well- 
 dressed people. It was bright with electric light, and under 
 a cover of greenery a band played not too loudly. 
 
 Among the crowd of diners none seemed better known 
 than the girl with the short, golden curls who sat with the 
 thin, studious-looking man and the fresh-faced, fair-haired 
 boy. Very often lorgnettes were turned in her direction; 
 for, when in town, no girl was more sought after than 
 Pansy Langham. 
 
 As Pansy sat with her father and Captain Cameron a 
 man who had been sitting at the far end of the room came 
 to their table, greeting all three with the air of an old 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Afterwards he turned to Cameron. 
 
 "Well, and how's tennis? Are you still champion in 
 your own little way?" he asked. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, Dennis," Cameron answered, 
 "in Grand Canary one man gave me a thorough licking. 
 And he was a rank outsider too !" 
 
 "How pleased you must have felt. Who was your 
 executioner ?" 
 
 "A man of the name of Le Breton. A French million- 
 aire." 
 
 Dennis laughed in a disparaging manner. 
 
 "French he calls himself, does he? That's like his 
 cheek. I met him once in Paris, a haughty sort of customer 
 who thinks the whole world is run for him. He's a half- 
 breed really, for all his money and his high-handed ways.'* 
 
 The conversation had taken a turn that held a fearsome 
 
 136
 
 A SON OF 1HE SAHARA 137 
 
 interest for Pansy. But to hear Raoul Le Breton described 
 as a half-breed was a shock and surprise to her. 
 
 "Mr. Le Breton a half-caste !" she exclaimed. 
 
 Dennis glanced at her. 
 
 "Where did you drop across him?" he asked sharply. 
 
 "In Grand Canary also." 
 
 "Well, the less you have to do with 'sich' the better," 
 he said in a brotherly way. "He's a hot lot. The very 
 devil. No sort of a pal for a girl like you." 
 
 "I thought he was French," Pansy said in a strained 
 voice. 
 
 "He poses as such, but he isn't. He's a nigger cross, 
 French-Arab. And what's more he's a Mohammedan." 
 
 "You're a trifle sweeping, Dennis," Sir George inter- 
 posed. "If you'd dealt with coloured people as much 
 as I have, you'd know there was a great difference between 
 a nigger and an Arab. An Arab in his own way is a gentle- 
 man. And his religion has a great resemblance to our own. 
 He is not a naked devil-worshipper like the negro." 
 
 Pansy welcomed her father's intervention. At that 
 moment her world was crashing into even greater ruins 
 around her. 
 
 Eaoul Le Breton a half-caste! The man she loved 
 "a nigger" ! 
 
 Pansy did not hide from herself the fact that she still 
 loved Le Breton, but this last piece of news about him 
 put him quite beyond the pale. 
 
 Also it put a new light on the affair of Lucille Leme- 
 surier. 
 
 He was of a different race, a different religion, a different 
 colour, with a wholly different outlook. 
 
 After the first gust of temper was over, Pansy had wanted 
 to find some excuse for Le Breton over the affair of the 
 French actress. 
 
 It is easy to find excuses for a person when one is anxious 
 to find them. And now it seemed she had one.
 
 138 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 He was a Mohammedan. His religion allowed him four 
 wives, and as many other women as he pleased. No wonder 
 he had been angry at the fuss she had made over Lucille 
 Lemesurier! According to his code he had done no wrong. 
 
 Now Pansy wanted to apologise for her rudeness in 
 invading his villa; for her temper, and the scene that 
 followed. 
 
 The fault was all hers. She ought to have found out more 
 about him before letting things go so far. She had liked 
 him, and she had troubled about nothing else. 
 
 She ought never to have encouraged him. For Avhen 
 they had breakfasted together that morning among the 
 red roses, she knew he was in love with her. 
 
 "There are lots of things about myself I haven't told 
 
 you." 
 
 Le Breton's remark came back to her mind. 
 
 No wonder he had wanted to marry her at once ! Before 
 she found out anything about him. 
 
 Pansy tried to feel angry with her erstwhile lover. But, 
 phantom-like, the strength of his arms was around her, 
 his handsome, sunburnt face was close to her own, his voice 
 was whispering words of love and longing, his lips on hers 
 in those passionate kisses that made her forget everything 
 "but himself. 
 
 Her eyes went round the room, a brave, tortured look 
 in them. 
 
 Were there other women there, suffering as she was suffer- 
 ing? Suffering, and who yet had to go on smiling? The 
 world demanded her smiles, and it should have them, 
 although her heart was bleeding at the tragedy of her own 
 making. 
 
 Not only her heart, but Raoul's. Because she had en- 
 couraged him. 
 
 She must not blame him. For the odds were all against 
 him. She must try and see things from his point of view- 
 the point of view of a polygamist.
 
 A SOX OF THE SAHAKA 139 
 
 That night when Pansy got back home, she wrote the 
 following note: 
 
 "DEAB MB. LE BRETON, 
 
 I owe you an a.pology. Only to-night I have learnt that 
 you are of another race, another religion than mine. It makes 
 things look quite different. You see things from the point of 
 view of your race, I, of mine. I am sorry I did not know ail 
 this sooner; I should have acted very differently. I should not 
 have come to your villa that night and made a stupid fuss, for 
 one thing. About such matters men of your race and religion are 
 quite different from men of my own. I am sorry for all that 
 occurred. For my own bad temper and the annoyance I must 
 have caused you. But I did not know anything about you then. 
 
 Yours regretfully, 
 
 PANSY LANGHAM. 
 
 P.S. I shall be calling at Grand Canary in about ten days' 
 time with my father, Sir George Barclay. I am going out to 
 Africa with him. If you care to come on board during the even- 
 ing I should like to see you and say how sorry I am. 
 
 P. L."
 
 CHAPTEE XXII 
 
 ONE day when Le Breton returned from one of the mad 
 rides he frequently indulged in, in a vain effort to assuage 
 the pain and chagrin that raged within him, he found among 
 a pile of letters put aside for his inspection, one with an 
 English stamp. 
 
 Letters from that country rarely came his way. But 
 it was not the novelty that attracted him, making him pick 
 it out from the others, but the writing. 
 
 He had seen it once before, on a note that had turned 
 his heaven into hell, when for the first time he had learnt 
 what it was to be rejected by a woman. 
 
 He tore the envelope open, eager for the contents. 
 
 What had the girl to say to him? Why had she 
 written ? 
 
 With a wild throb of hope, he drew out the message. 
 
 Once he had called Pansy <a little creature of rare sur- 
 prises. But none equalled the surprise in store for him 
 now. 
 
 It was not the apologies in the note he saw; nor a girl's 
 desire to try and see things from his point of view; nor 
 the fact that, despite everything, she was unable to break 
 away from him. 
 
 He saw only one thing. 
 
 She was Sir George Barclay's daughter! The girl he 
 loved to distraction was the child of his father's murderer! 
 
 Astounded he stared at the note. He could not believe 
 it. Yet it was there, written in Pansy's own hand. 
 
 "With my father, Sir George Barclay." 
 
 Pansy, the child of the man he hated! That brave, 
 kind, slim, teasing girl, who for one brief week had filled 
 
 140
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 141 
 
 him with a happiness and love and contentment such as he 
 had once deemed impossible. 
 
 As he brooded on the note a variety of emotions raged 
 within him. 
 
 A vengeance that had rankled for sixteen years fought 
 with a love that had grown up in a week. 
 
 Then he pulled himself together, as if amazed at his own 
 indecision. 
 
 He took the note, with its pathos and pleading; a girl's 
 endeavour to meet the view of the man she loved, whose 
 outlook was quite beyond her. Deliberately he tore it 
 across and across, into shreds, slowly and with a cruel 
 look on his face, as if it were something alive that he was 
 torturing, and that gave him pleasure to torture. 
 
 For Le Breton had decided what his course was to be. 
 The vengeance he had promised long years ago should be 
 carried out, with slight alterations. He had a way now of 
 torturing Sir George Barclay that would be punishment 
 beyond any death. And Pansy was the tool he intended 
 to use. What was more, she was to pay the penalty of her 
 father's crime. For he would mete out to her the measure 
 he had promised sixteen years ago. 
 
 However, this decision did not prevent Le Breton from 
 going to Pansy's yacht the evening of its arrival in Grand 
 Canary. 
 
 After dinner he made his way along the quay towards 
 the white vessel with its flare of light that stood out 
 against the dark night. 
 
 Evidently he was expected. On inquiring for Miss Lang- 
 ham, he was shown into the cabin where he had had his 
 previous interview with her ; and with the feeling that things 
 would go his way, if he had but a little patience: a virtue 
 he had never been called upon to exercise where a woman 
 was concerned. 
 
 Le Breton's feelings as he stayed on in the pretty cabin 
 would be difficult to describe. Everything was redolent
 
 142 A SON OP THE SAHAEA 
 
 of the girl, touching his heart with fairy fingers; a heart 
 he had hardened against her. 
 
 But, as he waited there, he despised himself for even 
 having momentarily contemplated letting a woman come 
 between him and his cherished vengeance. 
 
 Once in Africa Sir George Barclay would prove an easy 
 and unsuspecting prey. According to custom, the Governor 
 should tour his province. That tour would bring him 
 within six hundred miles of Le Breton's desert kingdom. 
 The latter intended to keep himself well posted in his 
 enemy's movements. And he knew exactly the spot where 
 he would wait for the Governor and his suite the spot 
 where sixteen years before the Sultan Casim Ammeh had 
 been shot. 
 
 He, Le Breton, would wait near there with a troop of 
 his Arab soldiers. Unsuspecting, the Governor would walk 
 into the trap. The whole party would be captured with a 
 completeness and unexpectedness that would leave no 
 trace of what had happened. With his prisoners he would 
 sweep back to the desert. 
 
 Once in El-Ammeh, the daughter should be sold as a slave 
 in the public market, to become the property of any Arab 
 or negro chief who fancied her. And her father should see 
 her sold. But he should not be killed afterwards. He should 
 live on to brood over his child's fate a torture worse than 
 any death. 
 
 "Put your ear quite close. It's not a matter that can 
 be shouted from the house-tops." 
 
 Like a sign from the sea, the echo of Pansy's 
 voice whispered in his ear, a breath from his one night in 
 heaven. 
 
 But he would not listen. Vengeance had stifled love 
 vengeance he had waited sixteen years for. 
 
 He glanced round with set, cold face. 
 
 It seemed to him no other woman could look so lovely 
 and desirable as the girl entering. 
 
 Pansy was wearing a flounced dress of some soft pink
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 143 
 
 silky material that spread around her like the petals of a 
 flower. The one great diamond sparkled on her breast a 
 dewdrop in the heart of a half -blown rose. 
 
 On seeing her Le Breton caught his breath sharply. This 
 girl the daughter of his father's murderer! This lovely 
 half-blown English rose ! What a trick Fate had played 
 him! 
 
 Then, ashamed of his momentary craving, he faced her, 
 a cruel smile on his lips. 
 
 There was a brief silence. 
 
 Pansy looked at him, thinking she had never seen him 
 so handsome, so proud, so aloof, so hard as now. He stood 
 watching her coldly with no word of welcome, no greeting 
 on his lips. 
 
 He was the first to speak. And he said none of the things 
 Pansy was expecting and was prepared for. 
 
 "Why did you tell me your name was Langham?" he 
 asked in a peremptory manner. 
 
 "It is Langham," she answered, with some surprise. 
 
 "How is it, then, that you say Sir George Barclay is 
 your father?" 
 
 "He is my father. Langham was my godfather's name, 
 my own second name. I had to take it when I inherited 
 his money. That was his one stipulation." 
 
 Another pause ensued. 
 
 There was a hurt look in Pansy's soft eyes as she watched 
 Le Breton. As he looked back at her a hungry gleam came 
 to his hard ones. 
 
 "What have you learnt about me?" he demanded 
 presently. 
 
 "That you're half Arab." 
 
 He had almost expected her to say she had discovered 
 he was the Sultan Casim Ammeh, her own and her father's 
 sworn enemy. 
 
 "Is that all?" he asked, with a savage laugh. 
 
 "It's quite enough to account for everything," Pansy 
 replied.
 
 144 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "Even for your coming into my arms and letting me kiss 
 and caress you," he said, with biting sarcasm. 
 
 Pansy flushed. 
 
 "I didn't know anything about you then. And you 
 know I didn't," she said with indignation. 
 
 "Or you wouldn't have listened to a word of love from 
 me." 
 
 Much as he tried to hate the girl, now that he was with 
 her he could not keep the word "love" off his lips. 
 
 Pansy felt she was not shining. She wanted to apologise, 
 but he seemed determined to be disagreeable. What was 
 more, she had a feeling she was dealing with quite a different 
 man from the Raoul Le Breton who had won and broken 
 her heart within a week. She put it down to her own 
 treatment of him and it made her all the more anxious 
 for an understanding. She could not bear to see him 
 looking at her in that hard, cruel way, as if she were his 
 mortal enemy someone who had injured him past all for- 
 giveness. 
 
 "It's not that I want to talk about at all," she said 
 desperately. 
 
 "What do you want to talk about, then?" he asked, 
 his cruel smile deepening. 
 
 "I want to say how sorry I am that I was angry with you 
 
 that night. But I ... I didn't know you were . . . 
 flrp " 
 
 ell C 
 
 Pansy stopped before she got deeper into the mire. 
 
 She was going to say "a coloured man," but with him 
 standing before her, her lips refused to form the words. 
 
 However, Le Breton finished the sentence for her. 
 
 " 'A nigger/ Don't spare my feelings. I've had it cast 
 up at me before by you English." 
 
 "You know I wouldn't say anything so cruel and un- 
 true." 
 
 Again there was silence. 
 
 Le Breton watched her, torturing himself with the thought 
 of what might have been.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 145 
 
 "If you'd kept your word, you'd be my wife now. The 
 wife of 'a nigger/ " he said presently. 
 
 "Don't be so cruel. I never thought you'd be like this," 
 she cried, her voice full of pain. 
 
 "And I never thought you would break your word." 
 
 "In any case, I couldn't have married you, considering 
 you're a Mohammedan," she said, goaded out of all patience 
 by his unfriendly attitude. 
 
 "Eeligion is nothing to me nowadays. I was quite pre- 
 pared to change to yours." 
 
 "You couldn't have done that. There would be your 
 . . . your wives to consider," 
 
 "I have no wife by my religion or yours." 
 
 "But that woman at your villa, wasn't she " Pansy 
 
 began. 
 
 "I've half a dozen women in one of my houses; but 
 none of them are my wives. You're the only woman I've 
 ever asked for in marriage. You!" 
 
 He laughed in a cruel, hard way, as if at some devil's joke. 
 
 Pansy's hand went to her head a weary, hopeless gesture. 
 
 He was beyond her comprehension, this man who calmly 
 confessed to having a half a dozen women in one of his 
 houses, to a woman he would have made his wife. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she eaid in a dreary tone, "but I can't under- 
 stand you. I'd no idea there were men who seemed just like 
 other men and yet behaved in this . . . this extraordinary 
 fashion." 
 
 "I'm not aware that my behaviour is extraordinary. 
 Every man in my country has a harem if he can afford it." 
 
 Deliberately he put these facts before the girl in his desire 
 to hurt and hate her as he hated her father. But the look 
 of suffering on her face hurt him as much as he was hurting 
 her. And he hated himself more than he hated her, because 
 uprooting the love he had for her out of his heart was 
 proving such a difficult task. 
 
 "It's a harem, is it?" Pansy said distastefully. "N"ow I'm 
 beginning to understand. But I don't want to hear any-
 
 146 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 thing more about it. I see now it was a mistake my asking 
 you here. But I wanted you to know to know " 
 
 She floundered and stopped and started again, anxious to 
 be fair with him in spite of everything. 
 
 "I wanted you to understand that the fact of your religion 
 and race made your behaviour seem quite different from 
 what it would have been were you a ... a European. I 
 want you to see that I know you have your point of view, 
 that I can't in all fairness blame you for doing what is not 
 wrong according to your standpoint, even if it is according 
 to mine." 
 
 With his cold, cruel smile deepening, he watched her 
 floundering after excuses for him, endeavouring to see his 
 point of view, to be just and fair. 
 
 "You're very magnanimous," he said, with biting 
 scorn. 
 
 "And you are very unkind," she flashed, suddenly out of 
 patience. "You're making everything as hard for me as you 
 possibly can. You're doing it deliberately ; and you look as 
 if you enjoyed hurting me. I never thought you'd be like 
 this, Eaoul. I would have liked to part as friends since 
 . . . since anything else is impossible." 
 
 His name on her lips made a spasm cross Le Breton's face. 
 
 As he stood there fighting against himself he knew he 
 was still madly in love with the girl he was determined to 
 hate, and he despised himself for his own weakness. 
 
 Pansy watched him, a look of suppressed suffering shadow- 
 ing her eyes. 
 
 She would have given all she possessed her cherished 
 freedom, her vast riches, her life to have had him as she 
 once thought him, a man of her own colour, not with this 
 dreadful black barrier between them; a tragedy so ghastly 
 that the fact of Lucille Lemesurier now seemed a laughing 
 matter. He was lost to her for ever. No amount of love 
 or understanding could pull down that barrier. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm sorry 
 we ever dropped across one another."
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 147 
 
 Le Breton made no reply. Cold and unsmiling, he 
 watched her. 
 
 There was a brief silence. 
 
 Outside, the sea sobbed and splashed like tears against 
 the vessel's side. But all the tears in the world could not 
 wash the black stain from him. 
 
 As they stood looking at one another, a verse came and 
 sang like a dirge in Pansy's head : 
 
 What are we waiting for? Oh, my heart, 
 Kisa me straight on the brow and part: 
 Again! Again, my heart, my heart 
 What are we waiting for, you and I? 
 A pleading look a stifled cry 
 Good-bye for ever. Good-bye, good-bye. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said again. 
 
 Then he smiled his cold, cruel smile. 
 
 "No, Pansy. I say au revoir." 
 
 Ignoring her outstretched hand, he bowed. Then, after 
 one long look at her, he turned and was gone. 
 
 As the door closed behind him Pansy blinked bacV two 
 tears. 
 
 It had hurt her horribly to see him so set and cold, with 
 that cruel look in his eyes where love once had been. 
 
 She wished that "The Sultan" had killed her that day in 
 the East End of London ; or that Raoul Le Breton had been 
 drowned that night in the sea. Anything rather than that 
 they should have met to make each other suffer.
 
 PART III
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 OVER El-Ammeh great stars flashed, like silver lamps in 
 the purple dome above the desert city. Their light gave a 
 faint, misty white tinge to the scented blueness of the harem 
 garden. There, trees sighed softly, moving vague and 
 shadow-like as a warm breeze stirred them. The walled 
 pleasance was filled with the scent of flowers, of roses, mag- 
 nolia, heliotrope, mimosa and a hundred other blossoms, for 
 night lay heavy upon the garden. 
 
 In sunken ponds the stars were mirrored, rocking gently 
 on the surface of the ruffled water. Close by one of the 
 silvered pools, a man's figure showed, big and white, in flow- 
 ing garments. Against him a slender girl leant. 
 
 Rayma's eyes rivalled the stars as she gazed up at her 
 sultan and owner. Yet in their dark depths a touch of 
 anxiety lurked. 
 
 A fortnight ago, the Sultan had returned to El-Ammeh. 
 The first week had been one of blissful happiness for the 
 Arab girl. For her master had returned more her lover than 
 ever. But, as the days went on, doubts crept into her heart, 
 vague and haunting. At times it seemed to her he was not 
 quite the same man who left her for Paris. For he had a 
 habit now that he had not had before he went away a dis- 
 concerting habit of looking at her with unseeing eyes, as if 
 his thoughts were elsewhere. 
 
 This mood was on him now. 
 
 Although the night called for nothing but love and caresses, 
 none had fallen to her lot. Although she rested against 
 him, she might not have been there for all the notice he took. 
 He appeared to have forgotten her, as he gazed in a brood- 
 ing, longing manner at the soft, velvety depths of the purple 
 sky sky as deeply, softly purple as pansies. 
 " 151
 
 152 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Eayma pressed closer to her lord and sultan, looking at 
 him with love-laden, anxious eyes. 
 
 "Beloved," she whispered softly, "are your thoughts with 
 some woman in Paris?" 
 
 With a start, his attention came back to her. In the star- 
 light he scanned her little face in a fierce, hungry, disap- 
 pointed manner. For the slight golden girl who now rested 
 upon his heart brought him none of the contentment he 
 had known when Pansy had been there. 
 
 "No, little one," he said gently. "I prefer you to all 
 the women I met in Paris." 
 
 Her slim arms went round his neck in a clinging pas- 
 sionate embrace. 
 
 "Oh, my lord," she whispered, "such words are my 
 life. At times I think you do not love me as you once did. 
 You seem not quite the same. For, often, although your 
 arms are around me, you forget that I am there !" 
 
 A bitter expression crossed his face. 
 
 He did not forget that she was there. Although he had 
 come back to the desert girl he had once loved, it was not 
 her he wanted, but the girl who had scorned and flouted 
 him, his enemy's daughter. And he tried to forget her 
 in the slim, golden arms that held him, with such desire 
 and passion. 
 
 "No, Eayma, I'm not quite the same," he said, stroking 
 the little face that watched him with such love and longing. 
 "For sixteen years and more I have waited to avenge my 
 father's death. And now " 
 
 He broke off, and laughed savagely. 
 
 "And now my father's murderer is almost within 
 my grip. Next week I start out with my men to capture 
 him." 
 
 Revenge was a sentiment the Arab girl could understand. 
 
 "Oh, my lord," she whispered, "little wonder that your 
 mind wanders from me, even though I am within your 
 arms. I wept when you went to Paris. But I would speed 
 you on this quest for vengeance."
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 153 
 
 The Sultan made no reply. 
 
 Deep down in his own heart he knew his excuse was a 
 false one. It was not vengeance that came between him 
 and Rayma but Pansy. 
 
 And now he hated the English girl, for she had robbed 
 all other women of their sweetness.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 OVEE the old fort near the river the British flag drooped 
 limply. Many years had passed since it had last hung 
 there. Nowadays, the place was not used. The country 
 was too peaceful to need forts, and the district officer lived 
 in a corrugated iron bungalow just beyond the remains 
 of the stockade. 
 
 It was getting on towards evening. The mist still rose 
 from forest and shadow valley, as it had risen sixteen years 
 before when Barclay first came to these parts. And in the 
 stunted cliffs another generation of baboons swarmed. 
 
 On the roof of the old fort Pansy stood with her father, 
 watching as she had often watched during her months in 
 Africa, the sunset that each night painted the world with 
 glory. 
 
 A golden mist draped the horizon, its edge gilded sharply 
 and clearly. Across the golden curtain swept great fan- 
 like rays of rose and green and glowing carmine, all radiating 
 from a blurred mass of orange hung on the world's edge 
 where the sun sank slowly behind the veil of gold. 
 
 The mist rolled up from the wide shallow valley, in 
 banks and tattered ribbons, rainbow tinted. And the lakes 
 that, in the dry season, marked the course of the shrunken 
 river, gleamed like jewels in the flood of light poured out 
 from the heavens. 
 
 The constant change and variety of the last few months 
 had eased Pansy's pain a little. 
 
 With her father she had toured the colony. She had 
 elept under canvas, in native huts, and iron bungalows. 
 And there were half-a-dozen officers on the governor's 
 staff, all anxious to entertain his daughter. 
 
 154
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 155 
 
 But for the nights, Pansy would have enjoyed herself 
 immensely. 
 
 "Give me the nights, Pansy, and the days I'll leave to 
 you." 
 
 Very often Eaoul Le Breton's words came back to her, 
 as she lay sleepless. It seemed that he had her nights now, 
 that man she loved yet could not marry. Often her heart 
 ached with a violence that kept her awake until the 
 morning. 
 
 Pansy tried to make her nights as short as possible. 
 She was always the last to bed and the first to rise, often 
 up and dressed before AJice her plump, pretty, mulatto 
 maid, a Mission girl Pansy had engaged for her stay in 
 Africa appeared with the early morning tea. And when- 
 ever it was possible, she was out and away on her old 
 racehorse, with some member of her father's staff. 
 
 And the day that followed was generally full of novelty 
 and interest. There were new people to see; a wild 
 country to travel through; some negro chief to interview; 
 a native village to visit. 
 
 As the journey continued, the Europeans- grew fewer. 
 Until that day, it was nearly a week since Pansy had seen 
 a white face, except those of her father's suite. 
 
 Only that afternoon the furthermost point of the tour 
 had been reached. A mile or so beyond was French terri- 
 tory. 
 
 With her father Pansy often went over the maps of the 
 district and the country that lay around it. She knew that 
 beyond the British possessions lay a sparsely populated and 
 but little known district; vast areas, scarcely explored, of 
 scrub and poor grass, that led on to the Back of Beyond, the 
 limitless expanse of the burning Sahara. 
 
 But, interested as Pansy always was in all connected 
 with her father's province, and all that lay about it, she 
 was not thinking of any of these things as she stood on the 
 roof with him, but of her old playmate, Captain Cameron. 
 
 The Governor, his staff, and the district officer were
 
 156 A SON OP THE SAHAEA 
 
 going the next day to visit some rather important negro 
 chief. Pansy was to have been one of the party, but on 
 reaching their journey's end, Cameron had suddenly 
 developed a bad attack of malaria. 
 
 "I don't think I'll go to-morrow, father," she was saying. 
 "I don't like leaving Bob. I know his orderly can look 
 after him all right. But he says he feels better when I'm 
 about, so I promised to stay and hold his hand." 
 
 "Just as you like," Sir George answered. "In any case 
 the pow-pow will be very similar to a dozen others you've 
 seen. And Bob needs keeping cheerful." 
 
 "He takes it very philosophically," Pansy answered. 
 
 "It's the only way to take life," her father answered, 
 a trifle sadly. 
 
 Pansy rubbed a soft cheek against his in silent sympathy. 
 
 She loved and understood her quiet, indulgent father 
 more than ever. But the dead girl he still grieved for was 
 only a misty memory to his child. 
 
 "Yes, Daddy, I've learnt that too," she eaid. "It's 
 no use grousing about things. It's far better to laugh in 
 the teeth of Fate." 
 
 George Barclay's arm went round his daughter. 
 
 She had followed out her own precepts, this brave, 
 bright girl of his. 
 
 As she went about his camp, no one would have guessed 
 her life was a tragedy. And even he knew no more than 
 she had told him on her unexpected return from Grand 
 Canary. 
 
 She was fighting her battle alone, as he in past years 
 had fought his, in her own unselfish way, refusing to let 
 her shadows fall on those about her.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ABOUT five miles away from the old fort, deep in the forest, 
 there was a large grassy glade, an unfrequented spot. 
 
 Within it now were encamped what looked to be a large 
 party of Arab merchants. There were about a hundred 
 of them, and they had come early that morning, with horses, 
 and camels, and mules, and bales of merchandise. And 
 they outnumbered Barclay's party by nearly three to one. 
 His following were not more than forty, including thirty 
 Hausa soldiers. 
 
 Immediately on arriving in the glade, two of the Arabs, 
 with curios., had been dispatched to the English camp, 
 outwardly to sell their goods, but, in reality, as spies. 
 
 They had hardly gone, before the rest of the party put 
 aside its peaceful air. Out of their bales weapons were 
 produced; guns of the latest pattern and vicious-looking 
 knives. 
 
 In his tent the Sultan Casim Ammeh sat, in white 
 burnoose, awaiting the return of his spies. With him was 
 Edouard, his French doctor, who was watching his royal 
 master with an air of concern. 
 
 "I shall be glad when this thing is through and done 
 with," he remarked presently, his voice heavy with anxiety. 
 "And all I hope is that the English don't get hold of you. 
 There'll be short shrift for you, if you're caught meddling 
 with their officials." 
 
 "They'd shoot me, as Barclay shot my father," the 
 Sultan replied grimly. "But I'm willing to risk that in 
 order to get hold of him." 
 
 "I wish we were safely back in El-Ammeh," the doctor 
 said. 
 
 "You've never experienced either a deep love or a deep 
 
 157
 
 158 A SON OP THE SAHAEA 
 
 hate, Edouard. The surface of things has always satisfied 
 you. You're to be envied." 
 
 "Well I hope that love will never run you into the dangers 
 that this revenge of yours is likely to," Edouard replied, 
 getting up. 
 
 He went from the tent, leaving the Sultan alone, awaiting 
 the return of his spies. 
 
 It was nearly midday when they got hack to the glade. 
 At once they were taken into the royal presence. 
 
 "What have you learnt?" the Sultan demanded. 
 
 The Arabs bowed low before their ruler. 
 
 "Your Highness, the English party has broken up," 
 one replied. "The chief and his officers, with half the 
 soldiers, have gone to a village that lies about half way 
 between here and the fort. And the white lady, his 
 daughter, is left behind, with but fifteen men to guard 
 her." 
 
 As Le Breton listened, the task he had Bet himself 
 appeared even easier than he had imagined. 
 
 At the head of his men he would waylay and capture 
 the governor and his party on their return from the village. 
 When this was accomplished he would send off a contingent 
 to seize Pansy. 
 
 With this idea in view, he summoned a couple of native 
 officers into his presence. 
 
 When they appeared, he gave them various instructions 
 about the matter on hand, and, finally, his plans concerning 
 Pansy. 
 
 "No shot must be fired in the presence of the English 
 lady," he finished. "At all costs she must be captured 
 without injury." 
 
 With deference the Arab officers listened to his instruc- 
 tions, then they bowed and left the royal presence. 
 
 Not long afterwardsi the glade was practically empty 
 save for the tents and camels and mules. 
 
 At the head of his men the Sultan Casim Ammeh had gone 
 in quest of the vengeance he had waited quite sixteen 
 years for.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN the guard-house of the old fort where George Barclay 
 had once housed his wounded Arab prisoners, Captain 
 Cameron sat propped up with pillows in a camp bed. It 
 was a cool, dim, white-washed room with thick stone walls, 
 tiny windows high up near the ceiling, and a strong wooden 
 door, that was barred from the inside. 
 
 Beside him Pansy sat, pouring out the tea that his orderly 
 had just brought in, and trying to coax an appetite that 
 malaria had left capricious. 
 
 Cameron's fever had burnt itself out in twenty-four 
 hours as such fevers will, but it had left the young man 
 very weak and washed out, scarcely able to stand on his 
 legs. 
 
 As Pansy sat talking and coaxing, trying to make a sick 
 man forget his sickness, into the stillness of the drowsy 
 afternoon there came a sound that neither of them expected. 
 The thunder of horses' hoofs, like a regiment sweeping 
 towards them. 
 
 As far as Cameron knew there were no horses in the 
 district except their own, and they numbered only about 
 half a dozen, not enough to produce anything like that 
 amount of sound. 
 
 "What on earth can that be?" he asked, suddenly alert. 
 
 Almost as he spoke there was a further sound. A sound 
 of firing. Not a single shot, but a volley. It was followed 
 immediately by cries and screams, and a hubbub of native 
 voices. 
 
 Cameron had seen active service. That sound made him 
 forget all about his fever. He knew it for a surprise attack. 
 But who had attacked them, and why, he could not imagine; 
 for the district was peaceful. 
 
 159
 
 160 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Barefooted and in pyjamas, he scrambled out of bed. 
 Swaying, he fumbled under his pillow, and producing a 
 revolver, slipped it into his pocket. Then he staggered 
 across to the door, Pansy at his heels. 
 
 When they looked out, it appeared that the stockade was 
 filled with white-robed figures on horseback, lean, brown, 
 hawk-faced men whom Pansy immediately recognised for 
 Arabs. The surprised Hausa soldiers had been driven into 
 one corner of the compound, and back to back were fighting 
 valiantly against overwhelming odds. 
 
 Cameron did not wait to see any more. Already a score or 
 more of the wild horsemen were sweeping on towards the 
 old fort where the two stood. 
 
 Quick as thought he shut the guardroom, door. With 
 hands that shook with fever, he stooped and picked up one 
 of the two iron bars that held it in position. 
 
 "Lend me a hand, Pansy," he said sharply. 
 
 But Pansy did not need any telling. Already she had 
 seized the other end of the heavy bar. It was in position 
 just as the horde outside reached the guard-house. There 
 was a rattle of arms, the sound of horses being brought 
 sharply to a halt. Then orders shouted in a wild, barbaric 
 language. 
 
 There followed a shower of heavy blows upon the door. 
 
 When the second iron bar was in position, the boy and 
 the girl stood for a moment and looked at one another. 
 
 Pansy was the first to speak. 
 
 "What has happened ?" she asked. 
 
 "It looks like a desert tribe out on some marauding ex- 
 pedition," he replied in as cool a voice as he could muster. 
 "But I'm sure I don't know what they're doing down as 
 far as here." 
 
 "My father?" Pansy said quickly. 
 
 Cameron made no reply. He hoped the Governor's party 
 had not fallen foul of the marauders. But the fate of Sir 
 George and his staff was not the one that troubled him 
 QOW. All his thoughts were for the girl he loved, to keep
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 161 
 
 her from falling into the hands of that barbaric horde. 
 And fall she must, dead or alive, before 8O very long. 
 Strong as the door was, it would not be able to withstand 
 the assaults the Arabs could put upon it. 
 
 With a casual air Cameron examined his revolver, to make 
 sure that the five cartridges were complete. 
 
 Then he glanced at the girl. 
 
 She caught his eye, and smiled bravely. She had grasped 
 the situation also. 
 
 "We all have to die sooner or later," she remarked. "I 
 hope it'll be sooner in my case." 
 
 Cameron's young face grew even whiter and more drawn; 
 this time with something more than fever the thought of 
 the task before him. 
 
 "Four shots for them, Pansy, and the fifth for you," he 
 answered hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes, Bob, whatever you do, don't forget the fifth." 
 
 As they talked, thundering blows were falling on the door, 
 filling the room with constantly recurring echoes. But the 
 wood and iron withstood the assault. The noise stopped 
 suddenly. From outside, voices could be heard, evidently 
 discussing what had better be done next. 
 
 Pansy and Cameron crossed to the far side of the room, 
 and stood there side by side, their backs against the wall, 
 waiting. 
 
 When the blows came again they were different; one 
 heavy, ponderous thud that made the door creak and groan, 
 with a pause between each blow. 
 
 "They've got a battering-ram to work now, a tree trunk 
 or something," Cameron remarked. "That good old door 
 won't be able to stand the strain much longer." 
 
 Then he glanced at the girl, longing in his eyes. 
 
 "Let me give you one kiss, Pansy. A good-bye kiss," 
 he whispered. "It's years since I've kissed you. You're 
 euch a one for keeping a fellow at arm's length nowadays." 
 
 With death knocking at the door Pansy could not refuse 
 him; this nice boy she had always liked, yet never loved.
 
 162 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 She thought of the man who had feasted so freely on her 
 lips that night in the moonlit garden in Grand Canary. She 
 wanted no man's kisses but his, no man's love hut his, and 
 his race and colour barred him out from her for ever. 
 
 "Kiss me if you like, Bob, for old time's sake. But " 
 
 She broke off, listening to the noises from outside, the 
 heavy, regular thud on the iron-bound door, that had now 
 set the stone walls trembling. 
 
 "Now, I shall die a young maid instead of an old one, 
 that's all," she said suddenly. 
 
 Cameron watched her, pain on his face; this girl who 
 could face death with a courage that equalled his own. 
 
 Then he kissed her tenderly. 
 
 "Good-bye, Pansy, little pal," he said hoarsely. 
 
 Afterwards there was silence in the room. Between the 
 heavy blows flies droned. Droned as if all were well with 
 the world. As if nothing untoward were happening. 
 
 Pansy listened to them, a strained look on her face. 
 
 So they would go on droning after she was dead. 
 
 How painful the thought would once have been. But 
 the world had grown so tragic since she had met and parted 
 with Raoul Le Breton. Life had become so dreary. There 
 was a constant gnawing pain at her heart now, a pain that 
 Pansy hoped would not follow her from this world into 
 another. 
 
 There was a crash of falling timber. 
 
 The door gave way suddenly, letting in a flood of wild, 
 white-clad men. 
 
 If Cameron thought of anything beyond getting his four 
 shots home among the swarming crowd, it was to wonder 
 why they did not fire, instead of rushing towards him and 
 the girl. 
 
 But he did not give much time to the problem. 
 
 Within four seconds, four shots had been fired at the on- 
 rushing Arabs. And with ruthless joy Cameron noted that 
 four of them fell. 
 
 Then he turned his weapon on the girl beside him. Now
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 163 
 
 that her turn had come, Pansy smiled at him bravely with 
 white lips. 
 
 But, as Cameron turned, a shot grazed his hand, fired by 
 the leader of the Arabs, who appeared to have grasped what 
 the Englishman was about to do. 
 
 The bullet did not reach Pansy's brain as Cameron in- 
 tended. For the pain of his wound sent his hand slightly 
 downwards just as he pulled the trigger. 
 
 His bullet found a resting-place in her heart, it seemed. 
 With a faint gasp she fell as if dead at his feet, a red stain 
 on the front of her white dress. 
 
 This contretemps left the onrushing horde aghast. They 
 halted abruptly. In silence they stood staring at the limp 
 form of the prostrate girl, the fear of death upon their 
 swarthy faces.
 
 CHAPTER Y 
 
 IN his tent the Sultan Casim Ammeh was waiting for the 
 return of the party sent on to the old fort to capture Pansy. 
 
 So far there had been no hitch in his schemes. Sir George 
 and his staff had proved an easy prey. Already one portion 
 of his Arab following, with Barclay's officers, had set out 
 on the long journey back to El- Ammeh. 
 
 Sir George and Pansy, the Sultan had arranged to take 
 up himself, as soon as the girl was in his hands. For he 
 had no desire to linger in British territory. 
 
 But it was not the punishment England would dole out 
 to him if he were caught that filled Le Breton's mind as 
 he sat cross-legged among the cushions, with the cruel lines 
 about his mouth very much in evidence. His thoughts 
 were all with Sir George Barclay's daughter. 
 
 What desert harem would be her future home? What 
 wild chief would call that golden-haired girl his chattel? 
 
 Casim Ammeh had determined to carry out his vengeance 
 to the letter, where Pansy was concerned. To sell her in 
 the slave-market of his capital; and keep her father alive, 
 tortured by the knowledge of his daughter's fate. 
 
 What would the girl say when she saw him? When she 
 recognised him for the Sultan of El-Ammeh, the man her 
 father had wronged past all forgiveness. Would that sweet, 
 brave face go white at the knowledge of the fate before her? 
 Would she try to plead with him or herself and her father? 
 Would ! 
 
 Le Breton pulled his straying thoughts up sharply, lest 
 they should go wandering down forbidden ways ways that 
 led to where love was. 
 
 He had determined to hate Pansy; a hatred he had to 
 keep continually before him, lest he should forget it. 
 
 164
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 165 
 
 The afternoon wore on, bringing long shadows creeping 
 into the glade. And the Sultan sat waiting for the full fruit 
 of his vengeance. There might be peace in his heart once 
 the wrong done to his father was righted. Peace in the 
 restless heart that throbbed within him, that seemed always 
 searching for a life other than the one he lived; a peace he 
 had known just once or twice when a girl's slight form had 
 rested upon it. His enemy's daughter ! 
 
 The sound of approaching hoofs broke into his thoughts. 
 He knew what they were. Those of the party sent on to 
 capture Pansy. 
 
 When the cavalcade halted, his eyes went to the open flap 
 of the big tent, a savage expression in them. He could not 
 see the returned party from there; only the guards posted 
 outside of the royal quarters. 
 
 Presently a couple of men in flowing white robes came 
 into view; the two officers who had headed the expedition. 
 They were challenged by the sentries, then they passed on 
 towards the tent where their Sultan was waiting. 
 
 There was concern upon their faces, that deepened to 
 resignation and despair when the royal gaze rested upon 
 them. 
 
 "Where is the English lady?" their Sultan demanded 
 coldly. 
 
 ''Your Highness, there was a man of her colour with 
 her, and " one of the officers began. 
 
 Le Breton made an impatient gesture. 
 
 "Bring me the girl." he commanded. 
 
 The officers glanced at one another. Then one knelt be- 
 fore the Sultan. 
 
 "The instructions were carried out/' he said. "But the 
 English lady is dead." 
 
 There was a moment of tense silence. A feeling of some- 
 one fighting against an incredible truth. 
 
 Pansy dead! Impossible! 
 
 The Sultan sat as if turned into stone. The contretemps, 
 was one he had never anticipated.
 
 166 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "Dead," the echoes whispered at him mockingly through 
 the silk-draped tent. "Dead/' they sighed unto themselves 
 as if in dire pain. 
 
 And that one tragic word stripped love of its garment of 
 hate, and set it before him, alive and vital. 
 
 The tent suddenly became charged with suffering, and 
 the feeling of a fierce, proud heart breaking. 
 
 "Dead!" the Sultan repeated in a hoarse, incredulous 
 voice. "Then Allah have pity on the man who killed her, 
 for I shall have none." 
 
 "Your Highness, there was a white man with her. He 
 shot her," the kneeling officer explained. 
 
 Le Breton hardly heard him. For the first time in his 
 wild, arrogant life he felt regret; regret for a deed of his 
 own doing. The regret that is the forerunner of conscience, 
 as conscience precedes the birth of a soul the soul he had 
 once laughingly accused Pansy of trying to save. 
 
 His schemes had brought her to her death. Morally his 
 was the hand that had killed her. His hand! 
 
 The thought staggered him. 
 
 He got to his feet suddenly, reeling slightly, as if in dire 
 agony. The officer kneeling before him bowed his head 
 submissively. He expected the fate of all who bring bad 
 news to a Sultan the Sultan's sword upon his neck. 
 
 But Le Breton hardly noticed the man. He only saw 
 his own deed before him. Love had leapt out of its scabbard 
 of hate. The one fact he had tried to keep hidden from 
 himself was shouting, loud-voiced, at him. 
 
 In spite of who and what Pansy was, he still loved her, 
 madly, ragingly, hopelessly. But it had taken her death lo 
 bring the truth home to him. 
 
 "Where is the girl ?" he asked, in a stiff, harsh voice. 
 
 "We brought her so that your Highness could see we 
 spoke the truth," the officer replied. 
 
 "Let her be brought in to me then, and laid there," the 
 Sultan said, indicating a wide couch full of cushions.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 167 
 
 Glad to escape with their lives the officers hurried out to 
 do the royal bidding. 
 
 There were no cruel lines about the Sultan's mouth as 
 he waited their return, but deep gashes of pain instead. 
 
 A silent cavalcade entered the tent some minutes later: 
 as silent as the Sultan r:ho stood awaiting them; as silent 
 as the girl with the red stain on her breast and the red blood 
 on her lips. 
 
 A look from the Sultan dismissed the men. 
 
 When they had gone, he crossed to Pansy's side, and stood 
 gazing down at her. 
 
 She lay limp and white, a broken lily before him, 
 
 His enemy's daughter! This still, white, lovely girl. 
 This pearl among women, whom he had tried to hate. And 
 now ! 
 
 Pain twisted his face. 
 
 He thought of Pansy as he had last seen her, that night 
 on her yacht. 
 
 She had wanted to bring about an understanding between 
 them. She had tried to see things from his point of view. 
 She was prepared to make allowances, to find excuses for 
 him. And he had treated her with harshness; wilfully set 
 her at a disadvantage; purposely had misunderstood her; 
 deliberately had said all he could to wound her. 
 
 He had done his best to hate her. He had put vengeance 
 before love. Now he had his reward. His wild lust for 
 revenge had stilled that kind heart that had lived to do 
 its best for all. 
 
 A stifled groan came to his lips. 
 
 What a trick Fate had played upon him! 
 
 Leaning over the couch he took one of her limp, white 
 hands into his strong brown one. The little hand whose 
 touch could always soothe his restless spirit, that had once 
 teased and caressed him, opening out visions of a Paradise 
 that his own deeds had now shut out from him for ever. 
 
 The Fruit of the Tree of Vengeance is bitter. And this
 
 168 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Le Breton realized to the fullest as he gazed at the silent 
 girl. 
 
 'Tansy, don't mock me from beyond the Styx/' he 
 whispered. "For you know now that my heart is broken. 
 There's nothing but grief for me here and hereafter." 
 
 Then it seemed to the tortured man that a miracle 
 happened. 
 
 The girl's eyes opened. 
 
 For a brief second she gazed at him in a dazed, bewildered 
 manner. Then her lids dropped weakly, as if even that 
 slight effort were too much for her.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 BLUE-BLACK night surrounded the Arab encampment. 
 Here and there a red watch-fire punctuated the darkness. 
 
 Although well past midnight, a light burnt in the Sultan's 
 tent. It came from a heavy silver lamp slung from the bar 
 joining the two main supporting poles. 
 
 The light flickered on the couch where Pansy still lay, 
 limp and white among the silken cushions, her curls making 
 a halo about her pain-drawn face. She was no longer clad 
 in her muslin frock, but in a silk nightgown with her name- 
 sakes embroidered upon it. A light silk rug covered her 
 up to her waist; on it her hands lay, weak and helpless. 
 
 On discovering there was a spark of life left in his 
 prisoner, the Sultan had sent post-haste to an adjacent tent 
 for Edouard. 
 
 When the doctor arrived, Le Breton stood silent whilst 
 the patient was examined, in an agony of tortured love 
 awaiting the verdict. 
 
 "There's no hope unless I can get the bullet out/' the 
 doctor had remarked at the end of the examination. "It 
 escaped her heart by about half an inch; but it means con- 
 stant haemorrhage if it's left in the lungs." 
 
 "And if it's removed?" the Sultan asked hoarsely. 
 
 Edouard shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal 
 manner. 
 
 "It'll be touch and go, even then. But she might pull 
 through with care and attention. She's young and healthy. 
 But if she survives, she'll feel the effects of that bullet for 
 some time to come." 
 
 With that Edouard left to fetch his instruments, leaving 
 the Sultan gazing down at the result of his own mad desire 
 for vengeance a red, oozing wound on a girl's white breast 
 
 169
 
 170 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 When the doctor returned, whilst he probed after the 
 bullet Le Breton held Pansy with firm, careful strength, 
 lest, in pain, she should move and send the instrument into 
 the heart Cameron's shot had just missed. But she was 
 unconscious through it all. Although the probing brought 
 a further gush of blood, Edouard managed to locate the 
 bullet and extract it. 
 
 After the wound was dressed, and Pansy bound and 
 bandaged up, the doctor left. 
 
 With his departure the Sultan sent for Pansy's belong- 
 ings, which his soldiers had brought up as plunder from 
 the raid. 
 
 There was no woman among his following, so he sent one 
 of the guards to inquire if there was one among the captives. 
 
 Presently Pansy's mulatto maid was brought to him. 
 
 Alice was a pretty brown girl of about seventeen, clad 
 in a blue cotton slip, and she wore a yellow silk handker- 
 chief tied around her black curls. With awe she gazed 
 about the sumptuous tent ; with admiration at her handsome, 
 kingly captor. 
 
 He, however, had nothing to say to her, beyond giving 
 her instructions to serve her mistress and warning her to 
 use the utmost care. 
 
 When Alice set about her task he went from the tent to 
 interview Edouard. 
 
 Pansy^s condition had upset his plans. Even if the girl 
 recovered, she could not be moved for a week at least, no 
 matter how carefully her litter was carried. And a force 
 as large as his could not stay a week in the neighbourhood 
 without the fact becoming known. 
 
 When Le Breton returned he dismissed Alice, and he seated 
 himself by the couch and stayed there watching the uncon- 
 scious girl. 
 
 Evening shadows crept into the tent, bringing a deft- 
 handed, silent servant, who lighted the heavy silver lamp 
 and withdrew as silently as he had come. Dinner appeared ; 
 a sumptuous meal that the Sultan waved aside impatiently.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 171 
 
 Then Edouard came again, to see how the patient was far- 
 ing; to give an injection and go, after a curious glance at 
 the big, impassive figure of his patron sitting silent and 
 brooding at his captive's side. 
 
 Gradually the noises of the camp died down, until out- 
 side there was only the sough of the forest, the whisper of 
 the wind in the tree-tops, the occasional stamp of a horse's 
 hoof, the hoot of an owl in the glade, and, every now and 
 again in the distance, the mocking laugh of hyenas. Mock- 
 ing at him, it seemed to Le Breton; at a man whose own 
 doings had brought his beloved to death's door. 
 
 Within the tent there was no longer silence. Faint little 
 moans whispered through it occasionally, mingling with the 
 rustle of silken curtains and the sparking of the lamp. And 
 every now and again there were weak bouts of coughing; 
 coughs that brought an ominous red stain to Pansy's lips; 
 stains the Sultan dabbed off carefully with a handkerchief, 
 his strong hand shaking slightly, his arrogant face working 
 strangely, for he knew he was responsible for the life-blood 
 upon her lips. 
 
 Every hour Edouard came to give the injection which held 
 the soul back from the grim, bony hands of death that 
 groped after it. Once or twice Pansy's eyes opened, but they 
 closed almost instantly, as if she had not strength enough 
 to hold them open. 
 
 But before daybreak her coughs had ceased. An hour 
 passed, then two, without that ominous red stain coming 
 to her lips. Edouard nodded to himself in a satisfied way 
 as he left the tent. A little of the strained look left the 
 Sultan's face. 
 
 The haemorrhage had stopped; youth and health were 
 winning the battle. 
 
 Just as the first pink streak of dawn entered the tent 
 Pansy's eyes opened again and stayed open, purple wells 
 of pain that rested on the Sultan's with a puzzled expression. 
 
 Into the misty world of suffering and weakness in which 
 she moved it seemed to her that Raoul Lc Breton had come,
 
 172 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 looking at her as he had once looked, with love and tender- 
 ness in his glowing eyes. 
 
 She could not make out where she was or how he came 
 to be there. She had no recollection of the horde who had 
 broken into the guardroom where she and Cameron had 
 been. She was too full of suffering to give any thought 
 to the problem. Raoul Le Breton was with her, that was 
 enough. 
 
 A wan smile of recognition trembled for a moment on 
 her lips. 
 
 "Raoul," she said faintly. 
 
 It was more a sigh than a word. But his name whispered 
 so feebly brought him. kneeling beside her couch, bending 
 over her eagerly. 
 
 "My darling, forgive me," he whispered passionately. 
 
 He bent his head still lower, with infiinite tenderness 
 kissing the white lips that had breathed his name so faintly. 
 
 Pansy's eyes closed again. A look of contentment came 
 to mingle with the suffering on her face. 
 
 Outside the hyenas still laughed mockingly: derisive 
 echoes from a distance. But Le Breton did not hear them. 
 Despite his treatment of her, Pansy had smiled upon him. 
 For the first time in his wild life he felt humility and grati- 
 tude, both new sensations. 
 
 When Edouard came again he pronounced the girl sleep- 
 ing, not unconscious. 
 
 "With care and attention she'll pull through," he said. 
 
 "Thank God !" his patron exclaimed, with unfeigned relief 
 and joy. 
 
 Edouard glanced at his master speculatively. 
 
 He had heard nothing about Pansy's existence until he 
 had been hurriedly summoned to attend her, and he won- 
 dered why his friend and patron had made no mention of 
 the girl. 
 
 "You never told me Barclay had a daughter," he com- 
 mented.
 
 A SON" OF THE SAHARA 173 
 
 "I did not know myself until quite recently," the Sultan 
 replied. 
 
 "Is she to share her father's fate ?" the doctor asked drily. 
 
 Tenderly the Sultan gazed at the small white face on the 
 cushions. 
 
 "She's not my enemy," he said in a caressing tone. 
 
 With a feeling of relief, Edouard left the tent. 
 
 It was most evident that the Sultan had fallen in love with 
 his beautiful captive. If the girl played her cards well, 
 she would be able to save her father, and prevent his patron 
 doling out death to a British official, thus embroiling himself 
 still further with the English Government. 
 
 After the doctor had left, Le Breton sat on Pansy's 
 couch. Yet he had not learnt his lesson. 
 
 Although he loved the daughter, he hated the father as 
 intensely as ever. Now he was making other plans; plans 
 that would enable him to keep both love and vengeance. 
 Plans, too, that might make the girl forget his colour and 
 give him the love he now craved for so wildlj.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN one of the tents in the glade Sir George Barclay sat, an 
 Arab guard on either side of him. There was an almost 
 stupefied air about him; of a man whose world has sud- 
 denly got beyond his control. 
 
 The previous afternoon, without any warning, his party 
 had been set upon and captured; but by whom, and why, 
 he did not know. There was no rebellious chief in the 
 district; no discontent. Yet he was a prisoner in the hands 
 of some wild tribe; captured so suddenly that not one of 
 his men had escaped to take word to the next British out- 
 post and bring up a force to his assistance. 
 
 There was but one streak of consolation in his broodings 
 the knowledge that his daughter had not fallen alive into 
 the hands of the barbaric soldiery. 
 
 Some little time after he had been brought a prisoner 
 to the glade he had seen Cameron come in, white and shak- 
 ing with fever. 
 
 On seeing his chief, the young man had shouted across 
 the space : 
 
 "Thank God ! the niggers haven't got Pansy alive." 
 
 They were given no time for further conversation, for 
 one was hustled this way and one that. 
 
 As Barclay sat brooding on the fate that had overtaken 
 his party and trying to find a reason for it, someone entered 
 the tent. 
 
 In the newcomer he recognised the leader of the force 
 that had waylaid and captured him and his party. 
 
 "So, George Barclay, we meet for a second time," a deep 
 voice said savagely in French. 
 
 Barclay scanned the big man in the white burnoose who 
 stood looking at him with hatred in his dark, fiery eyes. 
 
 174
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 175 
 
 To his knowledge he had never seen him before. 
 
 "Where did we first meet?" heasked quietly. 
 
 "Sixteen years ago, when you murdered my father, the 
 Sultan Casim Ammeh." 
 
 Sir George started violently and .scanned the man anew. 
 He had a reason now for the untoward happenings. 
 
 "Do you remember all I promised for you and yours 
 that day you refused to listen to my pleadings?" the savage 
 voice asked. 
 
 Barclay remembered only too well. And as he looked at 
 the ruthless face before him he was more than ever thankful 
 for one thing. 
 
 "Thank God. my daughter is dead!" he said. 
 
 The Sultan smiled, coldly, cruelly. 
 
 "Your daughter is not dead," he replied. "She is alive; 
 just alive. And you may rest assured that she'll have every 
 care and attention." 
 
 The news left Barclay staring in a stricken manner at 
 his captor. 
 
 "My doctor assures me that she will live," the Sultan 
 went on. "And you will live, too, to see her sold as a 
 slave in the public market of my city." 
 
 Sir George said nothing. The thought of Pansy's ghastly 
 fate placed him beyond speech. At that moment he could 
 only pray that she might die.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THREE days elapsed before Pansy returned to full conscious- 
 ness, and even then the world was a very hazy place. One 
 morning she woke up, almost too weak to move, with a 
 feeling that she must have had a bad attack of fever. She 
 tried to sit up, but Alice, her mulatto maid, bent over her 
 quickly, pressing her back gently on the pillows. 
 
 "No, Missy Pansy," that familiar, crooning voice said 
 with an air of authority. "De doctor say you stay dere and 
 no move." 
 
 Pansy was not at all anxious to move after that one at- 
 tempt. The effort had brought knife-like pains cutting 
 through her chest, and she had had to bite her lip to keep 
 herself from crying out in agony. 
 
 All day she lay in silence, sleeping most of the time, 
 when awake, thankful just to lie still, for even to talk hurt 
 her; grateful when Alice fed her, because she would rather 
 have gone hungry than have faced the pain that sitting up 
 entailed. 
 
 Sometimes, from outside, came the rattle of harness, the 
 stamp of a hoof, men's voices talking in a strange language. 
 But Pansy was used to such sounds now, and thought noth- 
 ing of them ; they had been around her all the time she had 
 been on tour with her father. 
 
 The next day the mist had cleared considerably. Pansy 
 realised she was in a big tent, not an affair of plain green 
 canvas, such as she had lived in quite a lot during her expe- 
 dition into the wilds, but a place of barbaric splendour. Silk 
 hangings draped the canvas walls; rich curtains heavily em- 
 broidered with gold. The very poles that held the structure 
 up were of silver, and a heavy silver lamp was suspended 
 from the central bar. Priceless rugs covered the ground, 
 
 176
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 177 
 
 and here and there were piles of soft, silk cushions. There 
 were one or two little ebony tables and stools inlaid with 
 silver and ivory. Her bed was a low couch of soft silk and 
 down cushions. And on the floor beside her was a beaten 
 gold tray where jewelled cups reposed, and dishes with col- 
 oured sherbets and other tempting dainties. 
 
 Pansy's gaze stayed on Alice in a puzzling manner. 
 
 Alice looked much the same, as plump and pretty as ever, 
 but with an even more "pleased with herself" expression 
 than usual upon her round smiling face. 
 
 From her maid Pansy glanced towards the entrance of 
 the tent. The flap was fastened back, letting in a flood 
 of fresh, gold-tinged morning air. Just outside, two 
 dark-faced, white-robed men were stationed, and, beyond, 
 were others, and a glimpse of trees. 
 
 Pansy's eyes stayed on the Arabs guarding her quarters. 
 
 In a vague way they were familiar. 
 
 With a rush came back the happenings of the afternoon 
 when she had been having tea with Cameron in the old 
 guardroom. 
 
 Men such as those outside had burst in upon them when 
 the brave old door had given way. 
 
 A wave of sickly fear swept over the girl. 
 
 Was she a prisoner in the hands of that wild horde? 
 
 But, if so, what was she doing in the midst of all this 
 splendour, this riot of luxury, with the softest of cushions to 
 lie on, the choicest of silk rugs to cover her, and Alice sit- 
 ting contentedly at her side? 
 
 Perhaps Bob could give her the key to the situation. 
 
 "Alice," she said weakly, "run and tell Captain Cameron 
 I want to speak to him/' 
 
 "He no be here, Miss Pansy," the girl replied. "He go to 
 de Sultan Casim Ammeh's city." 
 
 Alice pronounced the Sultan's name with gusto. The 
 desert ruler with his barbaric splendour and troop of wild 
 ^orsemen had impressed her far more than the English gov- 
 ernor and his retinue. She did not at all mind being his
 
 178 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 prisoner. Moreover she was a privileged person, told off 
 specially by the Sultan to nurse her mistress. 
 
 For some moments Pansy pondered on what her maid had 
 said. 
 
 "The Sultan Casim Ammeh," Pansy repeated presently, 
 with an air of bewilderment. 
 
 "Dat be him," Alice assured her. "A great big, fine man, 
 awful good-looking. I see him. An 7 my heart go all soft. 
 He so rich and proud and grand. But he no look at me, 
 only at you, Miss Pansy," she finished, sighing. 
 
 Pansy hardly heard this rhapsody over her captor. 
 
 His name was familiar but half forgotten, like the fairy 
 tales of her childhood. 
 
 Then she suddenly remembered who and what he was. 
 
 The youthful Sultan who, long years ago, had sworn to 
 kill her father and sell her as a slave ! 
 
 The man Alice mentioned must be the boy grown up! 
 It must have been his hordes who had swept down on her and 
 Bob that afternoon. 
 
 But it was not of herself that Pansy thought when the 
 truth dawned on her with vivid, sickening force. In anxiety 
 for her father she forgot the fate promised for herself. 
 
 "My father! What has happened to him?" she asked in 
 quick alarm. 
 
 "De Sultan, he catch Sir George too," Alice answere 
 coolly. 
 
 Pansy's heart stood still. 
 
 "Is he still alive?" she asked breathlessly, horror clutch- 
 ing at her. 
 
 "Sir George he go also to the city of El-Ammeh, de Sul- 
 tan's city." 
 
 A feeling of overwhelming relief swept over Pansy on 
 hearing her father was still alive. 
 
 For some minutes she lay brooding on the horrible situ- 
 ation and how she could best cope with it, all the time feel- 
 ing as if she were in some wild nightmare. Then s**" re- 
 membered her own vast riches.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 179 
 
 All these Arab chiefs knew the value of money. 
 She might be able to ransom her father, herself, the whole 
 party. 
 
 "Where is the Sultan? Tell him I want to see him," she 
 said suddenly in a weak, excited way. 
 
 "He no be here. He go back to El-Ammeh. You go, too, 
 Miss Pansy, an' I go wid you, when Doctor Edouard say you 
 be fit to move." 
 
 Pansy clutched at the name of Edouard. After that of 
 the Sultan Casim Ammeh it had a welcome European 
 sound. 
 
 "Where is Doctor Edouard? Can I speak to him?" she 
 asked quickly. 
 
 She hardly noticed the pain within herself now, torn as 
 she was with anxiety for her father and friends. 
 
 Alice rose, ready to oblige. 
 
 "I go fetch him," she said. 
 
 Leaving the tent, she interviewed one of the guards. Then 
 she passed on beyond Pansy's view. 
 
 She reappeared some few moments later accompanied by 
 a short, stoutish man with a pointed, black beard, unmistak- 
 ably of French nationality, who was dressed in a neat white 
 drill suit and a sun helmet. 
 
 Anxiously Pansy watched him approach, with no room 
 in her mind to think how he came to be there, a person as 
 European as herself, in this savage Sultan's following. 
 
 "Do tell me what has happened!" she said, without any 
 preliminaries, the moment he halted at her bedside. 
 
 However, Edouard did not tell Pansy much more than she 
 had already culled for herself. But she learnt that the 
 whole of her father's party were prisoners in the hands of 
 this desert chief and were now on their way back to his 
 capital. 
 
 "But can't you do something?" she asked in despair. 
 
 "I'm virtually a prisoner, like yourself," Edouard re- 
 plied in a non-committal tone. 
 * He was not a prisoner, but he was paid a good price for
 
 180 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 his services and his silence ; and he had no intention of play- 
 ing an excellent friend and patron false. 
 
 "But is there nothing I can do?" Pansy asked, aghast at 
 her own utter helplessness. 
 
 Edouard smiled, remembering the Sultan's concern for 
 the beautiful captive girl. 
 
 "Yes; there's one thing," he replied in a soothing tone. 
 "Don't worry about the matter just at present. But when 
 you get to El-Ammeh use all your personal influence with 
 the Sultan. In the meantime you can rest assured that no 
 harm will happen to Sir George and his staff- Afterwards I 
 rather fancy everything depends on you.'' 
 
 With this Pansy had to be content.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN Bathhurst, the deputy Governor awaited news of Sir 
 George Barclay. More than a month had passed since he 
 had left the town, and during most of the time letters had 
 come through regularly to official headquarters. The dep- 
 uty knew that the furthermost point of the tour must now 
 be about reached ; but nearly a week had passed without any 
 communication, official or otherwise, coming from the party. 
 The fact was not alarming; the part Sir George must now be 
 in was the wildest in the colony, and a week might easily pass 
 without any message coming through. 
 
 But when another day or so passed without bringing any 
 news, the deputy began to wonder what had happened. 
 
 "The letters must have gone astray," one of the officera re- 
 marked. 
 
 "Or some leopard has gobbled up the postman/' another 
 suggested. 
 
 For a couple of days longer the deputy and military officers 
 waited, hourly expecting some message from the Governor's 
 party, but none came. There was no reason to think that 
 harm had befallen them, for the colony was in perfect order. 
 
 Then they sent up for news to the next town of any im- 
 portance, only to hear that nothing had been heard there 
 either. 
 
 The answer astounded them. 
 
 An expedition was sent off post-haste to find out what had 
 happened to the party. 
 
 They were nearly a fortnight in reaching the old fort, the 
 last spot where any message had come from. And there they 
 found the British flag still flying over the official headquar- 
 ters, but both the bungalow and the fortress were deserted. 
 
 181
 
 182 A SON OF THE SAHAKA 
 
 In the old guardroom and the compound were a few gnawed 
 human bones; but there was no other trace of the missing 
 expedition, although there was every sign that disaster had 
 overtaken it. 
 
 The officials were aghast. Sir George and his staff had 
 completely disappeared. That there had been fighting was 
 evident. The bones in the guardroom and compound told 
 them that much, but all trace of their identity had been 
 gnawed off by prowling hyenas. 
 
 The country around was scoured, but it brought no clue. 
 The French Government was communicated with, but it 
 could throw no light on the affair. 
 
 When the news reached England it caused a sensation, for 
 Society culled that Sir George Barclay's daughter, the lovely 
 twenty-year-old heiress, Pansy Langham, was among those 
 missing dead now, or perhaps worse; the chattel of one of 
 the wild marauders who had fallen so swiftly and silently 
 upon her father's party. 
 
 And in a pleasant English country house Miss Grainger 
 wept for the bright, brave girl who had always been such a 
 generous friend and considerate mistress.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 BY the time the news of the disappearance of Sir George 
 Barclay's party reached England, Pansy was well on her 
 way to El-Ammeh. 
 
 She arrived there one night after dark, a darkness out 
 from which high walls loomed and over them strange sounds 
 came; the thin wail of stringed instruments; a tom-tom 
 throbbing through the blue night; the plaintive song of 
 some itinerant musician, and the shuffle of crowded human 
 life. 
 
 She was not given much time to dwell upon those things. 
 Her escort skirted the high walls. A big horse-shoe arch 
 loomed up, with heavy iron gates; gates that clanged back 
 as they approached. And the flare of torches showed a long 
 passage leading into darkness. 
 
 Into the passage her litter was carried with a swaying, 
 somnolent movement. Then the gates closed with a clang 
 behind her, leaving the escort outside; and she and Alice 
 were alone with the flaming torches, the black, engulfing 
 passage, and half a dozen huge negroes in gorgeous raiment 
 
 With a sickly feeling, Pansy slipped from her litter. 
 
 Her journey's end ! 
 
 The journey had lasted over six weeks. Under other 
 circumstances Pansy would have enjoyed it. It could not 
 have been more comfortable. She had travelled in the cool 
 of the morning and in the cool of the evening. Always for 
 the long midday halt the same sumptuous tent was up, await- 
 ing her reception, taken down again after she had departed, 
 and up again before she arrived at the next halting place. 
 
 The country she travelled through was an interesting one, 
 park-like and grassy at first, as the weeks passed becoming 
 
 183
 
 184 A SON OF THE SAHABA 
 
 eyer more sandy and arid, with occasional patches that were 
 wonderfully fertile. Until, finally, like a glowing, yellow 
 sea before her, she had her first glimpse of the Sahara on 
 its southern side billow upon billow of flaming sand, 
 stretching away to a tensely blue sky, with here and there 
 a stunted bush, a twist of coarse grass, or a clump of dis- 
 torted cacti with red flowers blazing against the heated, shim- 
 mering air a vast solitude where nothing moved. 
 
 For a week they had journeyed through the desert. Late 
 one evening a lake came into view, with fruitful gardens 
 growing around it, where date palms, olives, and clustering 
 vines flourished. On the far side a walled city showed. 
 
 It lay golden in the misty glow of evening, its minarets 
 standing out against a shadowed sky. Even as she 
 approached it had been swallowed by darkness. Softly the 
 lake lapped as they skirted it, and the world was filled with 
 a constant hissing sigh, the sound of shifting sand when the 
 wind roamed over it the voice of the desert. 
 
 Much as Pansy dreaded her journey's end, she welcomed 
 it. 
 
 She lived for nothing now but to see the Sultan ; to plead 
 with him for her father, her friends, herself. And she 
 buoyed herself up with the hope that her own riches would 
 enable her to ransom them all. 
 
 But if she failed ! 
 
 She grew sick at the thought. And the thought was with 
 her as she stood in the stone passage, her strained eyes on 
 the gigantic negro guards who had come to escort her to her 
 new quarters. They were attired from head to foot in rich, 
 brightly coloured silks, and they literally blazed with jewels. 
 
 The man who was their master might have so much 
 money that he would prefer revenge. 
 
 This thought was in Pansy's mind some minutes later 
 when she sat alone with her maid in one of the many apart- 
 ments in the palace of El-Ammeh. 
 
 It was a big room with walls and floor of gold mosaic, and
 
 A SON OP THE SAHAEA 186 
 
 a domed ceiling of sapphire-blue where cut rock-crystals 
 flashed like stare. Five golden lamps hung from it, sus- 
 pended by golden chains; lamps set with flat emeralds and 
 rubies and sapphires. 
 
 It was furnished very much as her tent had been, except 
 that there were wide ottomans against the gilded walls, and 
 the tables and stools were of sandalwood. In one corner 
 stood a large bureau of the same sweet-scented wood, beauti- 
 fully carved. Three heavy, pointed doors of sandalwood led 
 into the apartment. The place was heavy with its sensuous 
 odour. 
 
 In a little alcove draped with curtains of gold tissue the 
 negroes deposited Pansy's belongings. Then they withdrew, 
 leaving the girl and her maid alone ; Pansy with the depress- 
 ing feeling that money might not have much influence with 
 the Sultan Casim Ammeh. 
 
 Two of the doors of her gilded prison were locked, Panay 
 quickly discovered. Outside of the one she had entered by 
 a couple of negro guards were stationed, who refused to let 
 her pass. 
 
 On learning this, she went out into the fretted gallery. 
 Below a garden lay. She stood at the head of the steps 
 leading into it, anxious to get away from the dim scented 
 silence of the great room, in touch with the trees and stars 
 and the cool, rose-scented breath of night that she under- 
 stood. 
 
 She tried to argue that all the splendour and luxury 
 placed at her disposal boded well for the future, that her 
 captor might not be going to carry out his threats. 
 
 Her gaze turned towards the room, with its wealth and 
 luxury a fit setting for a Sultan's favourite. 
 
 Pansy shivered. 
 
 What price might she not have to pay for her father's 
 life? 
 
 Then she thought of Raoul Le Breton. The dark blood 
 in him seemed nothing now, compared with the thought of 
 liaving to become the chattel of this wild, desert chief.
 
 186 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Slight sounds in the big room roused her from her reverie. 
 
 She started violently, expecting to see the Sultan coming 
 to make his bargain. 
 
 But only a couple of white-robed servants were there. 
 
 The biggtest of the inlaid tables was seb for dinner; 
 a dinner for one, set in a European way. And the meal that 
 followed was the work of a skilled French chef. 
 
 But the sumptuous repast had no charm for a girl worried 
 to death at tbe thought of her own fate and her father's. 
 To please Alice she made some pretence of eating. 
 
 Leaving her maid to revel in the neglected dainties, Pansy 
 went back to her vigil in the arches. 
 
 In course of time, the lamps burning low, Alice's pro- 
 digious yawns drove her to lie wakeful among the soft 
 cushions of one of the ottomans. 
 
 From fitful slumbers Alice's voice roused her the next 
 morning. Alice with the usual early morning tea, a tray 
 of choice fruit, and a basket full of rare and beautiful 
 flowers. 
 
 Distastefully Pansy looked at the choice blossoms. She 
 felt they were from the Sultan to his unwilling visitor; a 
 silent message of admiration ; of homage, perhaps. 
 
 "Take them away, Alice," she said quickly. "And put 
 them where I can't see them." 
 
 With a curious glance at her mistress, the girl obeyed. 
 
 Pansy drank her tea, all the time pondering on her 
 future. 
 
 If she had to go under, she would go under fighting. If 
 this wild chief were prepared to give her her father's life in 
 exchange for herself, she would see that he got as little 
 pleasure as possible out of his bargain. If he were infatu- 
 ated with her as Alice and Dr. Edouard seemed to think, 
 go much the better. All the more keenly he would feel the 
 lashes her tongue would be able to give. 
 
 Pansy knew he spoke French, for this fact had come into 
 the story her father had told her in years gone by.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 187 
 
 In thinking of the cutting things she would be able to 
 *ay to her captor, Pansy tried to keep at bay the dread she 
 felt. Since he was not there to hit at in person, she hit at 
 him with sneers at his race to Alice. 
 
 "I don't suppose there's anywhere I can have a bath," she 
 remarked when her tea was finished. "Cleanliness isn't one 
 of the virtues of these Arabs." 
 
 "Dere be one," Alice assurred her. "De most beautifullest 
 one you eber saw." 
 
 Pansy agreed with her maid some minutes later when she 
 was splashing about in its cool waters. 
 
 Alice had pointed out the place to her. In dressing-gown 
 and slippers, Pansy had passed through the wide gallery, a 
 lacy prison of stone it seemed to the girl, for although it 
 gave a wide view of the desert, there was not one spot in its 
 carved side that she could have put her hand through. 
 
 Immediately beneath lay a garden, surrounded by a high 
 wall. 
 
 Pansy had seen many gardens, but none to equal the one 
 before her in peace and beauty. It was a dream of roses. 
 In the middle was a sunken pond where water-lilies floated 
 and carp swam and gaped at her with greedy mouths when 
 her shadow fell across them, as if expecting to be fed. 
 Vivid green velvety turf surrounded the pond, a rarity in 
 that arid country. There was nothing else in the garden but 
 roses, of every shade and colour. They streamed in cascades 
 over the high walls. They grew in banks by the pond, in 
 trellised alleys and single bushes. The garden was a gem 
 of cool greenness, scent and silence, and over it brooded the 
 shadows of gigantic cypresses. 
 
 The bath-room lay beneath the stone gallery, with fretted 
 and columned arches where more roses clung and climbed, 
 opening directly on the scented quiet of the garden. It 
 was a huge basin of white marble, about thirty feet across 
 and deep enough to swim in, with a carved edge, delicate 
 as lace.
 
 188 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Pansy was in no mood to appreciate her fairy-like sur- 
 roundings. And the beauty of her prison in no way softened 
 her heart towards her captor. 
 
 As she splashed about in the bath, over the high walls 
 came the sound of bells, like church chimes wrangling in the 
 distance on an English Sunday. 
 
 Wistfully Pansy stopped and listened to them. She was 
 travelled enough to recognize them as camel bells; some 
 train coming to this barbaric city. 
 
 When she returned to the dim, guilded room, breakfast 
 was awaiting her; an ordinary Continental breakfast. 
 
 She pecked at it, too sick at heart to eat. Then she sat 
 on, awaiting Edouard's appearance. He had parted with 
 her the previous night, promising to come and see her when 
 she was installed in the Sultan's palace. 
 
 It was evening before he came. Pansy greeted him 
 eagerly. All day she had dreaded that her captor might 
 appear. But she wanted to see him, to satisfy herself about 
 her father. 
 
 Edouard's visits to her were purely professional, and brief. 
 Always his idea was to get away, for his conscience pricked 
 him where Pansy was concerned. He was used to his pa- 
 tron's wild ways, and he knew the girl's position was not of 
 her own choosing. 
 
 "Will you tell the Sultan I want to see him?" she said 
 when he rose to go. 
 
 "Hasn't he paid you a visit yet?" the doctor asked with 
 surprise. 
 
 "No, and I'm so worried about my father." 
 
 Edouard left, promising to deliver her message. But he 
 came the next day, saying the Sultan had refused to grant 
 tier an interview. 
 
 "I wonder why he won't see me," she said drearily. 
 
 Edouard wondered also. 
 
 That evening he dined with his friend and patron, not in 
 a gorgeous Eastern apartment like Pansy's, but in one that 
 vras decidedly Western in its fittings and appointments.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 189 
 
 AJad the Sultan was attired as Pansy had seen him several 
 times in Grand Canary, in black dress-suit, white pleated 
 shirt and the black pearl studs. 
 
 Dinner was over before Edouard approached the subject 
 of the girl-prisoner. 
 
 "If I were you I'd see Miss Barclay," he said. "This 
 suspense won't do her any good. She frets all day about 
 her father." 
 
 "It's not in my plans to see her just yet," the Sultan 
 replied. 
 
 Edouard glanced at him. 
 
 Then he did what for him was a bold thing, fat and 
 comfortable and fond of his easy berth as he was. He 
 challenged his royal master concerning his intentions 
 towards the captive girl. 
 
 "What are your plans with regard to Miss Barclay?" 
 he ventured. "She's not one of the sort who can be bought 
 with a string of pearls or a diamond bracelet." 
 
 "I'm going to marry her," the Sultan said easily. 
 
 Edouard experienced a feeling of relief, on his own 
 account as much as Pansy's. 
 
 The doctor studied her with renewed interest the next 
 day when he paid her his usual visit. 
 
 "If I sent a note to the Sultan, do you think it would 
 be any use?" Pansy asked him anxiously, the moment 
 he had done with professional matters. 
 
 "It would do no harm at any rate," he replied. 
 
 Pansy got to her feet quickly. 
 
 She knew Edouard was in touch with her captor a 
 prisoner like herself she imagined, but free to come and 
 go because of his calling. She did not know he was a man 
 so faithful to his master that the latter's smallest wish wap 
 carried out to the letter. 
 
 Going into the alcove where her belongings were, Pansy 
 seated herself on the edge of a couch, with a writing-pad 
 on her knee. For some minutes she stayed frowning at a 
 blank piece of paper. It was so difficult to know what to
 
 190 A SON OF THE SAHAKA 
 
 say to this savage chief who held the lives of her father 
 and friends in his hands. 
 
 After some minutes thinking she wrote: 
 
 "To THE SULTAN CASIM AMMEH. 
 
 Perhaps you do not know that I am very rich. Any price 
 you may ask I am prepared to give for my father's life and 
 freedom, for the lives and freedom of my English friends who 
 are also your prisoners, and for my own. The ransom will be paid 
 to you in gold. All you will have to do will be to mention the 
 sum you want, and allow me to send a message through to my 
 bank in England. 
 
 PANSY LANGHAM BARCLAY." 
 
 The note was put into an envelope, sealed, addressed 
 and taken out to Edouard. 
 
 On handing it over, however, Pansy suddenly recollected 
 that the Sultan, for all his wealth and power, might be 
 ignorant of the arts of reading and writing. 
 
 "Can he read French?" she asked. 
 
 An amused look came to the doctor's face. 
 
 "If he can't make it out, I'll read it to him/' he replied. 
 
 It was evening before Le Breton got the note. Le 
 Breton again as Pansy knew him, in khaki riding-suit, 
 just as he had returned from a ride on her old race-horse, 
 that had been brought to his camp the day of her capture, 
 and was now in the palace stables. 
 
 The note was lying on his desk, with the name that Pansy 
 now hated the Sultan Casim Ammeh written on the en- 
 velope in her pretty hand. 
 
 A tender look hovered about his mouth as he picked 
 up the letter and read it. Again the girl was "doing her 
 best" for some helpless creatures his prisoners. Although 
 the fact filled him with an even greater admiration for 
 Pansy, it did not lessen his hatred for her father. 
 
 He sat down and dashed off a brief reply in an assumed 
 hand. 
 
 "All the gold in Africa will not buy my vengeance from me. 
 
 CASIM AMMEH."
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 191 
 
 His answer reached Pansy with her dinner, reducing 
 her to despair. 
 
 It seemed that nothing she could do would have any 
 influence with this savage ruler. 
 
 Hopeless days followed; days that brought her nothing 
 but a series of elaborate meals. Yet she knew that life 
 went on around her; a life quite different from any she 
 had been accustomed to. 
 
 Morning and night she heard faint voices wailing from 
 unseen minarets. Over the high walls of her garden came 
 the hum of a crowded city. From her screened gallery 
 she saw camel trains loom out of the haze of distance to 
 El-Ammeh, with a wrangle of sweet bells; camels that came 
 from some vast unknown. 
 
 And there was another sound that Pansy heard; a 
 sound that hailed from somewhere within the Palace; that 
 always came about bedtime, and always set her shivering; 
 the sound of a girl screaming. 
 
 Each morning with her early tea there was a basket of 
 rare flowers, flowers she did not trouble to tell Alice to 
 move now; she put them down to some palace custom, 
 nothing that had any bearing on the Sultan. She never 
 thought of Le Breton's words: 
 
 "Still only a few flowers, Pansy?" 
 
 And each evening she sat in the dim, scented room and 
 waited for those muffled screams. She knew where they 
 came from now; from somewhere behind one of the locked 
 doors leading into her room. 
 
 Limp and listless, she dragged through the hot, monot- 
 onous days, brooding on her own fate and her father's, 
 envying the ragged black crows that flew, free, like bits of 
 burnt paper, high in the scorching sky. 
 
 Pansy had been about a fortnight in El-Ammeh, when 
 something happened. 
 
 One morning, as she stood by the sunken pond, feeding 
 the greedy carp with rolls she was too miserable to eat, 
 Alice came to her round-eyed and startled-looking.
 
 192 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "Oh, Miss Pansy, dey hab come for you," she gasped 
 
 "Who?" Pansy asked quickly. 
 
 "De Sultan's soldiers." 
 
 "Are they going to take me to him?" she asked, feeling 
 the interview she desired and dreaded was now at hand. 
 
 "Dey take you to de slave market. To be sold. Oh. 
 oh !" the girl wailed. 
 
 Alice's hysterical sobs followed Pansy down the dim 
 passage some minutes later, when, with strained face and 
 tortured eyes, she went with a guard of eight Arab soldiers 
 to meet the fate the Sultan Casim Ammeh had promised 
 for her more than sixteen years before.
 
 CHAPTEE XI 
 
 SIR GEORGE BARCLAY and most of his staff had a knowl- 
 edge of Eastern prisons from the outside. They knew them 
 to be abodes of misery; dark, insanitary dens, alive with 
 vermin, squalid and filthy, filled with a gaunt, ragged 
 crowd who, all day long, held piteous hands through iron 
 bars, begging for food from the passers-by, the only food 
 they were given. 
 
 The Governor's staff did not look forward to a sojourn 
 in El-Ammeh. As for Sir George himself, he had other 
 matters than his own personal comfort to dwell on. 
 
 His thoughts were always with Pansy, and always in 
 his heart was the prayer that she would succumb to the 
 effects of Cameron's bullet, and not have to meet the fate 
 his enemy had in store for her. 
 
 After the one interview the Sultan had ignored Barclay. 
 But during the long journey, Sir George often saw his enemy, 
 and if he thought of anything outside of his daughter's 
 fate, it was to wonder why Casim Ammeh looked so different 
 from the wild hordes he ruled. Exactly like a man of the 
 well-bred, darker, Latin type, certainly not the son of the 
 savage marauder whom he, Barclay, had had to condemn 
 to death. 
 
 On reaching El-Ammeh, the Europeans found the quarters 
 awaiting them very different from what experience had led 
 them to expect. 
 
 They were ushered into a large courtyard dotted with 
 trees and surrounded by high walls. Into it a dozen little 
 cells opened. Within the enclosure they were free to wander 
 as they pleased; a glance around the place showed them 
 why. The walls were twenty feet high, and as smooth as 
 
 193
 
 194 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 glass, and there were always a dozen Arabs stationed 
 by the gate, watching all they did. At night they were 
 each locked in separate cells. 
 
 It was impossible to bribe the guards, as Cameron and 
 his fellow officers discovered before a week had passed. 
 
 For the imprisoned Englishmen the time passed slowly. 
 Often they speculated on their own ultimate fate. Whether 
 death would be their portion, or whether they would be 
 left there to stew for years, after the manner of more than 
 one European who had had the misfortune to fall into the 
 clutches of some desert chief. 
 
 They all knew the reason of their capture merely 
 because they happened to be on the Governor's staff. He 
 had told them the story of Casim Ammeh, and the promised 
 revenge. They never thought of blaming Barclay. What 
 the present Sultan of El-Ammeh called "murder" was the 
 sort of thing >any one of them might be called upon 
 to do. 
 
 A day came when it seemed to Barclay that the fate that 
 wild youth had promised him long years ago was at 
 hand. 
 
 One morning an escort came for him. 
 
 In their company he was led out of prison, to his execu- 
 tion, he expected. His staff thought so too; for they took 
 a brief, unemotional farewell of him. They expected the 
 same fate themselves at any moment. 
 
 However, Barclay was not led to his death. The escort 
 took him through a twist of narrow streets, into a house 
 and up a flight of dark stairs. He was left alone in an upper 
 room, with a heavily barred window, through which came 
 a hum of wild voices, with an occasional loud, guttural, 
 excited call. 
 
 He crossed to the window, and stood there, riveted. 
 
 There was a big square beneath, seething with dark- 
 faced, white-robed men, all gazing in one direction in the 
 direction of a raised platform where a girl stood. A slim, 
 white girl.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 195 
 
 It would have been much easier for Sir George to have 
 faced death than the sight before him. 
 
 Pansy was on the platform. His daughter! Standing 
 there in full view of the wild crowd. Being sold as a slave 
 in the market of this desert city. To become the property 
 of one of those savages. 
 
 Barclay's hand went across his anguished face, to try 
 and shut out the horrible sight. 
 
 It could not be true! It must be some hideous night- 
 mare. 
 
 Yet there she was, with white face and strained eyes, 
 meeting her fate bravely, as his daughter would. Pansy, 
 as he had often seen her, in a simple white muslin dress, 
 and a wide white, drooping hat with a long, blue, floating 
 veil. Garbed as she had gone about his camp during his 
 fatal tour. 
 
 Even as Sir George looked, Pansy's tortured eyes met 
 his, and she tried to smile. 
 
 The sight broke him utterly, bringing a groan to his lips. 
 
 At the sound a voice said in French, with a note of savage 
 triumph : 
 
 "Now perhaps you understand what I suffered when 
 you shot my father?" 
 
 Standing behind him was a big man in a khaki riding- 
 suit, a European, he looked. For the moment Barclay 
 did not know him for his enemy, the Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh. 
 
 When he recognised him he did for Pansy what he would 
 never have done for himself he begged for mercy. 
 
 "For God's sake, for the sake of the civilisation you 
 know, don't condemn my child to such a fate!" he en- 
 treated in a voice hoarse with agony. 
 
 "You showed my father no mercy. Why should I show 
 you any now?" the Sultan asked coldly. 
 
 "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
 
 196 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE market of El-Ammeh was situated in the centre of the 
 city. It was surrounded by a huddle of whitewashed houses, 
 of varying heights and shapes, leaning one against the other, 
 with here and there, over some high wall, a glimpse of 
 greenery the feathery head of a palm, the shiny leaves of 
 a camphor tree, a pomegranate, an orange or a fig tree. 
 On the side overlooking the square the houses were prac- 
 tically without windows, and the few there were were small 
 and iron-barred. 
 
 Under most of the 'buildings were dim, cave-like shops 
 hung with rare silks and ostrich feathers, or littered with 
 articles in beaten silver, copper, and iron. There was 
 quaint leatherwork and coarse pottery and a good sprink- 
 ling of European goods. 
 
 Several narrow, passage-like streets led into the square, 
 entering it, in some cases, under dark archways. Some- 
 times these ways were barred to the mere public the poorer 
 people who daily sold produce in the square and only those 
 with special permits were allowed to enter: men of wealth 
 and substance. 
 
 Every month a sale of slaves was held in the market, 
 generally of Arab and negro girls; but occasionally some- 
 thing very different figured there perhaps some black- 
 haired, black-eyed, creamy beauty brought right across the 
 Sahara from the Barbary States, a thousand miles away; 
 or some half-caste girl from the Soudan, even further 
 afield. 
 
 When this happened there were always plenty of buyers. 
 Men of wealth flocked in from hundreds of miles around, 
 for any skin lighter than brown was a rarity. 
 
 197
 
 198 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 Within the last few weeks word had gone round the 
 district, blown hither and thither in the desert, that a girl 
 even more beautiful than those creamy beauties from the 
 Barbary States was to be on sale at the next auction a girl 
 hailing from, Allah alone knew, what far land Paradise, if 
 her description were a true one. A girl with a skin white 
 as milk, hair golden as the sunshine, and eyes of a blue 
 deep as desert night; a maid, moreover, not another man's 
 discarded fancy. 
 
 For days before the sale, as flies are drawn towards a 
 honey-pot, the caravans of wealthy merchants came trick- 
 ling in from the desert. 
 
 When the day itself arrived they hurried with their 
 retinues to the square; some to buy, if possible; others, 
 less wealthy, to see if the maid were as beautiful as report 
 said. 
 
 On one side of the market square was a raised platform. 
 From the house behind a room opened on it, a big, shadowy 
 room, whitewashed and stone-flagged, with a barred window 
 high up near the ceiling. 
 
 Into that room Pansy was taken by her escort in a cur- 
 tained litter. 
 
 During the journey to the market she had had the sen- 
 sation of moving in some ghastly nightmare from which 
 she could not wake herself, much as she tried. 
 
 It could not be possible that she, Pansy Langham, the 
 ieted and much-courted heiress, was to be sold as one might 
 sell a horse or a cow. 
 
 She had the horrible feeling of having lost her own 
 identity and taken on someone else's, yet all the time 
 remembering what had happened when she was Pansy 
 Langham. She felt she must have slipped back hundreds 
 of years to some previous existence, when girls were sold as 
 slaves; for surely this appalling fate could not be happen- 
 ing to her in the twentieth century? 
 
 A riot of thought ran through the girl's head during the 
 journey from the palace to the market; a riot of numb,
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 199 
 
 sickly terror, the outstanding feature of which was an in- 
 ability to credit the fate before her. 
 
 When Pansy reached the room she gave up all hope. She 
 knew she was awake painfully, horribly wide awake, with a 
 future before her that made her shudder to contemplate. 
 
 There were a dozen or more girls in the room, but they 
 were railed off from Pansy by a thick wooden trellis, like 
 sheep in a pen; brown and black girls, the majority attired 
 in nothing more than a cloth reaching from waist to knee. 
 They had been chattering shrilly among themselves at her 
 entry, apparently in no way appalled at the fate before 
 them; but they broke off when she came in, and crowded 
 to the lattice to get a closer view, gazing at the newcomer 
 and giving vent to little exclamations of awe and envy 
 and admiration. 
 
 Pansy's arrival brought a stout, bearded man in white 
 burnoose in from the house behind. 
 
 His glance ran over the English girl, but he made no 
 attempt to touch her. Then he looked at her escort, who 
 had stationed themselves on either side of her. 
 
 "By Allah!" he exclaimed. "This is a houri straight 
 from Paradise you have brought me. Never have I sold 
 such loveliness. There will be high bidding in the market 
 of El-Ammeh this morning." 
 
 "I, for one, can't understand why the Sultan has not 
 kept this pearl for himself," the leader of the escort said. 
 
 The auctioneer smiled in a peculiar, knowing fashion. 
 
 "Our Sultan has been in lands where there are many 
 such," he replied. "Now he gives his subjects a chance to 
 revel in delights that have been his." 
 
 Other men appeared from behind, negroes. 
 
 At a word from their master they opened the door lead- 
 ing out on the platform. Then they stood on either side 
 whilst he passed through. 
 
 Through the open door came a blaze of sunshine, the buzz 
 of a multitude, and presently a long declamation in Arabic 
 . as the auctioneer enlarged upon the quality of his wares.
 
 200 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 The girls behind the trellis craned their necks to see what 
 was going on, chattering shrilly among themselves. 
 
 From where Pansy stood she could see nothing. She did 
 not want to see anything. The horror would be upon her 
 quite soon enough. 
 
 One of the negro assistants opened a gate in the trellis 
 and motioned to a girl. As she appeared on the platform, 
 from outside there came a sigh of disappointment, then 
 guttural voices bidding. 
 
 Another and another of the girls passed out, all appar- 
 ently indifferent to the ordeal before them. 
 
 Then the auctioneer appeared on the threshold. 
 
 On seeing him Pansy felt her turn had come, and the 
 world started reeling around her. 
 
 She knew she passed from shadow into sunshine, that 
 dead silence greeted her appearance on the dais a silence 
 that was followed by a din of wild, excited shouting. 
 
 It seemed to her that the world was nothing but eyes: 
 the eyes of a surging crowd of dark-faced men, watching 
 her with desire and admiration. 
 
 To Pansy, high-bred and fastidious, it was a vision of 
 hell, this swarm of wild men looking at her with covetous 
 desire. The Pit gaped at her feet, peopled with demons, 
 any one of which might spring upon her. 
 
 Then the din died down to a subdued hum as men whis- 
 pered one to another, their eyes still on the golden-haired 
 girl on the dais. There was a horrible sort of despair on 
 the faces of some as they thought of their more wealthy 
 neighbours; lustful triumph on the faces of others as they 
 thought of their own hoarded gold. 
 
 Then out from the crowd a voice made an offer. 
 
 The sum staggered the auctioneer. It equalled nearly 
 five hundred pounds of English money. No girl, even the 
 creamy Barbary beauties, had ever fetched that amount. 
 
 Wild commotion followed. But the price went up and 
 up, doubling itself in ten minutes.
 
 3 
 rt 
 H
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 201 
 
 To escape for a moment from the sea of covetous eyes, 
 Pansy raised her own. 
 
 There was someone watching her from a window, someone 
 who looked as tortured as herself another soul condemned to 
 hell. 
 
 It was a moment hefore she recognised that drawn, 
 haggard face as her fathers; it looked an old man's. He 
 was there, the father she loved, condemned by his enemy 
 to see her sold. 
 
 She tried to smile. It was a woeful effort. And when 
 the blur of tears that seeing him brought to her eyes had 
 passed he was gone. 
 
 It seemed to Pansy that for an eternity she stood on the 
 edge of the Pit, waiting until one of the devils, more power- 
 ful than the rest, should drag her in. 
 
 The din died down as the sale proceeded, lost in tense 
 excitement. Of the twenty or more who had started 
 bidding for her, only three were left now. One of them, 
 mad with lust and excitement, had forced his way up to 
 the edge of the dais and was clinging to it with grimy 
 hands a lean man in turban and loin-cloth only, with long 
 matted hair and beard, who, foaming at the mouth, was 
 cursing his competitors, yet always bidding higher as he 
 stared at Pansy with the glare of a maddened beast. 
 
 Pansy tried not to see him, but he was always there, 
 horrible beyond comprehension, the worst of the demons 
 in the hell surrounding her. 
 
 Presently, over the murmur of the crowd, came the 
 thunder of a horse's hoofs; of someone riding at breakneck 
 speed through one of the resounding arches leading into 
 the market. 
 
 Pansy did not notice this. She realised nothing now but 
 the half-naked, foaming horror at her feet. 
 
 Suddenly another cry rang through the market-place. 
 
 Fortunately for Le Breton's plans Pansy knew no Arabic 
 or she would have recognised that cry as:
 
 202 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "The Sultan! The Sultan!" 
 
 For Casirn Ammeh had had his vengeance, and now had 
 eome in pursuit of love. 
 
 The cry grew to such a roar of sound that it penetrated 
 the world of dumb terror in which Pansy moved, and made 
 her raise her eyes. 
 
 The crowd in the square had opened up, giving way to a 
 khaki-clad man on a huge, prancing black stallion. 
 
 Across the market-place tortured blue eyes met fie-y 
 black ones. 
 
 Then it seemed to Pansy that she must be dreaming a 
 vision of heaven beyond this hell. 
 
 For Eaoul Le Breton was there, a god among these 
 demons. Some figment of her own creating that must 
 vanish as she gazed. 
 
 But he did not vanish. 
 
 He came closer, straight towards her,, the crowd receding 
 like a wave before him. Kaoul Le Breton, looking more 
 handsome, more arrogant, more of a king than ever; sit- 
 ting his black horse like a centaur. 
 
 Pansy's hands went to her heart, and the world started 
 spinning around her. 
 
 Like a knight of old, he had come to her rescue. 
 
 How he could have got there she was in no condition to 
 consider. It was enough that he was there, in time to save 
 her from the Pit of Hell gaping at her feet. 
 
 He rode ride up to the dais, reining in at her side. 
 
 With outstretched arms, he went towards her. 
 
 "Come, Heart's Ease, my own brave little girl, there's 
 nothing to fear now/' he said. 
 
 Swaying slightly, Pansy looked at him again as if he 
 were some vision. 
 
 Then, for the first time in her life, she fainted. 
 
 V/ith a little laugh of tender triumph, he caught her and 
 lifted her on his horse. 
 
 As he turned to go, grimy, covetous hands clutched 
 Pansy's skirts the hands of the miser feather merchant.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 203 
 
 With a savage oath, the Sultan raised his heavy riding 
 whip and felled the defiler. 
 
 Then he rode off with Pansy. 
 
 But before this happened Sir George Barclay had been 
 taken from the room overlooking the slave market. He 
 did not see the Sultan Casim Ammeh come in person to 
 save the girl. He did not know that, in Pansy's case, at 
 any rate, the auction had been but a pretence.
 
 CHAPTEE XIII 
 
 WHEN Pansy returned to consciousness she felt she had 
 awakened from some nightmare and was back in her own 
 world, a civilized world; her capture by the Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh and all the subsequent happenings some wild 
 dream, terrifying in its reality as dreams can be. 
 
 She was lying on a big bed in a shady room, among sheets 
 and pillows of finest linen; a solid brass bedstead such as 
 might have come from any good shop in London, not among 
 silken cushions and rugs on an ottoman. And there was a 
 bedroom suite of some choice grey wood with a litter of 
 gold toilet appointments on the wide dressing-table. 
 
 An elderly woman, brown skinned and black eyed, dressed 
 in a swathing of white muslin, was seated by the bedside, 
 fanning herself with a gentle, regular movement, and the air 
 was fresh with the scent of eau-de-Cologne. 
 
 Beyond the woman all down one side of the room ran 
 a series of arches, over which were drawn blinds of split 
 bamboo. 
 
 With the feeling of fragments of her nightmare still cling- 
 ing about her, Pansy sat up. 
 
 Then, with a rush, came back the scene in the slave 
 market. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Le Breton?'' she asked in a dazed manner. 
 
 She expected the woman to disclaim all knowledge of any 
 such person. 
 
 However, she rose immediately. 
 
 "I'll fetch him," she said in French. 
 
 She made towards a curtained doorway. 
 
 Pansy watched her go. And her gaze stayed anxiously 
 on the spot where the woman had disappeared. 
 
 A few moments passed and the curtains were drawn aside 
 
 204
 
 A SON OF THE SAHABA 205 
 
 again. The woman entered. In her wake was a big man 
 in white drill, with sleek, black hair and a close-clipped, 
 black moustache. 
 
 On seeing him Pansy gave a little hysterical cry. 
 
 "Oh, Eaoul, I was so afraid you were just a dream !" 
 
 "No, I'm not a dream, but a solid fact," he replied, going 
 towards her. 
 
 "Come quite close. I want to touch you to make sure." 
 
 Nothing loath, he seated himself on the bed. 
 
 Pansy took one of his hands, holding it in a tight, nervous 
 grip. 
 
 "Yes, it is really you," she said. "I n the whole wide world 
 there's no one who feels quite the same as you." 
 
 She had forgotten his coldness and harshness on the 
 occasion of their last meeting in Grand Canary his colour, 
 his religion, everything except that he was there and she 
 was safe. 
 
 He laughed tenderly and put the loose curls back from 
 her face with a lingering, caressing touch. 
 
 It was Pansy as he had never known her, frightened and 
 clinging to him. Pansy as he would have her, looking at 
 him with eyes full of love. 
 
 "So, little girl, you're quite pleased to see me?" 
 
 "Did you buy me?" she asked in a bewildered voice. 
 
 "How else could I get you?" he asked, smiling slightly. 
 His voice and touch calmed her a little. 
 
 "But you! How did you get here?" she asked. 
 
 "You know I'm an African merchant, don't you?" he 
 said easily. "This is my special province. I do most of 
 the trading in this part. And El-Ammeh is my, head- 
 quarters." 
 
 "But how did you know I was here ?" she asked in a dazed 
 tone. 
 
 "You told me you were coming out to Africa. I heard 
 the Governor of the adjacent English colony was on tour, 
 his ultimate point a spot some six hundred miles or so from 
 here. Some weeks ago the Sultan went out on a foray,
 
 206 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 returning with some English prisoners, a girl among them. 
 There are not many blue-eyed, golden-haired girls in these 
 parts, Pansy, so I guessed who she was/' 
 
 It all sounded very feasible. And Pansy was in no mood 
 to dispute with miracles. 
 
 "He hates my father; that's why he did it," she began 
 in a weak, wild way. 
 
 "Never mind about that just now," he replied. "Fortu- 
 nately I was there to save you." 
 
 She clung tighter to the strong, sinewy hand that had 
 snatched her back from the brink of hell. 
 
 "Oh, Raoul, what would have happened if you hadn't 
 come?" she whispered. 
 
 "Well, I did come, so there's nothing more for you to 
 worry about," he said tenderly. 
 
 "There's my father. The Sultan has threatened to kill 
 him," she began hysterically. 
 
 "You mustn't worry about your father, either. Leave 
 things to me. You may be sure I'll do my best for him, 
 too." 
 
 Under the tension of the last few weeks and the final 
 reaction Pansy broke down completely. In a weak, wild 
 manner she started sobbing, almost as if her brain had 
 snapped under the strain and relief. 
 
 Evidently Le Breton had expected something of the sort. 
 Going to a table, he poured some water into a glass 
 and dropped a couple of cachets into it. 
 
 When they had melted he came back to the distraught 
 girl. 
 
 Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he slipped an 
 arm around her. 
 
 "Come, drink this up," he said authoritatively; "then, 
 when you've had a good sleep, you can tell me all your adven- 
 tures." 
 
 "I daren't go to sleep," she sobbed, "for fear I should 
 wake up in hell!"
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 207 
 
 He drew the golden head on his shoulder with a soothing, 
 protective touch. 
 
 "I'll stay with you and see that doesn't happen," he said 
 tenderly. 
 
 At the promise, Pansy drank the proffered draught. Then 
 she lay back among the pillows. 
 
 He held the empty glass towards the Arab woman. She 
 took it, and would have gone from the room, as she was 
 accustomed to going when the Sultan pleased to linger with 
 any one of his slave girls; but his voice stopped her. 
 
 "There's no need to go, Sara," he said. 
 
 Then he stayed, smiling down at the worn little face on 
 the pillows, until the wild blue eyes closed in drugged 
 slumber. 
 
 Afterwards he sat watching Pansy in a calculating 
 manner. 
 
 Just then it seemed to Le Breton that his plans had suc- 
 ceeded; that he was going to have all he wanted. Revenge 
 he had had; love now seemed within his grip. 
 
 A sense of gratitude for her supposed rescue, in conjunc- 
 tion with the love Pansy still had for him, would be a 
 strong enough combination to make her forget his colour 
 and bring her into his arms in the way he wanted of her 
 own free will. 
 
 Yet he was not wholly satisfied, for the method he had 
 used to attain his ends was not one a civilised person would 
 approve of. 
 
 A huddled heap against one of the fluted columns, old 
 Sara sat and watched him. From time to time she muttered 
 to herself and cracked her knuckles for luck and to keep 
 off the "evil eye." 
 
 She had seen another Sultan bewitched by one of these 
 lovely white girls; and she hoped that this girl would prove 
 kinder to the son than the Lady Annette b**i been to ths 
 father.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 GREAT stars flashed in a desert sky, a sky deep and soft, 
 like purple velvet. They looked down on a sea of sand 
 over which the wind roamed; and always and ever in its 
 train there followed a sighing hiss, sometimes loud, some- 
 times soft, but always there, a constant, stealthy menace 
 in the night. 
 
 In the dark depths, one great curling billow of sand 
 showed, the coarse grass that fringed its crest looking like 
 spray lashing through the night. Beneath, a little yellow 
 fire glowed. In the glimmer a few ragged tents stood, 
 patched and squalid dwellings. Among them mangy camels 
 lay and groaned and gurgled and snored, with their long 
 necks stretched along the sand, looking like prehistoric 
 beasts. 
 
 Here and there half-naked men and boys slept and gaunt 
 dogs prowled slinking, furtive shadows through the en- 
 campment, nosing about for scraps of the evening meal. 
 
 There had been no meal for the owner of the caravan 
 that night. A hunger that could not be assuaged with 
 food, and a thirst that no drink could quench, raged within 
 him. Now a burning lust kept sleep at bay and sent him 
 prowling like some wild beast into the desert, hoping that 
 there relief might be found. 
 
 But for him none was to be had there. 
 
 The blue of the sky was like the eyes of the girl he had 
 lost. Her skin had rivalled the stars in its purity. The 
 very fire that burnt outside of his squalid home mocked 
 him. It was golden as her hair. 
 
 But for the Sultan that girl would be his. Now! This 
 night. His, to hold within his arms that milk-white maid ! 
 
 208
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 209 
 
 He flung his arms out to the night, then strained them 
 across his chest. 
 
 But for the Sultan all that maddening beauty would lie 
 within his grip. His to crush and caress. His! 
 
 The thought was torture. 
 
 "Curse him! Curse him! Curse him!" he cried aloud 
 to the mocking night. 
 
 Then he stretched grimy paws towards a voiceless heaven. 
 
 "Allah, give him into my hands, the Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh, who has robbed me of the flower of my desire. 
 That milk-white maid a houri of thy sending. Guide my 
 step to those who are his enemies. To those who would 
 break him, as he has broken me. Surely a man so mighty 
 has others as mighty who hate him. There are always 
 kings ready to make war on other kings. Allah, mogt high, 
 let me find them. Allah, most merciful, grant my prayer. 
 Like the wind in the desert I will roam to the east, the 
 west, the north, the south until I find them. His en- 
 emies. Then I will deliver him unto their hands." 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTEE XV 
 
 GIVING no thought to the grimy wretch out there in the 
 desert, the Sultan was seated in one of the deep, open gal- 
 leries 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. 
 
 When Le Breton came he found Pansy on the terrace. 
 Once he was seated, she told him what had happened to 
 her father's party. Then she went back to the beginning, 
 sixteen years before, with the story of the youthful Sultan; 
 but she did not mention that she had been wounded and 
 ill, for fear of having to meet a host of anxious enquiries. 
 
 Without comment he listened. 
 
 When she finished, all he said was: 
 
 "Well, I suppose the Sultan has his point of view, since 
 
 210
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 211 
 
 it appears your father was responsible for the death of his." 
 
 "But it was my father's duty to condemn him. He 
 would hate doing it, for he can't hear to hurt people. It 
 was not 'murder/ as the present Sultan seems to think." 
 
 To this Le Breton had nothing to say. 
 
 *You must let the French Government know my father 
 is a prisoner here," she went on. "Then they'll send an 
 expedition and rescue him and his officers." 
 
 "I couldn't do that, Pansy. You forget I'm half Arab. 
 I can't go back on my father's people." 
 
 Pansy had forgotten this fact about him; and it seemed 
 her father's freedom was not quite so close at hand as she 
 had imagined. 
 
 "Could I send my father a note?" she asked anxiously. 
 "That cruel Sultan sent him to see me sold. It must have 
 been torture for him; for I'm all he's got, and he's awfully 
 fond of me. I want to say I'm safe here with you. I can't 
 bear to think of him in torment." 
 
 "Write a note if you like, and I'll see what I can do," he 
 replied. 
 
 At once she got up and went into the salon where she 
 liad noticed a writing-table. The place was more like a 
 hall than a room; a spreading columned apartment, with 
 walls and floor and ceiling of white marble, where fountains 
 played into fern-grown basins and palms stood in huge, 
 gilded tubs. There were deep, soft, silk-covered chairs and 
 lounges, a sprinkling of gilded tables, and a large grand 
 piano. 
 
 Some minutes later Pansy returned to her host with a 
 letter in her hand. 
 
 He took it, and then rose to go. 
 
 "You mustn't sit up too late," he said, looking down at 
 her with an air of possession; "you've had a trying day, 
 and don't worry any more about anything or anybody." 
 
 So saying, he left her. 
 
 Full of gratitude, Pansy watched him go. And her con- 
 science smote her.
 
 212 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 On the whole she had treated him rather badly. She 'had 
 promised to marry him, and then had gone back on her 
 word. She did not deserve his kindness and consideration. 
 
 He had been so cold and harsh that night on her yacht 
 in Grand Canary. He was none of these things now. He 
 was just as he had been during their one brief week of 
 friendship, but even nicer. 
 
 Pansy sighed, and her face grew wistful. 
 
 Why wasn't he just like other men? Why had Fate been 
 so unkind ? Giving her love, but in such a form that pride 
 revolted from taking it. 
 
 Then Pansy went to bed, to lie awake for some time, 
 brooding on the miracle the day had brought forth and the 
 black barrier that stood between her and her lover. 
 
 She was about early the next morning and wandering in 
 the garden. 
 
 It was a long stretch of shady walks and sunken po&ds 
 and splashing fountains, full of tropical tree?, scented 
 shrubs, and rare blossoms a tangle of delights. In one 
 spot she found a tennis court, walled with pink roses. The 
 grounds went on, ending in a wide, flagged terrace, with 
 stone seats and shallow steps leading down to the blue waters 
 of the lake. 
 
 High walls ran down either side of the spreading garden. 
 Behind, a huge building rose in domes and turrets and 
 terraces the palace of El-Ammeh had Pansy but known 
 it, of which her new quarters were but a further portion. 
 
 Blissfully ignorant of this fact, she turned her steps 
 from the rippling lake and wandered along a flower-decked 
 path that twisted under shady trees and creeper-grown 
 arches, coming presently to a locked iron gate let into the 
 massive walls. 
 
 It gave a view of a scorched paddock where a dozen er 
 more horses were browsing. 
 
 Pansy paused and scanned the animals. 
 
 One was strangely familiar.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 213 
 
 That gaunt chestnut browsing there could only be "The 
 Sultan" ! 
 
 Amazed at her discovery, she called the horse by name. 
 
 At once the brown head was up, and the beast came 
 galloping in her direction. 
 
 Even in the days of her illness and during her imprison- 
 ment in the palace, Pansy had spared a thought for her 
 protege. She imagined he had become the property of 
 one of the Arab raiders, and she hoped his new master 
 would be kind to him and understand him as she did. 
 
 Through the iron bars Pansy caressed her pet. 
 
 "I never expected to see you again, Sultan, old boy," 
 she said. "Raoul must have bought you, too." 
 
 She was standing there talking to and petting the animal 
 when Le Breton's step roused her. 
 
 "Are you pleased to see him again?" he asked, after 
 greeting her. 
 
 "Pleased isn't the word for it. But how did you manage 
 to get hold of him?" 
 
 "He was really the cause of my getting hold of you," 
 he replied without hesitation. "I saw him in the posses- 
 sion of one of the soldiers who had come back from that 
 foray. That made me doubly certain who the white girl 
 was whom the Sultan was going to put up for sale." 
 
 "Eaoul, you must let me give you back all you had to 
 pay for me," she said. 
 
 "Why should you?" he asked, a slight smile hovering 
 about his lips. "You saved my life. Now we're 'quits/ 
 Isn't that what you called it ?" 
 
 Pansy did not argue the point. Nevertheless, she deter- 
 mined to repay him once she and her father were back in 
 civilisation. 
 
 "How long will it take to get my father free?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "It all depends on the sort of mood I c^tch the Sultan 
 in. With the best of luck, it'll be some weeks."
 
 214 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "Has he got my note yet, do you think?" she asked 
 anxiously. "He'll go grey with worrying over me. I can't 
 bear to think of the look on his face when he saw me in 
 that . . . that awful slave market." 
 
 Le Breton had destroyed her message the moment he 
 had reached his own rooms. Now he could not meet the 
 beautiful eyes that looked at him with such perfect trust. 
 
 "I expect the message will get through before the day 
 is out/' he answered. "It's merely a matter of 'bak- 
 sheesh/ " 
 
 At his words the world became quite a nice place again 
 for Pansy, the only shadow in it now the dark blood in her 
 lover.
 
 CHAPTEE XVI 
 
 NIGHT filled the harem with shadows and scent. The silver 
 lamps cast a soft glow through the huge hall, glinting on 
 wide ottomans and piles of cushions, on little tables set 
 with coffee and sherbet, sweets and fruit and cigarettes. 
 
 There were perhaps thirty women in the great room, 
 but the majority of them were the attendants of the half- 
 dozen girls lolling on couches and cushions around the 
 splashing fountain. 
 
 Full length on a wide ottoman Leonora was stretched, 
 her dark eyes fixed spitefully on an adjacent lounge where 
 the Arab girl lay, her face hidden in the cushions, 
 her golden form almost buried in Iher wealth of black 
 hair. 
 
 "See, Eayma, it's night again," Leonora said, malice 
 in her soft, drawling voice. "Night! And still our lord 
 Casim has not come to visit you." 
 
 There was a sob from the other girl, but no reply. 
 
 "How you jeered at me, Eayma, when you stole his 
 heart from me/' Leonora went on. "But now it seems 
 another has stolen his heart from you, since he no longer 
 comes to see you. Another whom I shall welcome as a 
 sister." 
 
 At the taunt Eayma sat up suddenly, with a wild gesture 
 pushing the mass of black hair back from her face. 
 
 "For weeks and weeks he has not been here," she wailed. 
 "Oh, my heart it breaks for love of him." 
 
 Leonora laughed, but an elderly woman sitting near 
 laid a soothing hand on the distraught girl. 
 
 "Hush, Eayma, my pearl," she said. "Haven't I often 
 told you our Sultan has had thoughts for nothing but 
 vengeance of late?" 
 
 215
 
 216 A SON OP THE SAHARA 
 
 "Would vengeance keep him away from me all these 
 weeks? It's more than vengeance. Ifs love. Love for 
 some other girl." 
 
 Eayma clutched at the woman with slim, jewelled 
 hands. 
 
 "Tell me, Sara, you come and go at will through the 
 palace. Is there one?" 
 
 "My pearl, if there was one, wouldn't she be here in the 
 harem?" Sara answered diplomatically. 
 
 "Yes, and so she would," Eayma replied more quietly. 
 "And I could measure my beauty against hers." 
 
 Then she started rocking herself to and fro, in an agony 
 of grief. 
 
 "Did he but come, my love, my Lord Casim, his heart 
 would be mine again," she sobbed. 
 
 Then she stopped wailing suddenly, and faced the old 
 woman anxiously. 
 
 "Sara, tell me quickly, have these weeks of weeping 
 made me less beautiful?" 
 
 However, she did not wait for any reply. 
 
 Her gaze went to the arches, where night looked in at 
 her mockingly. 
 
 "Look. It is night," she cried. "And my heart is 
 hungry for love. For the love of my Lord Casim. For his 
 arms. His kisses. Again it is night. And he has not come." 
 
 Then through the vaulted room piercing shriek after 
 piercing shriek rang the shrieks of a lovesick girl in the 
 throes of hysteria. 
 
 As Sara sat patting Eayma's hands and trying to soothe 
 her, she thought of the milk-white maid with the wide 
 blue eyes and the golden curls, whom the Sultan himself 
 had brought unconscious to his palace, and who was 
 lodged as no other slave girl had ever been in his own 
 private suite. And who treated her master as no other 
 slave had ever treated him as if she were his equal, even 
 his superior, making him wait on her. A task the Sultan 
 seemed to find pleasure in!
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ON the terrace of her quarters, Pansy sat at dinner with her 
 host. Three days had passed since her rescue from the 
 slave-market; three delightful days for the girl, assured 
 of her own safety, her father's coming freedom and the 
 welfare of her friends. During the time, Le Breton had 
 been with her almost constantly. From breakfast time 
 until after dinner always at her disposal, ready to fall 
 in with her wishes so long as they did not entail too much 
 exertion on her part. 
 
 She was anxious to be on "The Sultan/' and off for a 
 long gallop, but this he vetoed firmly. 
 
 "It would cause too much of a sensation," he had said. 
 lr [n this country women don't ride about on horseback. We 
 should have the whole city at our heels." 
 
 Pansy had no desire for this to happen, lest the Sultan 
 Casim should learn she had fallen into the hands of a friend, 
 and snatch her away from her rescuer, so she did not urge 
 further. But it was on account of her health, and not 
 the idea of a crowd of his own subjects, that made Le 
 Breton refuse this indulgence; for fear she should not be 
 strong enough to stand the shaking. 
 
 He was quite willing to take her rowing on the lake, to 
 play croquet with her, or a game of billiards; but most of 
 all willing to sit at her side in the peaceful, scented garden, 
 or in the cool gallery, or the salon, watching her; an 
 occupation that Pansy, with an extensive knowledge of men 
 and their ways, knew the ultimate end of. An end she 
 was doing her best to keep at bay. 
 
 But, in spite of everything, she had the feeling of being 
 a prisoner. The iron grilles at either end of the long gallery 
 were never unlocked; nor was the gate into the paddock. 
 
 217
 
 218 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 There was never a boat at the foot of the steps leading 
 to the lake except when Le Breton was with her. 
 
 She had explored her quarters further. Beyond the 
 salon there was a combined billiard-room and library, and 
 its one exit led into a sort of big alcove dressing-room. 
 Beyond that was her host's bedroom, as to her dismay she 
 had discovered on opening the door. For she had found him 
 there in shirt sleeves and trousers with a dark-faced valet, 
 who, on seeing her, had melted away discreetly. 
 
 Pansy would have melted away also, but it was too late. 
 In a perfectly unperturbed manner, Le Breton had crossed 
 to her side. 
 
 "So, Pansy, you've come to pay me a visit?" he said 
 teasingly. "Thafs hardly the sort of thing I'd expected 
 of you." 
 
 "I'd no idea " she began in a confused manner. 
 
 "There's no need to make excuses. You'll find all th 
 roads here lead to Mecca. And I'm always pleased to see 
 you," he broke in, in the same teasing strain. "If you'd 
 kept your promise, we should be quite a. staid married 
 couple by now. And you'd be free to come and go in my 
 apartments. Think of it, Pansy." 
 
 Pansy thought of it, and her face went crimson. 
 
 Her blushes made him laugh. 
 
 To the sound of his laughter, soft and mocking, she 
 retreated, and she did not explore in that direction 
 again. 
 
 She explored by way of her own bedroom instead, only 
 to find that led into his study. And after that she did no 
 more exploring. For it seemed that all roads did lead to 
 Mecca, Whichever way she turned, Eaoul Le Breton was 
 there, coming between her and the man. she feared and 
 hated the Sultan Casim Ammeh. 
 
 "I feel like a prisoner," she remarked on one occasion. 
 
 They were sitting by the lake, under the shade of fragrant 
 trees, with the blue water lapping the marble steps and 
 the sun setting over the desert. A gilded world, where a
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 219 
 
 golden sunset edged the golden sand, one flaming yellow 
 sea above another. 
 
 "You're a novelty here," he replied. "A pearl of great 
 price. If I didn't keep you well guarded, there would be 
 a hundred ready to steal you. And I flatter myself that, 
 on the whole, you'd rather be with me." 
 
 He paused, watching her with dark, smouldering eyes. 
 
 "Am I right, Heart's Ease?" he finished tenderly. 
 
 Pansy coloured slightly under the ardour of his gaze. 
 
 Had he been as other men were, she would not have 
 hesitated in her reply. She would have said in her own 
 impulsive, truthful way: 
 
 "I'd rather be with you than anyone in the whole wide 
 world." 
 
 But now his colour and religion were constantly before 
 her. And pride kept any such confession from her 
 lips. 
 
 So instead she said : 
 
 cc No one could have been kinder than you, Eaoul. I 
 can never be grateful enough." 
 
 His kindness had been before her that night when she 
 dressed for dinner. Pansy had no clothes except the ones in 
 which he had brought her. But, within three days, 
 there was an elaborate wardrobe at her disposal; the frocks 
 fashioned like those she had worn in Grand Canary. 
 
 In one of these dresses she now sat at dinner with him; 
 a misty robe of chiffon, but there were no diamonds spark- 
 ling like dew upon it. All her jewels had been left behind 
 in the dim, gilded room in the palace of El-Ammeh. 
 
 When dinner was over, as they sat together in the salon, 
 Le Breton remarked on the fact. 
 
 "They've stolen all your pretty jewels, Pansy," he said. 
 "You must let me give you some others." 
 
 "You've done quite enough for me already," she replied 
 promptly. "I can manage without jewels until I get back 
 to England." 
 
 At her words his eyes narrowed.
 
 220 A SOX OP THE SAHARA 
 
 "Couldn't you be content to stay here?" he asked in 
 a rather abrupt manner. 
 
 "For a few weeks, perhaps, then I should be craving 
 change and variety. 'The Light of the Harem' act 
 isn't one that would satisfy me for long." 
 
 Then Pansy was sorry she had spoken. She remembered 
 that he had admitted to having a harem, probably some- 
 where in this very house. But she had spoken with the 
 idea of letting him see his case was hopeless; of saving 
 him the pain of refusal. 
 
 "Considering how ill you've been, the 'Light of the 
 Harem act,' as you call it, would be the best sort of life 
 for you for some time to come." 
 
 "How do you know I've been ill?" she asked quickly. 
 
 Le Breton saw he had made a slip, but he covered it 
 up smartly. 
 
 "Gossip told me," he said coolly. 
 
 There was silence for a time, during which he sat with 
 his gaze on her. 
 
 "Why don't you smoke?" Pansy asked suddenly, anxious 
 to get something between herself and him. 
 
 "When you're about I don't need any soothing syrups/' 
 he replied. 
 
 He was approaching dangerous ground again. To ward 
 him off Pansy rose and went to the piano. Seating herself 
 there, she wandered from one item to another, with scarcely 
 a pause between. 
 
 But the feeling of his eyes never off her made her stop 
 all at once and laugh hysterically. 
 
 A crisis had to be faced sooner or later. Things might 
 as well come to a head now as to-morrow or next week. 
 
 At that moment Pansy remembered the man who had 
 held her with such fierce strength and passion in the moon- 
 lit garden of the villa. And she wondered, not without 
 a touch of alarm, how he would take her refusal. 
 
 She got up and went to his side.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 221 
 
 "I must give you something else to do than just watching 
 me. It makes me nervous," she said. 
 
 From a box on a table near she took a cigarette and 
 placed it between his lips. Then she struck a match and 
 held it towards him. 
 
 In a lazy, contented manner, he let her do it. But when 
 the cigarette was lighted, he did not give her time to draw 
 her hand away. 
 
 He caught her wrist, and drawing her hand a little closer, 
 blew out the match. When this was done, he did not let 
 her hand go. Instead, he took one or two puffs at the cigar- 
 ette, all the time watching her closely. 
 
 "I didn't give you my hand 'for keeps,' " she said. "1 
 want it back again, please." 
 
 It was hint enough for any man, but Le Breton did not 
 take it. 
 
 In a deliberate manner, and with her still a prisoner, 
 he got to his feet, and put the cigarette on the table. 
 
 Pansy did not try to free herself. The situation had to 
 be faced. 
 
 When the cigarette was laid down, he took the other 
 delicate wrist into his keeping. Then he drew the 
 girl right up to him, until her hands were resting on his 
 chest. 
 
 "Pansy, suppose 1 ask you to redeem your promise?'* 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh no, I couldn't," she answered, a trifle breathlessly. 
 
 "Why not? I'm exactly the same man now that I 
 was when you promised .to marry me. A ! much better 
 man, if you only knew it. Thanks to meeting you." 
 
 "I didn't know anything about you then." 
 
 "But you knew you loved me." 
 
 "I do now, Eaoul," she said. 
 
 "Does the fact of my Arab blood make marriage between 
 us impossible?" 
 
 There was no reply.
 
 222 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 In her silence Le Breton read his answer. 
 
 His hands tightened on her wrists, and a baulked look 
 crossed his face. 
 
 So the black barrier was one that neither love nor grati- 
 tude would make her cross willingly. 
 
 There were some bitter moments for him, as he realised 
 this. For all his wealth and power, for all his scheming, 
 despite the fact that Pansy confessed to loving him, she 
 refused to be his wife. It seemed that nothing he could 
 do would bring her into his arms in the willing way he 
 wanted. 
 
 Pansy was the first to speak. 
 
 In that crushing grip on her wrists, she read an agony 
 of pain and disappointment, that her one desire now was 
 to soothe. 
 
 "It's not you, Raoul. It's the idea/' she said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "So the idea of marrying me is repugnant. And yet 
 you love me?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 Loosing her wrists he turned to the table, and took 
 another cigarette. This, however, he lighted for himself. 
 
 Pansy watched him, marvelling at the cool way he had 
 taken her refusal. 
 
 Considering the fire and temper in the man and his air 
 of never having been thwarted in any way, it was hardly 
 what she had expected. She put it down to the fact that 
 she was completely at his mercy, alone and helpless in this 
 barbaric city. Her heart ached at the thought that through 
 no fault of his own she could only give him pain in return 
 for all his kindness. 
 
 Going to his side, she laid a slim hand on his sleeve. 
 
 "Raoul, I hope you know you're awful nice about things," 
 she said. 
 
 He glanced at her. At the beautiful eyes raised to hig 
 with infinite gentleness in their velvety depths.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHABA 
 
 And he laughed. 
 "Am I?" he said. 
 
 Then he laughed again. And his mirth was a mingling 
 of bitterness and savagery.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 PANSY saw nothing of her host until the following afternoon. 
 Almost immediately after his declaration Le Breton left 
 her. Most of his time had been spent in contemplating 
 the truth now before him. His scheming had failed. A 
 sense of gratitude had not made the girl forget his 
 colour. 
 
 After a sleepless night, he was up and away, riding 
 madly along one of the sandy tracks that served his king- 
 dom as roads, in a vain endeavour to escape from his 
 chagrin and disappointment, and trying to decide on his 
 next move. 
 
 He was surprised at his own hesitation. Having failed 
 to attain his object, he was astonished that he should 
 pause before doing what was obviously the only course 
 left open to him. Just take the girl, whether she liked it 
 or not. 
 
 But he knew why he hesitated. 
 
 Pansy loved him in her own way, as she might love a man 
 of her own nationality. If he took her in his high-handed 
 fashion, that love might be swept from him. And the idea 
 was one that he could not bear to contemplate. 
 
 He returned from his wild ride still undecided on the 
 next move. 
 
 In this frame of mind he came upon Pansy, in the midst 
 of a solitary afternoon tea, set in a shady corner of the 
 tennis court. 
 
 She greeted him as if the episode of the previous afternoon 
 had never been. 
 
 "What have you been doing with yourself all day?" 
 she asked, as she handed him a cup of tea. 
 
 224
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 225 
 
 "I've been trying to ride off my disappointment," he 
 replied. 
 
 Pansy, too, had been fighting a battle of her own. Most 
 of her night had been spent in arguing with temptation. 
 
 She was rich and independent. Why shouldn't she marry 
 the man she loved, even if it were going against all the canons 
 of her society? She was wealthy enough to defy society. 
 She owed more than her life to him. Gratitude as well as 
 love urged her towards him. Why should she make him 
 suffer through no fault of his own? Why should she suffer 
 herself? Why should she shut herself up from the man 
 she loved because he happened to be a a 
 
 "A nigger." 
 
 The echo of Dennis's voice shouted the word at her, 
 as it had seemed to shout that night in the London hotel, 
 when Le Breton's name had been mentioned. 
 
 Pansy looked at her host as he lolled beside her; a 
 picture of strength and handsomeness. 
 
 She wished his dark blood were more in evidence. That 
 he did not look exactly like some of the big French, Spanish, 
 and Italian men she had seen occasionally in various places 
 on the continent. So absolutely European was he that it was 
 impossible to think he was half-Arab. 
 
 "I wish you weren't so nice and handsome, Raoul," she 
 said impulsively. 
 
 He cast a quick, speculative glance at her. 
 
 Perhaps, after all, a little more patience was all that was 
 needed patience combined with his own presence. 
 
 When tea was over, Pansy got up in a restless way. 
 
 "I feel I must do something active, or else go mad," 
 she remarked. 
 
 The feeling was one he could sympathise with. 
 
 ''We'll have a game of tennis then, if you promise to 
 go easy." 
 
 Pansy remembered the way he had played that afternoon 
 in Grand Canary. 
 
 "You'll simply mop the floor with me," she said.
 
 226 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "I'll play you left-handed." 
 
 Only too anxious to get away from her own thoughts 
 and the temptation they brought, Pansy turned towards 
 the court. 
 
 When the game started he handled his opponent care- 
 fully, putting the balls where she could get them without 
 any effort. 
 
 At the end of the first set Pansy objected to his methods. 
 
 "You're not really trying, you're only playing with me," 
 she said. 
 
 "It wouldn't be fair for me to pit all my strength against 
 yours, would it now ?" he asked. 
 
 "Well, do make a game of it. If you go on like this, 
 I could sit down comfortably in the middle of the court 
 and win. You needn't put the balls on my racket. I can 
 stretch an inch or so around without fatal results." 
 
 The next game was more strenuous. But, as it went on, 
 Pansy, getting excited, forgot caution. A long stretch 
 and an upward spring to intercept one of her opponent's 
 balls, brought cutting, knife-like pains tearing at her chest. 
 
 The racket dropped from her grip. She stood, white and 
 swaying, her hand on her heart. 
 
 In a moment he had vaulted the net, and was at her side, 
 his arm about her, concern on his face. 
 
 "It's nothing," she gasped. 
 
 "It's that accursed bullet," he said, conscience-stricken. 
 "When Edouard extracted it, he warned me you'd feel the 
 effects for some time." 
 
 He spoke without thinking, the sight of her suffering 
 making him forget his double role. 
 
 At the moment Pansy was too full of pain to grasp what 
 he had said. 
 
 Half leading, half carrying her, he took her to the 
 nearest chair, settling her there with a cushion at her 
 head. 
 
 With white lips she smiled at him; her only desire to 
 allay his concern.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 227 
 
 "There's nothing to worry about," she said faintly. "I'm 
 9 long way from being dead." 
 
 "It's all my fault," he said hoarsely. 
 
 "Oh no, you always said I mustn't be too strenuous," 
 she contradicted. 
 
 Le Breton let it stay at that, aware that he had said 
 more than he intended to say, and hoping the girl had not 
 grasped all that lay within his comment. 
 
 For some minutes Pansy sat quiet, and, as her pain 
 receded, her companion's sentence came more to the fore. 
 
 "It's that accursed bullet. When Edouard extracted it 
 he warned me you'd feel the effects for some time." 
 
 From Alice, Pansy had learnt that the bullet had been 
 extracted on the day she was brought into her enemy's 
 camp. 
 
 Then Kaoul must have been there! With the Sultan's 
 forces ! 
 
 But why hadn't he told her? Why had he pretended 
 that he only had guessed she was the girl captured? Why 
 had he never mentioned Dr. Edouard before? Why had 
 Dr. Edouard never mentioned him ? 
 
 It looked as if he had not wanted her to know. 
 
 But why hadn't he wanted her to know? 
 
 As Pansy pondered on the problem, mingled with the 
 sweetness of the roses came another scent she knew one 
 that had greeted her every morning during her stay in 
 the palace. 
 
 Above the screening trellis of roses, a tree grew, covered 
 with great bunches of pink flowers, like apple blossom but 
 more vivid, filling the air with fragrance. 
 
 Pansy had seen the flower before; among the blossoms 
 that used to come to her every morning in the dim, gilded 
 chamber. 
 
 "Still only a few flowers, Pansy?" 
 
 Le Breton's remark in the orange groves at Telde 
 suddenly flashed across her mind. She remembered also 
 his array of Arab servants, how obsequious they had
 
 228 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 been to their master on that occasion; and his wealth and 
 magnificence; a splendour that was almost regal. 
 
 Close to where she sat, the tea-table stood. 
 
 Among the assortment of cakes were one or two of a kind 
 she had seen previous to her rescue. Tiny, diamond- 
 shaped dainties, made from layers of sponge cake and 
 marzipan with chocolate icing on the top. 
 
 Often, in those long, hopeless days in the gilded prison, 
 a similar morsel was all she had been able to eat for her tea. 
 
 Sixteen years ago a boy of about fourteen had sworn 
 to kill her father. He would be thirty now. The same age 
 as ! And the Sultan spoke French too! 
 
 They were little things, but they all pointed in one and 
 the same direction. And, as Pansy brooded on them, an 
 incredulous expression came to her eyes, and, with it, 
 a look as if she were fighting to keep some horrible, impos- 
 sible truth at bay. 
 
 Her gaze went to Le Breton. 
 
 "A great, big, fine man, awful good-looking." 
 
 Alice's description of the Sultan Casim Ammeh came back 
 to her. Words that fitted her host exactly. 
 
 As she looked at him, from the paddock came the stamp of 
 a horse's hoof. 
 
 She was here. Her favourite horse was here. Baoul 
 Le Breton was here. All of them in this desert city hun- 
 dreds of miles from civilisation. Such a combination 
 could not be unless 
 
 "If I were a king in Babylon and you were a Christian 
 slave. Or to get down to more modern times. If I were 
 a barbaric Sultan somewhere in Africa and you a girl I'd 
 fancied and caught and carried off . . ." 
 
 His own words came echoing through her head; con- 
 demning words. 
 
 Then she recollected with what unpleasant emphasis he 
 had said "au revoir," on parting with her that night on 
 her yacht. 
 
 All at once Pansy's miracle exploded.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHABA 229 
 
 She wondered how she could have been such a fool as 
 not to have guessed sooner. 
 
 This was the Sultan Casim Ammeh! This man standing 
 before her! 
 
 He caught her gaze and smiled; it seemed to the girl, 
 mockingly. 
 
 "Well, Heart's Ease, are you feeling better?" he asked. 
 "After this you'll agree with me that 'The Light of the 
 Harem' act is the most suitable life for you just at 
 present." 
 
 It seemed to Pansy that he was gibing her. At her 
 trust, her belief, her incredulous folly. 
 
 What a blind fool she had been! It was all as plain as 
 daylight now. Eaoul Le Breton was the Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh. It was her father's enemy she had confessed to 
 loving; had wept in front of, clung to, trusted, display- 
 ing a weakness that had fallen to no man's lot, save her 
 father's. 
 
 At the thought Pansy's soul writhed within her. 
 
 How could she have been such a fool ! How he must have 
 laughed at her! 
 
 Eaoul Le Breton had condemned her to the unspeakable 
 ordeal of the slave market in order to torture her father. 
 
 He had done it ! Eaoul Le Breton ! The man she loved. 
 
 Pansy did not love him now. She hated him. 
 
 For a moment she was too stunned by her discovery to 
 say or do anything. 
 
 Then she said in a voice that wild anger stifled somewhat : 
 
 "So you are the Sultan Casim Ammeh." 
 
 As Pansy spoke she got to her feet, her eyes blazing. 
 
 There was no mistaking what was on her face. She had 
 guessed the truth. 
 
 On realising this, he made no attempt at further decep- 
 tion. 
 
 "I am the Sultan Casim Ammeh," he said, smiling. 
 "And, my little slave, you are my most cherished posses- 
 sion. More to me than my kingdom."
 
 230 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 His cool confession staggered her. 
 
 As he stood there, unabashed and unrepentant, she looked 
 round quickly, in search of something to strike him with. 
 For the knowledge of his deceit and duplicity had made 
 her beside herself with rage. 
 
 Since there was no weapon at hand, she set off rapidly 
 across the lawn, heedless of where she went, her only desire 
 to get away from him. 
 
 She had not gone very far, however, before he was at 
 her side. 
 
 "Where are you going, Pansy?" he asked with a master- 
 ful air. 
 
 That he should dare to follow her; dare to call her by 
 her name enraged her beyond all bounds. And his words 
 added to her fury. They made her realise there was nowhere 
 she could go to escape him. 
 
 Like a whirlwind she turned upon him. 
 
 "I wish ... I wish I could kill you," she gasped. 
 
 There was a tennis racket lying at her feet. As if to 
 carry out this design, she stooped and picked it up; her 
 only desire now to send it crashing into the mocking, master- 
 ful face. 
 
 But he guessed her intention. In a moment he had 
 grasped the racket and wrested it away. 
 
 "No, Pansy," he said. "No one has ever struck me, 
 and you're not going to. For I don't quite know what the 
 consequences might be." 
 
 There was a brief, tense silence. 
 
 As he looked at the girl, it seemed that Fate had decided 
 the next move for him. 
 
 "We may as well come to an understanding," he went 
 on. "I hate your father, but I love you. And you've 
 got to have me, whether you like it or not. I'd prefer to 
 marry you in your English way. But if you won't consent 
 to that, then I shall take you, in mine. The choice is 
 with you." 
 
 There was only one part of his ultimatum that
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 231 
 
 thoroughly grasped'. And there seemed no limit to his 
 audacity. 
 
 "I'd rather die than marry you/' she flamed. "For I 
 hate you. Do you hear ? I hate you more than anything on 
 this earth." 
 
 He heard right enough, and his face blanched at her 
 words. 
 
 Then, before he had recovered from this blow, Pansy 
 struck him across the mouth, with all her strength, bringing 
 blood to the lips that dared to talk of love to her.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THERE was a new slave in the Sultan's harem, a dazed girl 
 who looked as if she moved in dreams. She was not re- 
 clining on a lounge or cushions, as the other girls around 
 the fountain were. She half sat, half knelt upon her 
 cushions, her slim bare legs beneath her, her hands lying 
 listlessly on her knee, staring straight ahead as if in a trance. 
 
 Since that episode on the tennis court, Pansy felt as if 
 she were living in the midst of some wild story, in which 
 Raoul Le Breton and the Sultan Casim Ammeh had got 
 mixed. 
 
 The Sultan wanted to marry her. And she had refused. 
 
 Then ! 
 
 Then, infuriated with the sense of her own helplessness 
 and his complete power, she had struck him. 
 
 She could see him now, with the blood oozing on his lips, 
 his face white with rage, his eyes flaming, looking as if 
 he could kill her. And she had wished he would. Then 
 there would have been an end of it all. She would have 
 done with him, herself, her own folly, and the hatred that 
 raged like a fire within her. 
 
 But he had not touched her. 
 
 White with passion he had just stood and looked at her. 
 And she had looked back, waiting for the end that had not 
 come. 
 
 Instead, three women had come. And she had been taken 
 out of his presence. Through the big salon and along dim 
 passages, past silk-clad,, jewelled guards, and into a little 
 room, with an ottoman and cushions and a tiny window, 
 all fretted like lace, impossible to get out of. 
 
 232
 
 A SON OP THE SAHAEA 233 
 
 Then the women had undressed her. They were three 
 to one. It was useless to struggle: dignity seemed all that 
 was left to her. 
 
 There was not much of that even when the women had 
 done with her. They put her into a white silk slip that 
 reached only to her knees, and with nothing more than a 
 strap of pearls on either shoulder. They would have 
 heaped more pearls upon her, string upon string about 
 her neck. But she would not have that. She tore them 
 off, so angrily that the slender threads snapped and they 
 fell like frozen tears upon the marble floor, as her amber 
 beads had fallen that night in his villa ! 
 
 What a minor thing Lucille Lemesurier was now! 
 Forgivable when she had learnt his race and religion. 
 Not like this gigantic deception. A deception that had 
 forced her into saying she loved the Sultan Casim Ammeh 
 the man who had tortured her father. 
 
 Leaving the women grovelling after the scattered pearls 
 Pansy had rushed from the room, her only desire to seek 
 some way of escape. 
 
 She had gone in her short slip and short curls, looking 
 like some lovely, rebellious child. 
 
 Her steps had taken her into a big room like a hall, 
 where a crowd of women were gathered; half a dozen of 
 them, girls dressed in a similar style to herself. 
 
 Then Pansy's strength went from her suddenly. 
 
 She realized where she was. In the Sultan's harem! 
 And she knew there would be no escape. 
 
 Sara had come to her, and had led her towards a pile 
 of cushions set by a fountain where the other girls were. 
 And the woman had said sharp words to the assembly, who 
 had risen as if to crowd around her words that had kept 
 them at bay. 
 
 When she was seated they had stayed looking at her, most 
 of them with curiosity and friendliness. But there was one 
 face that Pansy, for all her numbness, saw was hostile; the 
 face of a beautiful, golden-skinned girl.
 
 234 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 There was one girl, too, who was more than specially 
 friendly, who said to her in a soft, cooing voice : 
 
 "Where do you come from, sister, for your skin is whiter 
 than mine?" 
 
 Pansy did not answer Leonora's question. She was won- 
 dering herself where she came from. From another world, 
 it seemed. 
 
 It was incredible that she, Pansy Langham, could be a 
 slave in a Sultan's harem, garbed as these other slave girls 
 were. Incredible that only that afternoon she had been 
 playing tennis with Eaoul Le Breton, as she might have 
 played with any man in her own place in England. 
 
 What ages ago it was! Yet perhaps it was only an hour. 
 Like a beautiful dream that had vanished. 
 
 There was no Eaoul Le Breton. No big, masterful man 
 whom she had had to love, in spite of everything. There 
 was only this barbaric Sultan who hated her father. Who, 
 because she refused to marry him, had sent her to this 
 strange room. His harem! 
 
 And she was his slave! She Pansy Langham, who had 
 never obeyed any will except her own. 
 
 Her hands clenched. 
 
 How she hated him! He was so supremely master. 
 
 Any moment he might come to pick whichever of hia 
 slaves he fancied. And he might pick her. 
 
 The ignominy of it! Just to be a man's chattel. And, 
 hitherto, all men had been her abject and willing slaves. 
 
 Heedless alike of Leonora's cooing advances, and Rayma's 
 dark scowls, Pansy sat down. 
 
 The shadows gathered. The lamps were lit. Then dinner 
 time came. A conglomeration of sweets and fruit and dainties 
 set out on silver trays, with only a spoon to eat with. 
 
 Again Leonora's voice broke into Pansy's broodings. 
 
 "Come, won't you eat, my sister ?" she coaxed, pushing one 
 of the trays closer. 
 
 But Pansy felt as if she could never eat a bite again. 
 
 Rayma ate nothing either.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 235 
 
 With angry eyes, she studied the newcomer. 
 
 Pansy was very beautiful in her way, but no more beautiful 
 than Bayma was in hers. And what was more, she 
 was not perfect. There was an ugly red scar on one of her 
 milk-white arms. And the Lord Casim hated flaw or blemish 
 on a woman. 
 
 Would this new slave's presence bring him to the harem ? 
 
 If he came ! 
 
 Eayma clenched her little white teeth. 
 
 Then there would be a battle royal between this white 
 girl and herself for his favors. But she would not let his 
 heart go lightly. 
 
 Stretched full length on her couch, her elbows on the 
 soft cushions, her pointed chin in the cup of her hands, the 
 Arab girl lay watching her rival and waiting. 
 
 The evening wore on. The lamps burnt low, and started 
 to flare and crackle, without any sign of the Sultan com- 
 ing. 
 
 Presently, shriek after shriek, echoing through the vaulted 
 hall, roused Pansy from her broodings, making her look round 
 in a quick, startled manner. The shrieks were familiar. 
 Muffled they had reached her every evening in that dim, 
 gilded chamber. 
 
 "It's only Eayma," Leonora said indifferently. "She has 
 hysterics every night because the Sultan does not come. He 
 has not been to the harem now for three months or longer. 
 Not since he left the city on some foray. She fears some 
 other girl has stolen his heart from her." 
 
 Leonora paused, her great eyes on the new-comer. 
 
 "Is it you, my sister?" she finished inquisitively. "For, 
 if so, I shall love you." 
 
 But Pansy had nothing to say. 
 
 At that moment she was wondering why Eayma shrieked 
 because the Sultan had not come. There seemed to her more 
 reason to shriek if he did comi.
 
 CHAPTEE XX 
 
 ON one of the terraces of his palace the Sultan sat and 
 brooded, his face hard and savage, as he glowered at the scene 
 ahead of him; a harmless scene where night shadows settled 
 on a scented garden with the glint of a lake beyond. 
 
 Never in his life had such an indignity been put upon him. 
 Never had anyone dared dispute his right to do what he 
 pleased. Never! Until this English girl had come into his 
 life. 
 
 And she had struck him. The Sultan! As if he were 
 some erring menial whose ways had annoyed her. 
 
 Under the recollection the man's untamed soul writhed. 
 
 She had done as she liked all her life. All that money 
 of hers had given her ideas no woman ought to have. Now 
 she had to learn that he was her master. 
 
 She was in the harem now. And there she could stay. 
 A spell there would cool her temper and make her more 
 amenable to his wishes. 
 
 The trees in the garden sighed faintly. The soft 
 wind brought the scent of roses and the splash of a fountain. 
 
 His mind went back to another garden, in far-away Grand 
 Canary. The echoes of a girl's voice whispered: 
 
 "Put your ear quite close. It's not a matter that can 
 be shouted from the house-tops/' 
 
 She had shouted loud enough that she hated him. She 
 had not whispered that fact. 
 
 A spasm of pain crossed his face. 
 
 Why did she fight against him? This slender, lovely, 
 helpless girl, whom he could break with one hand. She 
 fought bravely, with ail the odds against her. And she 
 had dared to do what no one else in the place dared do. 
 What no one had ever done in the whole of his wild, 
 
 236
 
 A SON X)F THE SAHAEA 237 
 
 unbridled life. She had dared to strike him, fair and 
 square, with all her strength, across the mouth. 
 
 Then suddenly his anger melted. A smile came and played 
 about his scarred lips. 
 
 Surely no man could be angry for long with a girl so 
 brave and helpless. 
 
 He deserved it for his deception. Just as he had de- 
 served her scorn and contempt over Lucille. She was 
 always giving him what he deserved, this little English 
 flower of his. 
 
 More than he deserved, a struggling conscience breathed. 
 
 For he had never deserved those three words she had 
 once whispered in his ear: 
 
 "I love you."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ALL the following day Rayma waited for the Sultan's 
 coming. Pansy waited, also. By now she realised more 
 fully what she had done: struck and infuriated the man 
 who held her father's life in his hand. 
 
 However, nothing was seen of the Sultan either that 
 day or the next. 
 
 For Pansy the days were the longest she had ever spent 
 in her life. 
 
 She could not doze away her time as the other girls did, 
 with coffee and sherbet and cigarettes; their greatest 
 exertion a bath, or making sweetmeats over a charcoal 
 brazier, or doing intricate embroidery. She kept out of 
 their way as much as possible, in her own room, or wander- 
 ing aimlessly in the garden, looking at walls impossible 
 for her to scale, wondering what had happened to her 
 father and her friends, and what would happen to herself. 
 But even the garden was barred to her except in the 
 very early morning, and the brief space after sunset. If 
 she tried to go at other times there were twenty women 
 to stop her. The order was the Sultan's, she was told, 
 lest to escape him she should wander in the tropic heat and 
 make herself ill. 
 
 All her meals had to be taken in the harem, and for 
 bathing there was only the harem bathroom. That was a 
 vast underground tank, approached by marble steps, cool 
 and still and dim, its silence only broken by the dip of 
 water. 
 
 There the girls disported themselves several times a day. 
 But Pansy was not used to company when she bathed. 
 
 28ft
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 239 
 
 And to avoid them, she rose very early, when she was sure 
 of having the great marble tank to herself. 
 
 During the afternoon of the third day the Sultan 
 came. 
 
 Pansy was not in the harem at the time, but lying on 
 the lounge in her own room. 
 
 Sara's entrance roused her. 
 
 "My pearl, the Sultan is here," she said conjolingly. 
 "And he desires to see you." 
 
 "I prefer to stay where I am," was the cold response. 
 
 The woman looked at her, speculating on the relations 
 between this girl and the Sultan. They had once been so 
 fond of one another, always together. And now the girl 
 had been sent to the harem, and for three days the Sultan 
 had not come near her. 
 
 "It's useless to resist, my pearl," Sara explained. "If 
 you don't come when the Sultan commands, servants will 
 be sent to fetch you." 
 
 Pansy had no wish to be dragged into her captor's 
 presence. 
 
 Since she had to go, she might as well go with 
 dignity. 
 
 However, she did not go very far. Only just beyond the 
 door of her own quarters. Once there she sank down 
 quickly on a pile of cushions, in her usual position, half 
 sitting, half kneeling; a position that made the scantiness 
 of her garment not quite so obvious. 
 
 At once she knew who the man in the white burnoose 
 was, although she had never seen him in anything but 
 civilised attire before. He was sitting on an ottoman near 
 the fountain, with the girls clustered around him, fawn- 
 ing on him like dogs round a loved master. 
 
 Pansy turned a slender, disdainful shoulder on, the 
 scene. 
 
 But if she did not look in the direction of the group, 
 there was one at least who kept a sharp suspicious eye on 
 her.
 
 240 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 By the Sultan's side Bayma sat, with her pointed chin 
 resting upon his knee. 
 
 "Why haven't you come sooner to see that new slave 
 of yours, Casim beloved?" she asked, pointing a slim finger 
 at the distant girl. 
 
 "I've had other things than women to think about," he 
 replied evasively. 
 
 A bitter reminiscent smile curved his lips as he spoke. 
 Some words of Pansy's were in his mind. 
 
 "So long as it's 'women/ it's all right. The trouble 
 starts when it comes to 'woman."' 
 
 Certainly for him the trouble had started when it came 
 to "woman"; when this slender, wayward, golden-haired 
 girl came into his life. For she had robbed all other 
 women of their sweetness. 
 
 With longing his gaze rested on Pansy. 
 
 What a fool he was not to take her. To let her whim 
 come butween himself and his desires. 
 
 But there was something more than a girl's whim had 
 he but realised it; a feeble new self that Pansy was 
 responsible for : the man he might have been but for his 
 profligate training. 
 
 Eayma saw where his gaze was. To get his eyes away 
 from Pansy, she took one of his hands and pressed it on 
 her bosom. 
 
 "When first I came here, my lord," she whispered, "there 
 was nothing else you could think of." 
 
 His attention came back to her. 
 
 "You were very pretty, Eayma," he said a trifle absently. 
 
 "And am I not beautiful still ?" she asked quickly. 
 
 "You're always a picture," lie answered. 
 
 He talked as if to a spoilt child who bored him. 
 
 Eayma hitched herself closer, until her soft breast pressed 
 against his knee. But he remained silent, without look 
 or caress, his gaze still on the distant girJ. 
 
 He was wondering whether he would take Pansy out of 
 her present surroundings, or if a spell in the harem might
 
 ba 
 
 o 
 
 3
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 41 
 
 not make her realise to the fullest her own helplessness 
 and his complete supremacy. 
 
 Leonora watched her master, her dark eyes full of joy 
 and malice. 
 
 "There are some people who never know when they're 
 not wanted," she remarked sotto voce, and to no one in 
 particular. 
 
 Eayma cast a venomous look at her. But Leonora only 
 smiled at her dagger-like glances. 
 
 "Can she dance, this new slave of yours?" the Arab 
 girl asked suddenly. 
 
 "She dances very nicely," he answered in an indifferent 
 manner. 
 
 "As well as I do?" she asked jealously. 
 
 He thought of the snake-like writhing Kayma called 
 "dancing." 
 
 "She dances quite differently from you." 
 
 "Let us both dance before you then, so that you may 
 judge which is the better of us," she said quickly. 
 
 However, he vetoed this neat arrangement. 
 
 "The girl has been wounded. And she's still not strong 
 enough for much exertion. 
 
 Eayma brooded on this fact, and the more she thought 
 about it, the less she liked it. 
 
 "Did you capture her on that foray?" she asked presently. 
 
 "She was part of my booty," he said, a lingering tender- 
 ness in his voice. 
 
 Again Bayma was silent. 
 
 Very quickly she put two and two together. 
 
 The Sultan had not been near the harem since his return 
 from that quest for vengeance. And this new slave had 
 been captured during that foray. 
 
 So this was the girl who had stolen the Sultan's heart! 
 Who had kept him away from the harem all these dreary 
 weeks. The girl sitting there by the distant doorway. 
 The girl who would not come near him; whom he watched, 
 yet did not go to.
 
 242 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Rayma scowled at Pansy's back. 
 
 Then she turned to one of the women attendants sitting 
 near. 
 
 "Fetch that girl to me," she said, pointing to Pansy. 
 
 The woman rose, ready and anxious to do a favourite's 
 bidding. 
 
 But the Sultan motioned her down again. 
 
 "She comes at no one's bidding, except mine/' he said 
 firmly. 
 
 Pouting, Rayma wriggled closer to him. 
 
 "May I not even call her ?" she asked softly. 
 
 "The rule applies to all here," he replied. 
 
 Somewhat impatiently he pushed Rayma aside. Then 
 he got to his feet, and went towards Pansy. 
 
 His step behind her made the girl's heart start beating 
 violently. 
 
 He was coming to issue some further ultimatum. Per- 
 haps not an ultimatum even, but an order. 
 
 Pansy had wanted to see her captor, to plead for her 
 father. Now that he was there, the words refused to pass 
 her lips. To have asked any favour of him would have 
 choked her. 
 
 "Well, Pansy, are you going to marry me?" he a&ked. 
 
 He might not have been there, for all the notice she took 
 of him. 
 
 "Come," he went on, in an authoritative manner, " you 
 must realise that I'm supreme, and that you must obey 
 me." 
 
 Pansy realised this to the fullest, and the sense of her 
 own helplessness only infuriated her. Since she had no 
 weapon she could turn on him except her tongue, she hit 
 at him with that. And she hit her very hardest on the 
 Bpot she knew would hurt the most. 
 
 "English women don't marry niggers," she said con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 The word cut deep into his proud spirit; all the deeper 
 for coming from her lips. Although he whitened under the
 
 'A SON OF THE SAHAEA 243 
 
 insult, the knowledge of his own complete supremacy held 
 his fiery temper in check. 
 
 "The marrying is just as you like," he replied. "Forms 
 and ceremonies are nothing to me, but I'd an idea you 
 preferred them." 
 
 There was a brief silence. 
 
 With her face turned away Pansy sat ignoring him 
 entirely, leaving him only a slender white neck, a small 
 ear and part of a rose-tinted cheek to study. 
 
 And the Sultan studied them, amused that anything so 
 helpless should dare to defy him. 
 
 "You've not only yourself to consider when you set me 
 at defiance in this manner," he remarked presently. 
 "There's your father, and your English friends." 
 
 His words brought Pansy's eyes to him, fear in their 
 velvety depths. 
 
 At her look he laughed. 
 
 "Your kind heart has given me some hostages, Pansy," 
 je said. "But nothing will happen to them for another 
 week. I'll give you that much time to make up your mind. 
 Not longer. For my patience is wearing very thin. 
 And I've had a lot where you're concerned. More than 1 
 ever dreamt I was capable of. In the meantime, my little 
 girl, try and remember I'm not quite the hopeless villain 
 you think me, or you wouldn't have liked me, even for a 
 day." 
 
 But just then it seemed to Pansy there was no greater 
 villain on earth than the Sultan Casim Ammeh.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 EARLY the next morning when Pansy was splashing about 
 in the great underground tank, a voice made her look up 
 in a startled fashion. So far no one had intruded on her 
 ablutions. 
 
 It was a soft, purring, malicious little voice that said in 
 lisping French: 
 
 "Now I see why you always come here early. Why you 
 don't bathe with me and the other girls." 
 
 On the broad marble steps Eayma stood, looking down at 
 her rival spitefully. 
 
 "I come early because I'm not used to bathing before 
 people," Pansy replied, hoping the other would take the 
 hint and go. 
 
 But Eayma did not go. She seated herself on the steps 
 and stayed there, her black eyes fixed on the graceful girl 
 in the water. 
 
 "Has the Sultan seen those scars?" she asked, pointing 
 a slim disparaging finger at the network of red marks and 
 ridges on Pansy's thigh and side. 
 
 Pansy flushed at the question. 
 
 "Of course not," she cried indignantly. 
 
 "When he bought me I stood before him with only 
 my hair for a covering. And I stood gladly, for I knew 
 I was perfect." Eayma finished, as if the fact gave her 
 pleasure. 
 
 Pansy had no desire to discuss the Sultan's likes and 
 dislikes. To avoid further conversation, she swam out to 
 the far end of the great bath and stayed there until Eayma 
 
 had gone. 
 
 244
 
 A SON OF THE SAHABA 245 
 
 All that day, whenever the Arab girl's eyes met hers, 
 there was a look of malicious triumph in them. And when 
 the two girls came within speaking distance that purring, 
 little voice whispered spitefully: 
 
 "Only wait until the Sultan comes. I shall find a way 
 of taking his love from you." 
 
 Despondently Pansy wished this would come to pass. 
 She was between the upper and nether millstones, her father 
 on one side, her captor on the other. 
 
 Several days passed without anything being seen of the 
 Sultan. Then, one night, he came, when the girls were 
 gathered in the harem, drinking coffee and smoking cigar- 
 ettes after dinner. Pansy was in the group, and the sight 
 of his big, white-clad figure brought her to her feet sharply, 
 with a feeling of choking alarm. Then she stayed where 
 she was, fully aware that escape was impossible. 
 
 He seated himself at her side. 
 
 She would have edged away, but his voice stopped 
 her. 
 
 "No, Pansy, stay where you are/' he said quickly. "And 
 since I don't smoke Tiubble bubbles' like the men in 'Eastern 
 pictures and on cigar-box lids' you once mentioned, you 
 can give me a cigarette, and light it, if you like," he added, 
 with a touch of teasing. 
 
 Pansy did not like. She stood slim and straight and 
 defiant, ignoring his request, conscious that all eyes were 
 upon them, all ears listening to what was said. 
 
 Since she refused to do the Sultan's bidding, and since 
 he made no attempt to force obedience, there were half a 
 dozen pairs of hands ready and eager to do the task Pansy 
 (scorned. 
 
 Eayma's gaze rested jealously on the English girl, 
 
 "Is it always what she likes, Casim, my Lord, and never 
 what you wish?" 
 
 "She has been ill, and I humour her," he replied 
 shortly. 
 
 "Ill or not she should be only too pleased to do your
 
 246 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 bidding. Are you not her Sultan and her master? Z have 
 no will except your wishes. / have no secrets hidden from 
 you." 
 
 There was a world of insinuation in Rayma's voice. 
 And it made the Sultan glance at Pansy in a quick, sus- 
 picious manner. 
 
 The only thing he suspected her of doing was trying to 
 escape. He failed to see how she could get out of her 
 present quarters, but the mere idea of losing her sent a 
 chill through him. 
 
 "What are you hiding from me, Pansy?" he asked 
 presently. 
 
 His close scrutiny brought a flush to her face, not through 
 any sense of guilt, but because of her unaccustomed and 
 scanty attire. 
 
 He saw the flush and his suspicions deepened. She was 
 capable of doing herself some injury in order to get away 
 from him. 
 
 "What do you mean, Rayma?" he asked, as Pansy refused 
 to answer. 
 
 The Arab girl sidled up to Pansy, malice and triumph in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Do you really want to know, my Lord?" she asked, smil- 
 ing at him softly. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 Before Pansy realised what was happening, there was a 
 feeling of cold steel at her breast. Totally unprepared, it 
 seemed that Rayma was going to stab her. She moved 
 back quickly. As she moved there was the sharp snip of 
 scissors, a rending sound, a quick jerk, and her one garment 
 was dragged from her. The Arab girl retreated quickly, 
 holding the silk slip behind her, leaving Pansy nothing but 
 her curls to cover her; a covering that reached no further 
 than the nape of her neck. 
 
 With a heart-broken cry she sank on the floor, and 
 crouched there, her face hidden in her hands, flushed with 
 shame from head to foot.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 247 
 
 Laughing triumphantly Rayma pointed a scornful finger 
 at her rival. 
 
 "Look, Casim, look, beloved," she cried, "that is the secret 
 she would hide from you. Those ugly scars. And she 
 bathes early in the morning when none of us are there, so 
 that we shall not see them and tell you. For she knows that 
 you would not love a woman so flawed." 
 
 The other women looked at Pansy in an unconcerned 
 manner. Clothing was of no great consequence to them. 
 Moreover, it was just as well not to interfere when Rayma 
 chose to play her tricks and amuse their master. 
 
 But he did not look at all amused. What was more, his 
 gaze did not go to the slim bare girl crouched on the floor. 
 He looked instead at Rayma. 
 
 ".Give the girl back her garment," he said in an ominously 
 quiet tone. 
 
 "Look, Casim. Look, my Lord. A girl so blemished is 
 not worthy of you. Often you have said no woman has a 
 form as perfect as mine. But look and compare. Then say 
 which of us is more deserving of your favour." 
 
 She snatched off her own light garment, and stood before 
 him, slim and perfect, a golden statue, a model for an 
 artist. 
 
 The Sultan's eyes were fixed on her still. But there was 
 no appreciation in them, only anger. 
 
 "Give the girl back her garment," he said again. 
 
 "When you have looked at her, and not before," Rayma 
 cried, defiant in the surety of her own perfections. 
 
 "Give it back when I tell you," he said in a savage 
 voice. 
 
 A tense silence followed. 
 
 The girls and women glanced at one another, and waited 
 for what they had seen happen from time to time the fall 
 of a favourite. 
 
 Rayma's "coup" had fallen surprisingly, ominously flat. 
 The Sultan refused to look at the girl whose blemishes had 
 been unveiled for his inspection.
 
 348 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Rayma knew it too. And as she gazed at the cold, angry 
 face of her master, she saw her star had set. She threw 
 the silk slip at Pansy who still crouched on the floor, 
 paralysed with shame. Beside herself with jealous rage 
 the Arab girl then stooped and picking up a heavy silver 
 goblet hurled it at her rival. Fortunately it missed its aim 
 and went skimming and crashing along the marble floor. 
 
 This attempted assault was the last straw. A savage, 
 merciless expression came to her master's face. At this 
 look Rayma fell prostrate at his feet. 
 
 "Casim, love me a little, and I ask for nothing else," she 
 wailed. 
 
 A gong stood at his side. Ignoring her, he struck it 
 angrily. Its musical notes echoed through the room. A 
 moment later a couple of negroes appeared in the doorway 
 of the harem. 
 
 The Sultan gave a sharp order in Arabic. 
 
 What it was Pansy did not know. She was now the 
 centre of a group of women who, with brooch and jewelled 
 pin, were adjusting her silk slip. They were all anxious to 
 gain her good graces, since there was no doubt now who was 
 the Sultan's favourite. 
 
 In her ear Leonora was whispering: 
 
 '"There's no need to be ashamed, my sister. Our Lord 
 Casim never once glanced at you. His eyes and his anger 
 were all for Rayma. Thanks to you, she now feels what I 
 once felt. And her heart is breaking." 
 
 But if Pansy did not know what the Sultan said, the crowd 
 around her did. They whispered affrightedly among them- 
 selves, and edged further away from their master. For the 
 Sultan in a temper was a person to be avoided. 
 
 And Rayma knew what was going to happen. She started 
 tip with dilated eyes and screaming, then clung piteously 
 to his feet. 
 
 "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."
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 249 
 
 There wis 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 Eayma'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. 
 
 Eayma'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 Eayma. 
 
 There was one in the harem who dared come between 
 the Sultan and his wrath. 
 
 The whips fell on white shoulders, not golden ones, bring- 
 ing the blood oozing to satin-smooth skin. 
 
 The weight and pain brought Pansy to her knees before 
 her captor. 
 
 "Baoul," she gasped, "I can't let you do this dreadful 
 thing." 
 
 The whips fell from the negroes' hands. Aghast, they 
 stared at the girl before them. It was not their fault the 
 1-shes had fallen on the new favourite and not on the culprit. 
 But they would be held responsible, and doubtless beaten 
 nevertheless. The women and girls started to scream and 
 wail. Their master might turn on them for letting the new 
 slave get within reach of the whips. But who was to know
 
 250 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 she would dare come between the Sultan and a girl he 
 thought well to punish. 
 
 He paid no heed to the frightened stares of the guards, 
 the wails of the scared women, to Rayma still sobbing, 
 with fright, not pain. He had thoughts and eyes for noth- 
 ing but the girl on her knees before him, with the red weals 
 on her shoulders, horror and entreaty in her eyes Pansy 
 calling him once again by name. 
 
 With a fierce, possessive movement, he stooped and gathered 
 her into his arms, crushing her against him, until she was 
 almost lost in his voluminous robes. 
 
 "My little English flower, you can't quite hate me," he 
 whispered passionately. "Or you wouldn't try to keep me 
 what you once thought me. You wouldn't try to come 
 between me and the man I am." 
 
 With the girl in his arms, he rose. 
 
 Scared eyes watched him as he crossed the big hall, and 
 disappeared behind the silken curtains. 
 
 Then the girls started to whisper among themselves. For 
 the Sultan had taken this new slave to the gilded chamber 
 of their desires.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THROUGH the open arches of the gilded chamber the moon- 
 light dripped, making silver ponds on the golden floor, 
 filling the place with a vague shimmering glow. 
 
 One bar of moonlight fell on a couch where Pansy lay, 
 her face buried in the cushions. By her side the Sultan 
 knelt, one arm across her, watching her with glowing, pas- 
 sionate eyes. 
 
 The last few minutes had been a haze to the girl; a blur 
 of great negroes with whips; of Rayma, sobbing and help- 
 less; of Raoul Le Breton, cruel, as she had always felt he 
 might be. 
 
 He had come back into her life suddenly, that lover with 
 the strong arms and the deep, caressing voice, the big, half- 
 tamed, arrogant man, whom from the first she had liked 
 and had never been afraid of. 
 
 "What dare I hope? What dare I think?" his voice 
 was saying. "Dare I think that you don't quite hate me? 
 Look at me, my little slave, and let me see what is in your 
 eyes." 
 
 But Pansy did not look at him. She was too full of 
 Bhame and confusion, despite Leonora's assurance; a shame 
 and confusion that the Sultan guessed at, for he stayed 
 caressing her golden curls with a soothing touch. 
 
 For a time there was silence. 
 
 Through the room the wind strayed, its soft, rose-ladened 
 breath mingling with the subtle scent of sandalwood. Scr><? 
 where in the garden an owl hooted. A peevish wail in 
 the night, came the cry of jackals prowling around the ciiy 
 walls. 
 
 Under that firm, strong, soothing hand, Pansy's shanni 
 subsided a little. For the girl there was always magic in 
 his touch, except when anger raged within her. There was 
 
 251
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 no anger now, only a sense of her own helplessness, and the 
 knowledge of the lives he held in his power. 
 
 Under the silence and his soothing hand, a question 
 trembled to her lips, born of her own helplessness and the 
 dire straits of her father and friends. 
 
 "If ... if I marry you, will you send my father and 
 friends safely back to Gambia?" she asked, in a low voice. 
 
 He laughed tenderly. 
 
 "If I were as big a villain as you think me, I'd say 'yes/ 
 aad then break faith with you, Pansy as you broke faith 
 with me. If I sent them back, my little flower, do you 
 know what would happen? Your English friends would 
 complain to the French Government. An expedition would 
 be sent up here, and they would dole out to me the fate 
 your father doled out to mine." 
 
 His words made Panpy realise for the first time that his 
 summary abduction of his father's party had brought him 
 foul of two Governments. 
 
 Horrified, she gazed at him; her father and friends all 
 forgotten at the thought of the fate awaiting her captor. 
 
 They would shoot him, this big, fierce man. All fire 
 would die out of those flashing eyes. That handsome face 
 would be stiff and stark in death. Never again would that 
 hard mouth curve into lines of tenderness when he smiled 
 at her. There would be no strength left in his arms. No 
 deep, passionate, caressing voice. No untamed, masterful 
 man, using all his power to bend her to his will. 
 
 It was one thing for Pansy to want to kill him herself, 
 but quite another for other people to set about it. 
 
 At that moment she realised that, in spito of everything, 
 she did not hate the Sultan Casim Ammeh. 
 
 And what was more he knew it too. For he bent over 
 her, laughing softly. 
 
 "So, Heart's Ease, you don't quite hate me," he said. 
 "That fact will keep me patient for quite a little time. 
 And you will be whispering 'yes' in my ear, as I would
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 253 
 
 have you whisper it of your own free will, as you whis- 
 pered 'I love you/ on that sweet night six months ago." 
 
 He hent still lower, and kissed the little face that watched 
 him with such strained anxiety. 
 
 "Good night, my darling," he said fondly. 
 
 Long after he had gone Pansy lay trying to crush the 
 truth back into its hiding-place in her heart. And his 
 voice, tender and triumphant, seemed to echo back mock- 
 ingly from the jewelled ceiling. 
 
 For surely she could not love a man so cruel, so barbaric, 
 so profligate as the Sultan Casim Ammeh.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE next morning Pansy awoke to find herself back in her 
 gilded prison, and Alice beside her with the customary 
 morning tea, a dish of fruit and a basket of flowers, all as if 
 the last ten days had never been. She knew now the flowers 
 were from the Sultan. But she did not tell Alice to take 
 them away. Instead, as she drank her tea and ate some 
 fruit, she looked at them in a meditating manner. 
 
 And Alice looked at her mistress in an inquisitive way, 
 wondering what had happened to her during the last few 
 days. 
 
 "De Sultan, he no sell you den, Miss Pansy?" 
 
 "No," Pansy replied in an absent manner. 
 
 "Since you go I lib wid de oder servants in anoder part 
 ob de palace. Dere be hundreds ob dem," the girl con- 
 tinued, her eyes round with awe at her captor's wealth and 
 power. 
 
 She spoke, too, as if anxious for an exchange of confi- 
 dences. 
 
 However, Pansy said nothing. She stayed with her gaze 
 on the flowers, despising herself for having been so upset 
 at the thought of the Sultan's demise. 
 
 That morning Alice dressed her in her usual civilised 
 attire. In spite of this, Pansy found she was still a prisoner, 
 still within the precincts of the harem. The rose garden 
 was hers to wander in at will. But the guards were still 
 stationed outside one of the sandalwood doors, as they had 
 been on the day of her arrival at the palace. However, one 
 of the two other doors was unlocked. 
 
 Pansy opened it, hoping some way of escape might lay 
 beyond. A dim flight of stairs led downwards. She de- 
 scended, only to find herself in the harem. 
 
 254
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 255 
 
 The girls and women greeted her with an awed and 
 servile air. To them now she was the Sultan's first wife; 
 the most envied and most honoured woman in the province 
 of El-Ammeh. 
 
 Curious glances were cast at her attire. Leonora appeared 
 most at her ease. For she fingered Pansy's garments with 
 soft, slow, indolent hands. 
 
 "It's quite ten years since I've seen a woman dressed 
 as you are," she remarked. "Not since I lived in Tangier, 
 before my uncle sold me to an Arab merchant." 
 
 Pansy knew Leonora's history. It did not sound a pretty 
 one to civilised ears. 
 
 Sold at the age of fourteen, she had been handed from 
 one desert chief to another, until finally she had appeared 
 in the slave market of El-Ammeh and had taken the Sul- 
 tan's fancy. 
 
 "What an awful life you've had," Pansy said, pity in her 
 voice. 
 
 Leonora's languid eyes opened with surprise. 
 
 "Me! Oh, no. I'm beautiful, and most of my masters 
 have been kind. But none so kind and generous as the 
 Sultan Casim. Besides, now my travels are at an end. 
 When the Sultan tires of a slave, he does not sell her. She 
 is given in marriage to one of his officers, with a good 
 dowry. And she is then a woman with an established posi- 
 tion. He is always generous to a woman who has pleased 
 him. How lucky for you to be picked for his first wife ! 
 You'll find him almost always kind. I've been here more 
 than a year and I know. He is never harsh without a rea- 
 son. He is never hard and unjust like some of the masters 
 I've known." 
 
 As Pansy listened to this eulogy on her captor, she was 
 surprised and ashamed of herself for having a scrap of 
 liking left for him. All her instincts revolted at his doings, 
 but much as she tried she could not make them revolt at 
 the man himself. 
 
 "He was hard enough last night," she remarked.
 
 256 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "But he had a reason. Rayma would have shamed and 
 injured you. She could not see what I saw that the Sultan 
 has eyes and thoughts and heart for no one but you now. 
 She is a stupid girl, that Rayma. Because he loved her 
 for a month or two., she thought he would love her for ever. 
 He was her first master. He bought her but a few weeks 
 before he last went to Paris. And he is so angry now that 
 he will sell her again, not give her in marriage to one of 
 his officers, making her a woman of importance." 
 
 Leonora's remarks made Pansy glance sharply round the 
 big hall, suddenly aware that Rayma was not present. 
 Already she saw the Arab girl having to face that dreadful 
 sea of eyes, as she, herself, had faced it. 
 
 "Where is Rayma?" she asked quickly. 
 
 "The guards took her away last night," Leonora answered 
 indifferently. "She'll trouble you no more." 
 
 Hastily Pansy got to her feet, and went to the big door 
 leading out of the harem. She knew what lay beyond; a 
 large vestibule where, day and night, half a dosen eunuchs 
 lounged. 
 
 Seeing Pansy on the threshold, brought them to their 
 feet, barring her exit. 
 
 "I must see the Sultan," she said. 
 
 Although she made the request, she hardly expected to 
 have it granted, for the Sultan came when he felt disposed, 
 
 "Lady, I'll inform the Sultan of your desires," one of 
 the guards replied. 
 
 With that he left the vestibule. 
 
 Pansy waited, conscious of the servility and overwhelm- 
 ing desire to please that oozed from these menials. 
 
 Before long the messenger returned. 
 
 It appeared that the girl's wish was to be granted. With 
 a negro on either side of her Pansy was taken through an 
 intricate maze of corridors, past closed doors, open arches 
 and Arabesque windows, to a further door that her escort 
 opened. 
 
 Pansy found herself in a room that looked more like a
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 257 
 
 sumptuous office than anything else, with a balcony that 
 jutted over the lake. 
 
 At a large desk a man was seated in a white drill suit 
 with a black cummerbund, who rose at her entry and smiled 
 at her, as if the last week had never been ; as if he were still 
 Eaoul Le Breton and there had been no unveiling. 
 
 "Well, Pansy, it's flattering to think you want to see me," 
 he remarked. 
 
 Pansy did not waste any time before stating the reason 
 of her visit. 
 
 "Is it true you're going to sell Bayma?" she asked in a 
 horror-stricken tone. 
 
 The mere mention of her name made a savage expression 
 flit across his face. 
 
 "What I'm going to do with her is my own concern." 
 
 "How can you be such a brute, such a savage, so abomi- 
 nably cruel ?" she cried, distress in her voice. 
 
 "Do you know, my little slave, that you're the only person 
 in the place who dare take me to task about my doings?" 
 he remarked. 
 
 Pansy did not know, or care; her only desire was to save 
 him from himself. 
 
 "I shall stay here until you premise not to sell her," she 
 said tensely. 
 
 "If you stay until Doomsday, it won't worry me," he 
 replied. "You must find some other threat." 
 
 Pansy could have shaken him for daring to poke fun at 
 her, when her only desire was to keep him from slave- 
 dealing. 
 
 "How can you even contemplate such a ghastly thing," 
 she gasped. 
 
 "As what?" he asked in an unconcerned manner. 
 
 "Don't you know that slave-dealing is an abomination?" 
 
 "It may be in your country, but it isn't in mine." 
 
 "I can't bear to think of you doing anything so dread- 
 ful," she said in a strained voice. 
 
 He glanced at her, a soft, mocking light in his eyes.
 
 258 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 "Should you like me any better if I didn't sell Rayma?" 
 
 "I should hate you if you did." 
 
 "I couldn't run such a risk a second time," he replied. 
 "I'll send her back to the harem, and keep her there until 
 I can find a suitable husband, if that'll please you better." 
 
 Pansy experienced a feeling of relief. The victory was 
 easier than she had expected. 
 
 There was a brief pause. Then he said : 
 
 "So you're still returning good for evil, Pansy. Your 
 power of forgiveness is astonishing. Rayma deserved punish- 
 ment for her treatment of you." 
 
 "If anyone deserves punishment it's you," Pansy retorted. 
 
 "How do you make that out?" 
 
 "For trifling with her." 
 
 For a moment he was too astonished to speak. 
 
 "If you call that trifling, then I must have trifled with 
 at least a hundred women in my day," he remarked at 
 length. 
 
 "How can you stand there and say such dreadful things?" 
 she gasped. 
 
 "There's nothing dreadful about it from my point of 
 view." 
 
 Pansy said nothing. She just stared at him, as if at some 
 fascinating horror. 
 
 Under her gaze he began to find excuses and explana- 
 tions for himself and his behaviour. 
 
 "Don't you remember telling me in that letter of yours 
 that you were not quite the same as other girls, putting 
 that forward as a sufficient reason for breaking faith with 
 me? Well, Pansy, I'm not quite the same as the other men 
 you've known. To begin v/ith, my religion is different. 
 In my own small way I'm a king. I rule absolutely within 
 a radius of more than a hundred miles round here. Then, 
 I'm a millionaire, and my trading extends far beyond my 
 kingdom, as far as St. Louis, in fact. -And millionaires, 
 more especially if they're men and unmarried, are feted
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 259 
 
 and welcomed everywhere. And, like kings, millionaires 
 can do no wrong. Then I'm half-Arab, half-French, which 
 you must agree is a wild combination. Such a mixture 
 doesn't tend to make a man exactly virtuous. I've done 
 exactly what I liked, practically ever since I was born. 
 Everybody, except my mother, did their best to spoil me. 
 She was the only one who ever tried to keep me in order in 
 any way, but she died when I was ten years old. At four- 
 teen I was Sultan here in my own right. And no one ever 
 dared, or troubled, to criticise my doings until you came 
 along. And now you're expecting me to be a better man 
 than ever Fate or nature intended me to be." 
 
 Pansy said nothing; she still looked at him, trying now 
 to see his point of view. 
 
 "/ call 'trifling' what you've done with me. Promising 
 to marry me and then drawing back. I've never trifled 
 with you. And if you can believe such a thing, and if 
 you'll try and see it in my light, I've been faithful to you. 
 I never had a thought for another woman since the night 
 you came into my life, until I learnt you were Barclay's 
 daughter. Then I tried to hate you, and went back to my 
 old life. But when you were brought to me, dead, as I 
 thought, I knew I didn't hate you. And since that day, 
 Pansy, there's been no other woman but you. And you'll 
 satisfy me for the rest of my life." 
 
 Pansy listened to him, trying to see things as he saw 
 them, knowing she ought to be disgusted with him. Instead, 
 she was intensely sorry because there had never been anyone 
 at hand to check or train him, except a mother who had 
 died twenty years ago. 
 
 But his speech brought her father's plight before her 
 again. It seemed hardly feasible that the Sultan would 
 have sent her letter to the man he desired to punish. 
 
 "Did you give that note of mine to my father?" she 
 asked. 
 
 A trifle askance, he glanced at her.
 
 260 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "No, I didn't," he confessed. 
 
 Pansy was past being angry with him ; she was just sorely 
 wounded in soul and mind at his doings. 
 
 This must have showed on her face, for he went on 
 quickly : 
 
 "You can send another and I promise it'll be delivered. 
 Not only that, but that your father and friends will be well 
 treated. Among other things, Pansy, you've taken the 
 edge off my vengeance." 
 
 He paused, leaning over her he said: 
 
 "I'm granting you all these favours, but what are you 
 going to do for me?" 
 
 Pansy wanted nothing now but to get away from him, 
 right away, beyond his reach, but not because she hated 
 him. 
 
 "Just for a moment, my little English flower, will you 
 rest upon my heart?" he asked in a soft, caressing voice. 
 "There's no savagery left in me when you're there of your 
 own accord." 
 
 He held out his arms, waiting to complete the bargain. 
 But she moved away quickly. 
 
 "Oh, no," she said, alarm in her voice. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "You've never been afraid of me before, why are you 
 now, Pansy? Are you afraid you might love me?" 
 
 "How could I love anyone so depraved ?" she asked. 
 
 But her voice was quavering, not scornful as she intended 
 it to be. 
 
 "Depraved! So that's what I am now, is it? Well, it's 
 all point of view, I suppose. And ifs one degree better 
 than saying you hate me." 
 
 He turned towards the desk, and drew out paper and 
 envelopes. 
 
 "Write your letter, my little girl," he finished. 
 
 Pansy sat down. 
 
 As she wrote to her father, in her heart was a wish that 
 she had been left undisturbed in her fool's paradise, that
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 she had married Eaoul Le Breton at the end of a month, 
 knowing nothing about him except that she loved him. 
 
 Once he was her husband, if she had learnt the truth, 
 she would not have had to fight against herself and him. 
 There would have been only one course left open to her 
 to do her utmost to make a better man of him. And circum- 
 stances had shown her that in her hands the task would 
 have been an easy one.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 WHEN Sir George Barclay returned to prison, he was a 
 broken man. His officers were surprised to see him back 
 alive, and anxious to hear what had occurred. But a day 
 or two passed before he was able to talk about what had 
 happened. And always before him was the bestial figure 
 of the miser feather merchant, into whose hands he imagined 
 his daughter had fallen. 
 
 When he told the story of her sale a strained silence fell 
 on his officers. A silence that Cameron broke. 
 
 "The damned brute," he said in a wild, heart-broken 
 way, "and he knew her in Grand Canary." 
 
 The fact of Pansy's acquaintance with the Sultan Casim 
 Ammeh, Barclay had learnt from Cameron in the early 
 days of their capture. The younger man immediately had 
 recognised the Sultan as the Raoul Le Breton, who when 
 out of Africa posed as a French millionaire. 
 
 "He's worse than a savage," one of the other officers put 
 in, "since he knows better." 
 
 Sir George had nothing to say, once the story was told. 
 Pansy's fate was always before him; an agony that chased 
 him into dreams, compared with which his own death would 
 have been as nothing. 
 
 One morning about ten days after the sale of slaves, one 
 of the Arab guards brought him a letter. 
 
 To his amazement, he saw his daughter's writing on the 
 envelope. 
 
 With trembling fingers he opened it, wondering how she 
 had managed to get a message through to him, with a 
 prayer in his heart that by some miracle she might have 
 escaped her horrible fate. 
 
 262
 
 A SOX OF THE SAHARA 263 
 
 "No one knows better than I how you must have suffered 
 on my account. I tried to get a letter through to you before, 
 but I have just heard it never reached you, so I am sending 
 another. 
 
 I was not sold that day in the slave-market. The Sultan never 
 intended to sell me. He only sent me there and made a pretence 
 of selling me in order to hurt you. 
 
 I am in the palace here, and no one could be better treated 
 than I am. I asked the Sultan to let you all go back to Gambia, 
 but he will not consent to that. But he has promised that you 
 all will be well treated. 
 
 You must not worry because of me. It is not as if the Sultan 
 and I were strangers. I met him in Grand Canary, but I did 
 not know who he really was then he was passing under a 
 French name. 
 
 It is very difficult to know what to say to cheer you up. I 
 know you will worry whatever I say. I am quite safe here, and 
 no harm will happen to me. I cannot bear to think of you 
 worrying, and you must try not to do so for my sake. 
 
 Your loving daughter, 
 PANSY." 
 
 As George Barclay read through the letter, it seemed to 
 him that he knew what had happened. The girl had bar- 
 tered herself in exchange for his life and the lives of her 
 friends. 
 
 He tried to gather what cold comfort he could by keeping 
 the picture of the Sultan before him as he had last seen 
 him, big and handsome, in his khaki riding suit, looking 
 thoroughly European. At least the man who had his 
 daughter was a king, if a barbaric one, and civilised to a 
 certain extent. She had not fallen into the clutches of 
 that grimy, naked, foaming wretch, as he had imagined. 
 And the knowledge eased his tortured spirit considerably.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 AFTER that interview with her captor Pansy's life rapidly 
 developed into one long struggle between inclination and 
 upbringing. 
 
 She knew she loved the Sultan, but all her standards 
 revolted against marrying him. She could not bear to 
 think about the wild past that was his, but she equally 
 could not bear to think that he might fall into sin again 
 when hers was the power to prevent him. 
 
 What was more, she knew he had guessed her love for 
 him, and was doing his best to make her succumb to his 
 attractions. 
 
 After that one interview she was not allowed out of the 
 sensual, scented precincts of the harem. She had no occu- 
 pation, no amusements, no books even. Nothing to do all 
 day except just think about her lover and fight her battle. 
 
 And he made the battle all the harder. Never a day 
 passed but what he was there, big and handsome and fas- 
 cinating. He would come upon her in the little walled gar- 
 den, and linger with her among the roses. By the hour 
 he would sit with her in the wide gallery overlooking the 
 desert. Very often he dined with her in the gilded chamber, 
 and stayed on afterwards in the dim light of the shaded 
 lamps, watching her with soft, mocking eyes. 
 
 And very often he would say: 
 
 "Well, Pansy, have you made up your mind whether 
 you are going to marry me or not?" 
 
 "It seemed to the girl that the whole world was combin- 
 ing to drive her into the arms of a man she ought to turn 
 from with contempt and disgust. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight he said : 
 
 "Pansy, you're the first woman who has ever fought 
 
 264
 
 A SOX OF THE SAHARA 265 
 
 against her love for me. It's an amusing sight, but I'm be- 
 ginning to wish you weren't such a determined fighter." 
 
 At the end of a month some of the mockery had gone out 
 of his eyes, giving place to a hungry gleam. For the girl 
 had not succumbed to his fascinations, although her face 
 was growing white and weary with close confinement and 
 the ceaseless battle that went on within herself. 
 
 And the man who acknowledged no law except his own 
 appetites, and who, up till now, had lived for nothing else, 
 loved the girl all the more deeply because she did not suc- 
 cumb to his attractions, because she had a soul above her 
 senses, and tried to live up to her own ideals, refusing to 
 come down to his level. At times he felt he must try and 
 grope his way up to the heights, and unconsciously he was 
 rising from the depths. 
 
 <r VVater can always reach the level it rises from," 
 Pansy had once said. 
 
 Although a wild craving for his girl-prisoner often kept 
 him wakeful, although there was none to stop him, and only 
 a short length of passage and a locked door, to which he 
 alone had the key, lay between him and his desire, the 
 passage was never crossed, the door never unlocked. 
 
 To escape his presence as much as possible, Pansy spent a 
 lot of her time in the big hall of the harem with the other 
 girls. But one by one they disappeared, to become the wives 
 of various men of importance in the place, until only Eayma 
 was left. A quiet, subdued Rayma who watched Pansy and 
 the Sultan with longing, envious gaze. 
 
 "How happy you must be now you are his wife, and you 
 know that he can't thrust you from him should another 
 woman take his fancy," the Arab girl sighed one day to her 
 rival. 
 
 Pansy was not his wife, and she had no intention of 
 being. In her desire to escape from temptation she grew 
 absolutely reckless. 
 
 "I should be much happier if I could get right away 
 from him," she said in response to Rayma's remark.
 
 266 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 "Don't you love him?" Eayma exclaimed. 
 
 "I hate him/' Pansy said, lying to her heart. "I never 
 want to see him again," she went on in a hysterical way. 
 "I only want to escape from him and this place, once and 
 for ever." 
 
 Astonished, Rayma gazed at her supplanter. Then a 
 look of hope darted into her dark eyes. 
 
 If only this strange girl were out of the way, the Sultan's 
 heart might return to her.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 OUTSIDE a little French military settlement several ragged 
 tents had been pitched. In the largest of them the miser 
 feather merchant was sitting, cross-legged, on a pile of 
 dirty cushions. As chance would have it, his caravan had 
 gone to the south-west, and that night he had halted 
 within three hundred miles of St. Louis. 
 
 With him was an Arab friend, a nomad like himself, who 
 chanced also to be encamped outside the little settlement. 
 A year had passed since their last meeting. After the first 
 exchange of compliments, as the two sat smoking together, 
 the new-comer remarked to the miser: 
 
 "In your hunger for gold you grow ever thinner and 
 more haggard." 
 
 A wild look came into the feather merchant's eyes. 
 
 "It is not hunger for gold that has robbed my bones of 
 their flesh," he replied. "But another hunger, far more 
 raging." 
 
 His friend puffed away in silence, and as he puffed, he 
 had in mind an Arab proverb wherein it is said that a man 
 can fall madly in love with the shadow of a woman's heel. 
 
 "Then's it's the shadow of some woman's heel," he re- 
 marked. 
 
 "More than her shadow," the miser replied in a parched 
 voice. "I saw her before me, as plainly as I see you. A 
 houri from Paradise." 
 
 His friend made no reply. Considering a woman was 
 under discussion it was bad manners to ask questions. He 
 waited, knowing that silence on his part would be the most 
 likely way of hearing the story. 
 
 The miser's bony hands clenched, and his tongue went 
 round his bearded lips. 
 
 267
 
 268 
 
 "There was a girl I desired," he began presently. "A 
 milk-white maid, more beautiful than the morning, with 
 hair golden as the sun, and eyes deep blue as desert night. 
 She was a slave, and with my wealth I would have bought 
 her. She was more to me than my gold. But there was 
 another more rich and powerful. And he took her may 
 his soul perish in hell." 
 
 As the miser talked, an amazed look crossed his friend's 
 face. 
 
 "And where did you see her, this milk-white maid, with 
 the hair of gold, and deep blue eyes?" he asked quickly. 
 
 "In a desert city, a month's journey or more from here." 
 
 "And how did she come to be there ?" 
 
 "She was captured by the Sultan who rules there. Allah 
 curse him!" 
 
 "So!" his friend ejaculated. 
 
 Then he stayed for some moments ruminating on the 
 matter. 
 
 "Such a maid was stolen three months or more ago, from 
 a mighty white nation whose territory lies far beyond the 
 Senegal," he began presently. "And that white nation has 
 made great stir and commotion with our rulers, the French. 
 For the maid is one of great wealth and importance in her 
 own country, possessed of undreamt-of riches, a fortune in 
 gold pieces more numerous than the grains of sand in the 
 Sahara. A month ago I was in the town of St. Louis, and 
 the people there talked of nothing else. The white officers 
 here search for her in all directions. And great will be the 
 reward of the man who can lead them to her abductor. 
 And great also will be the punishment of that desert ruler 
 even death." 
 
 Tensely the feather merchant listened. Then he started 
 up with a wild cry. 
 
 "Allah be praised!" he shouted. "For my prayer has 
 been granted. I have found those who are the enemies of 
 the Sultan Casim Ammeh. The nation most mighty of all
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 269 
 
 on this earth. And they will break him, as he has broken 
 
 me. 
 
 Then he darted from the tent, running like a madman 
 in the direction of the French military quarters.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 ONE day when Pansy was in the large hall of the harem, 
 Eayma came to her, a look of feverish excitement in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Do you still wish to escape?" she asked, watching her 
 supplanter as if she could not believe such a desire could 
 lie in the heart of any woman the Sultan pleased to favour. 
 
 For Pansy her struggle became daily more difficult. It 
 was an obsession now, her wish to escape from her captor. 
 
 "How can I? Whichever way I turn someone is there 
 to stop me." 
 
 "There is one who will not stop you. Not if he is paid 
 well enough," Rayma said, her voice dropping to a whisper. 
 
 "Who is that?" Pansy asked quickly. 
 
 "One of the eunuchs who guards your room at night. 
 He loves jewels beyond all things on earth. And surely 
 the Sultan has given you plenty, although you never wear 
 them." 
 
 The Sultan had given Pansy none, because he knew she 
 would not accept them. But she had jewels of her own; 
 one that would be bribe enough for anybody the great 
 diamond that had aroused her lover's comments one night 
 in the moonlit garden of Grand Canary. 
 
 Pansy clutched at the mere idea of escape. Where she 
 would escape to, she did not pause to consider. To escape 
 she forgot his colour, his religion, his wild life, his treat- 
 ment of her father, everything, except her own love for 
 him. 
 
 "How do you know he'll let himself be bribed?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "One of the women told me. He is her brother. I've 
 spent days in trying to help you get away." 
 
 270
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 271 
 
 "Oh, Eayma, I can never thank you enough," Pansy 
 said, hysterically grateful. 
 
 The Arab girl cast a spiteful glance at her, wondering 
 why the other could not guess that it was her, Rayma's, 
 one desire to get rid of her rival. 
 
 "Each night after dark you must open your door," the 
 Arab girl went on. "There will come a night when only 
 one of the guards will be here. Then, if you bribe him 
 enough, he will let you pass." 
 
 Eayma did not imagine that Pansy would escape. She 
 expected and hoped that she would be caught in the 
 attempt. Judging by her desert standards, death would 
 be the portion of any slave-girl who dared attempt to fly 
 from her owner. 
 
 After that, every night when she was alone, Pansy opened 
 the sandalwood door leading into the long, dark passage 
 by which she had first entered the palace. 
 
 Then, one evening, she found only one of the jewelled 
 guards there. 
 
 On seeing this, she closed the door again, and going to 
 her jewel case got out the one big diamond. 
 
 From the gallery of her sumptuous prison she had 
 gathered that beyond the rose garden lay the grounds of 
 the Sultan's own quarters, where she had spent those three 
 days prior to his unveiling. During that brief time she had 
 noticed that, at night and during the heat of the day, the 
 horses that browsed in the sun-scorched paddock were 
 stabled in a long, low building at the far end of the scanty 
 field. And she knew, too, that the iron gates by which she 
 had entered the palace could not lie so very far away from 
 the paddock. 
 
 "With trembling hands and almost sick with anxiety and 
 excitement, Pansy opened the door of her prison. She said 
 nothing to the guard there. She merely held the gem to- 
 wards him. 
 
 On seeing it, his eyes glittered covetously. 
 
 Without a word he took the diamond.
 
 272 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Pansy passed down the dim passage. She hardly knew 
 how her feet took her along its ill-lit length. Every 
 moment she expected to meet someone, or that one of the 
 several doors leading into it would open, and her flight be 
 brought to an abrupt end. 
 
 However, unchallenged she reached the iron gates. 
 
 A lamp flickering in a niche close by, showed her that 
 one of the doors was slightly ajar. With shaking hands she 
 pulled it further open and slipped out. 
 
 Outside all was silence and whiteness. Like a sea, the 
 desert stretched away to a milky horizon. In a luminous 
 vault the moon hung, a great round molten mass, that filled 
 the world with a shimmer of silver. 
 
 Finding herself really beyond the palace precincts, took 
 all strength from the girl. Hardly daring to breathe, she 
 crept a few steps further, and leant against the city wall, 
 to recover a little and get her bearings. Then, furtive as a 
 shadow, she made her way towards a long, low building 
 that showed up like a huge ebony block in the whiteness. 
 
 There were others as furtive as Pansy prowling round 
 the city walls; jackals searching for offal, snarled at 
 her as she passed along, slinking away and showing teeth 
 that gleamed like ivory in the moonlight. 
 
 The first sound of them made her start violently, for she 
 felt the Sultan's hand upon her, drawing her back to him- 
 self and captivity. But when she saw the prowlers were 
 four-footed, she passed on, heedless of them, until the 
 paddock fence was reached. 
 
 To climb over was a simple task. Then she ran swiftly 
 across the grassy space; suddenly deadly afraid, not of 
 the loneliness, but that the stable doors might be locked 
 and she would not be able to carry out her project. 
 
 However, in El-Ammeh there were no thieves daring 
 enough to steal the Sultan's horses, so the doors were never 
 locked. They creaked ominously when Pansy opened them, 
 filling the still night with harsh sounds sounds that she 
 felt must reach her captor's ears.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 273 
 
 Inside, the stables were vaguely light with the rays of 
 the moon that dripped in from high little windows. For- 
 tunately for Pansy's plan it was the hour for the palace 
 servants' evening meal, or there might have been half a 
 dozen men in the building. As it was, there was only a 
 long row of horses, each in separate stalls. 
 
 Pansy knew that if her protege were there, he would 
 answer to her call. 
 
 "Sultan," she said softly. 
 
 There was a whinny from a stall some twenty yards 
 away. Guided by the sound she went in that direction. 
 
 It was the work of a few moments to unfasten the animal. 
 But to Pansy it seemed an age. Her hands trembled as 
 she fumbled at the halter, for she heard pursuit in every 
 sound. 
 
 Then she led the animal out of the building, into the 
 moonlight, and closed the door behind her. 
 
 She was an expert bare-back rider. 
 
 Leading the horse to the fence, she mounted. Then she 
 trotted him. back to the middle of the enclosure, and with 
 voice and hand urged him towards the fence again. 
 
 In his old steeplechasing days, a hurdle the height of the 
 rails had presented no difficulties to "The Sultan." And, 
 even now, he took the fence at an easy bound. 
 
 Once over, it seemed to Pansy that the last obstacle be- 
 tween herself and freedom had been circumvented. 
 
 She leant forward, patting her horse encouragingly. 
 
 "Oh, Sultan," she said hysterically. "I don't mind where 
 you take me, so long as I can get away from here." 
 
 Left to itself, after the manner of horses, the animal 
 picked the route it knew the best; the sandy track along 
 which the Sultan Casim generally took it for exercise. 
 
 For the first mile or so Pansy was conscious of nothing 
 except that she had escaped escaped from a love she 
 could not conquer, a man she could not hate. 
 
 White and billowy the world lay around her, an undulat- 
 ing sea of sand with only one dark patch upon it, the city
 
 274 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 of El-Arameh. The track the horse followed wound 
 through tufted hillocks, mounds of silver in the moonlight. 
 Here and there a stunted shrub cast black lines on the all- 
 prevailing whiteness. 
 
 At the end of an hour Pansy discovered she was not the 
 rider she once was. Her months of confinement had left 
 her sadly "out of form." She was worn out with the 
 exertion and the excitement of escape. It took all her 
 skill to keep her seat on the horse. And the animal knew, 
 for it slackened speed as a good horse will when conscious 
 of a tired rider. 
 
 Others, also, seemed aware that something weak and 
 helpless was abroad, and with the strange magnetism of the 
 wild they were drawn towards the girl. 
 
 Here and there in the melting, misty distance, a dark 
 form appeared, lopping along at a safe range, keeping pace 
 with the old horse and its rider, every now and again glanc- 
 ing at the two with glaring green eyes, and calling one to 
 another with shrieks of maniacal laughter. 
 
 Pansy hardly heard the hyenas. She was too intent on 
 keeping her seat. But the horse heard them and he snorted 
 with rage and fear. 
 
 As the miles sped by, the girl was aware of nothing except 
 a desire to get further and further away from her lover, 
 and to keep her seat on the horse. 
 
 Then she became aware of something else. 
 
 For the horse halted and she fell off, flat on the soft 
 sand. 
 
 Shaken, but not hurt, she sat up and gazed around. 
 
 A little oasis had been reached, where date palms stood 
 black against the all-prevailing silver, and a tiny spring 
 bubbled with cheerful whisper. 
 
 When the Sultan took his namesake out for exercise, 
 this was the extreme limit of their ride the horse had been 
 there once already that day and in the shade of the date 
 palms the man and the horse would rest awhile before 
 returning to the city.
 
 A SON OP THE SAHAEA 275 
 
 But Pansy knew none of these things. She only knew 
 that valuable time was being lost sitting there on the ground. 
 But it was such an effort to get up. 
 
 Green eyes had seen her fall as if dead. The hyenas 
 crept stealthily forward to feast upon what lay helpless in 
 the sand. But when she sat up they retreated, to squat 
 on their haunches at a safe distance, and fill the night with 
 demoniacal laughter. 
 
 The sound brought Pansy to her feet, swaying with 
 fatigue. She had heard it before, around her father's camp 
 in Gambia. 
 
 But it was one thing to hear the hyenas when there 
 were thirty or more people between herself and them, and 
 another now that she was quite alone in the desert, with 
 no one to come to her aid. 
 
 The chorus of mad, mocking mirth brought fear clutch- 
 ing at her, a fear that the horse's wild snorts increased. 
 She looked round sharply to find there were at least a dozen 
 of the brutes on her trail. 
 
 It was not Pansy's nature to show fear, even though she 
 felt it. 
 
 Going to the spring, she picked up several large stones, 
 and threw them at the hyenas. 
 
 A note of fear crept into their hideous voices. They beat 
 a swift retreat, melting away into distance. There was 
 too much life left in the girl and horse for them to attack 
 as yet. 
 
 Gathering her tired self together Pansy looked round for 
 a rock high enough to enable her to mount by. As it 
 happened there was none handy. Taking her horse by the 
 mane, she led him from the oasis. Somewhat protestingly 
 he went. 
 
 Pansy had to stagger on for nearly a mile on fpot, in the 
 deep, fatiguing sand, before she could find a tussock high 
 enough to mount by. 
 
 Once on, she left the route to her horse. 
 
 To the uninitiated, one portion of the desert looks very
 
 276 A SOX OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 similar to another. And the girl had no idea that the 
 horse was retracing his steps, making his way slowly and 
 laboriously back to El-Ammeh. 
 
 She had not the strength left even to look around her. The 
 hot night, the long ride, the sickly excitement attached to 
 escaping, the thirst that now raged within her, and the final 
 tiring walk, after months of inactivity, had told upon her. 
 Utterly worn out, she just managed to keep her seat, in a 
 world that had become a place of aching weariness, through 
 which there rang occasional wild shrieks of laughter. 
 
 Then it became impossible to cling on any longer. 
 
 All at once, she fell off and stayed in the sand, half 
 stunned by her fall, conscious of nothing except that she 
 had escaped from the Sultan Casim Ammeh. 
 
 "Wlien she fell the horse stopped. He stretched a long 
 neck and sniffed and sniffed at her. But since she did not 
 get up, he did not leave her. He waited until she was ready 
 to start off again, quite glad of the rest himself. 
 
 However, there was not to be much rest for him. 
 
 A shriek of diabolical laughter rang out at his very heels. 
 With a snort of fear and rage, he lashed out. The laughter 
 turned into a howl of pain, and one of the hyenas retreated 
 on three legs, with a broken shoulder. 
 
 But there were twenty or more of them now, against one 
 old horse and a girl too utterly exhausted to know even 
 that her life was in danger. And each of the hyenas had a 
 strength of jaw that could break the thigh of an ox, and a 
 cowardice of heart equalled only by their strength. 
 
 For sometime they circled round, watching their prey 
 with ravenous, glaring green eyes, and every now and 
 again one or the other made a forward rush, only to find 
 those iron heels between it and its meal. The horse under- 
 stood being baited in this manner, by foes just beyond his 
 reach. It had been part of the hell the girl he guarded had 
 rescued him from. 
 
 As time went on. the hyenas grew bolder.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 277 
 
 Once they rushed in a body. But they retreated. One 
 with a broken jaw, one with a mouthful of live flesh torn 
 from "The Sultan's" flank, and one did not retreat at all. 
 It lay with its skull smashed in, its brains bespattering the 
 horse's hoofs hoofs over which now a red stream oozed, 
 filling the hot night air with the smell of live blood. 
 
 A desperate battle raged in the lonely desert under the 
 white light of the moon. A battle that filled the night 
 with the mad mirth of hyenas, and the wild shrieks of a 
 frightened, hurt, infuriated horse "The Sultan" fighting 
 as he had fought that day in the East End of London when 
 Pansy had first come across him. But fighting for her life 
 as well as his own, against the cowards that beset him.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE sound of that desperate conflict rang through the still- 
 ness of the night, reaching the ears of a man who was 
 riding at break-neck speed along the sandy track leading 
 in the direction of the oasis. Those diabolical shrieks of 
 laughter filled him with a torture of mind almost past 
 bearing. In them he heard the voices of hyenas mangling 
 the girl he loved. 
 
 Le Breton had always known Pansy would run away if 
 an opportunity occurred. But he had imagined that he 
 had made escape impossible. 
 
 After dinner, he went to the gilded room, to pay an 
 evening visit to his prisoner, since business affairs had 
 kept him from dining with her. 
 
 However, she was not there. 
 
 Experience had taught him that it would be no use 
 looking for her in the moonlit, rose-scented garden. She 
 never went there after sunset, for fear he should come 
 across her, and the beauty and romance of it all, combined 
 with his presence, should force the surrender he was wait- 
 ing for. 
 
 Not finding Pansy in her own private quarters, he went 
 into the big hall of the harem, only to be told she had not 
 been there since well before dinner. 
 
 On learning this he set the women searching in every 
 corner of the harem. But Pansy was nowhere to be found. 
 
 Beyond a doubt, she had managed to escape. For a 
 moment the news dazed him. He did not waste time in 
 trying to discover how she had escaped, or who was 
 responsible for her getting away. She had gone. That 
 one fact glared at him. No one knew better than the 
 
 278
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 279 
 
 Sultan himself the dangers awaiting the girl once she 
 strayed beyond his care. 
 
 Within a few minutes all his servants and soldiers were 
 out looking for the fugitive, scouring the city, with threats 
 of the dire fate awaiting anyone who dared either hide or 
 injure the Sultan's wife. 
 
 A hasty search brought no trace of the girl, but one of 
 the search parties learnt that a horse was missing from the 
 royal stables. 
 
 On hearing this the Sultan went at once to the stables, 
 looking for a clue there. The missing horse was Pansy's. 
 The discovery sent a sudden glow of hope coursing through 
 him. It argued that somehow or other she had managed 
 to reach the stables and had set out into the desert. 
 
 The Sultan understood horses, even better, it seemed to 
 him now, than he understood women. Left to its own 
 devices the old horse would go the way it knew the best; 
 the way he generally took it. And left to itself it was 
 almost certain to be, since its rider had no knowledge of 
 any of the sandy tracks that lay around the city. 
 
 Within a few moments he was on the swiftest of his own 
 horses, riding with all speed towards the oasis; but not 
 before leaving orders with his officers to scour the desert in 
 every direction. 
 
 He had ridden perhaps five miles when into the stealthy 
 hiss of the sand another sound came. At first so far away 
 that it was but a distant moan in the night. As he tore on 
 rapidly it grew louder, developing into a chorus of hideous 
 laughter, the cry of hyenas howling round their prey. 
 
 Desert reared, instinctively he knew there must be at 
 least twenty of them. 
 
 When, above the melee he heard the terrorized screams 
 of a horse, a deadly fear clutched him. Where the horse 
 was, the girl was. And the sound told him the two had 
 been attacked. 
 
 Around Pansy the ghastly conflict was raging. Around 
 her mangled corpse, perhaps.
 
 280 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 He suffered all the tortures of the damned, as with spur 
 and crop he urged the great stallion onwards, until the 
 animal was a lather of sweat and foam. 
 
 The hyenas heard the throb of those approaching hoofs, 
 and fear gripped their cowardly hearts. 
 
 The disconcerting noise grew speedily louder. On the 
 whiteness of the lonely desert a dark patch appeared; a 
 patch that rapidly became bigger and headed straight to- 
 wards them. 
 
 It was one thing to attack a tired old horse and a half- 
 stunned girl, but another to face a huge black stallion and 
 the big man in the white burnoose who rode it. 
 
 The hyenas did not face the combination. With a weird 
 howl of disappointment, they turned tail suddenly and 
 scuttled away into the desert, leaving the old horse shivering 
 with relief and pain and exhaustion. 
 
 The feeling of someone touching her made Pansy open 
 her eyes. Into her hazy world her captor's face intruded. 
 He was half-kneeling on the sand beside her, examining 
 her limbs, feeling her heart, to see if she were injured in 
 any way. 
 
 For a moment Pansy could not believe her eyes. 
 
 Then she put out a weak hand to push him away. But 
 a push did not remove him. He was still there, in white 
 cloak and hood; a desert chief who wanted to marry her. 
 Big and solid he knelt beside her, a fact not to be escaped 
 from. And his hand was on her bosom as if to steal the 
 heart she would not give him. 
 
 Satisfied Pansy was not hurt in any way, the Sultan got 
 to his feet, and turned towards the horse. It needed more 
 attention than the girl. 
 
 He petted and patted the worn-out shivering animal, 
 talking to it in a deep, caressing voice, as he bound up its 
 gaping wounds with lengths torn from his own white gar- 
 ments. 
 
 Then he lifted the girl on his own norse, and, mounting 
 himself, set out on a slow walk towards his city.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 281 
 
 Pansy made a feeble struggle .when she found herself in 
 his arms, her head resting against his shoulder, held in a 
 tight, possessive grip. 
 
 "So, little flower, you would still try to escape from me," 
 he said in a fierce, fond manner. "But I don't let love go 
 so lightly." 
 
 He ignored her struggles as he talked to and encouraged 
 the old horse that hobbled along by their side, with stiff, 
 painful steps. 
 
 As the slow journey went on, Pansy fell asleep against 
 the strength that held her. 
 
 The Sultan was quick to note this, and he smiled at the 
 small tired face on his shoulder. He knew the nature of the 
 girl he held. It would be impossible for her to go to sleep 
 in any man's arms except those of the man she loved. She 
 was very foolish to fight against him, but fight she would 
 until he used his strength and ended the battle. An un- 
 even contest the last round would be, with no doubt as to 
 who would be the victor.
 
 ON a wide ottoman in her room Pansy lay. The golden 
 lamps were burning low, casting black shadows on the gilded 
 walls of her cage. Through the open arches the moonlight 
 streamed, pouring in from a misty, mystic world where trees 
 sighed vaguely in a silvered air. 
 
 Early that morning the Sultan had brought Pansy back 
 to the palace. Since then she had seen nothing of him. 
 
 She brooded on her attempt to escape, which had only 
 ended in her being more of a prisoner than ever. The 
 guards about the entrance of her quarters had been doubled. 
 The door leading into the harem was locked. Alice had 
 been removed, her place taken by an Arab woman who would 
 not or could not understand a word Pansy said to her. 
 
 Sleepless she lay among the silken cushions, brooding on 
 the life that had once been hers; a life so remote from her 
 present one that it might never have been. 
 
 It was impossible to believe that far beyond this desert 
 city there lay a place called London, where she had been 
 free as air, where she could come and go as she pleased, 
 where she had dined and danced and lunched and visited. 
 A world of dreams, remote, unreal, lost to her for ever, 
 where she had been Pansy Langham, feted and courted, 
 with society at her feet. Now she was a sultan's slave, a 
 chattel, her very life dependent on a barbaric ruler's whim. 
 
 On what punishment would be doled out to her for her 
 attempt to get away, she next brooded. There had been 
 such a set, determined expression on her captor's face when 
 he brought her back to her prison. 
 
 The sound of someone coming towards her apartment 
 broke in on her dreary reverie. It was close on midnight. 
 She had never been disturbed at that hour before. 
 
 282
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 282 
 
 She looked up quickly. 
 
 The third door of her room was opening; one that had 
 never opened before; a door the harem girls had told her 
 Jed to the Sultan's private suite. And the Sultan, himself, 
 was entering. The Sultan attired as she had never seen 
 him before in silk pyjamas. 
 
 Pansy started to her feet. She stood slight and white 
 and silken-clad against the golden walls; her heart beating 
 with a sickly force that almost choked her; her eyes wide 
 with fear. 
 
 The end had come with a suddenness she was not pre- 
 pared for. 
 
 He crossed to her side; tenderness and determination on 
 his face; love and passion in his eyes. 
 
 For a moment there was silence. 
 
 "So, Pansy," he said at length. "You've tried to solve 
 the problem your way. Now I'm going to solve it mine. 
 You've fought against love quite long enough, against your- 
 self and against me. Fm going to end the fight between 
 us. To-night, my little slave, you sleep within my arms 
 and learn all that love means." 
 
 At his words a flood of crimson swept over her strained 
 face. She had but a vague idea of what was before her, 
 but instinct told her it was something she must fight 
 against. 
 
 Her gaze went to the arches, as if in search of some way 
 of escape there. There was none. Only the white stars 
 looked in coldly, and night breathed on her, soft and 
 sensuous. 
 
 He knew where her thoughts were, and he laughed softly. 
 
 "There's no escape this time, Pansy," he said. 
 
 The fear in her eyes deepened. Wildly she searched 
 round in her head for a way of getting rid of him for the 
 time being. And only one course presented itself. 
 
 "I ... I'll marry you," she stammered. 
 
 "We'll be married by all means, if you wish, as soon as 
 I can find a man to do the job. But you've been just a
 
 284 A SON OF THE SAHAKA 
 
 little too long in making up your mind. My patience is 
 worn out." 
 
 In her determination to live up to her <*wn standards- 
 standards that had no value in this desert sity: Pansy saw 
 she had tried this half-tamed man too far. 
 
 He came closer, and held out his arms. 
 
 "Come, my little flower," he whispered passionately. 
 
 Quickly she moved further away from the arms that 
 would have held her. 
 
 "Won't you come willingly?" he asked, in soft, caress- 
 ing tones. "Do you still refuse me the love I want, and 
 which I know is mine ?" 
 
 "I don't want you or your love," she cried wildly, frantic 
 at the knowledge of her own helplessness. 
 
 He laughed with a touch of fierceness. 
 
 "What cruel words to throw at your lover! But since 
 you won't come, my little slave, then I must take you." 
 
 He would have taken her there and then, but with a swift 
 movement she avoided him. 
 
 Then Pansy ran, as she had run from him once before, 
 like a white wraith in the moonlight. But this time he 
 followed. 
 
 There were no electric lights and ragtime band to run to 
 now. Only a moonlit garden full of the scent of roses. 
 There was no crowd of people to give her shelter, only the 
 deep shadows of the cypresses. 
 
 In the darkness she paused, out of breath, hoping 
 he would not see her. A vain hope. His eyes had learnt 
 to pierce the gloom. She was in his arms almost before she 
 knew it. 
 
 There was a brief, uneven struggle, as Pansy fought 
 against a man who knew no law except his own desires. 
 
 Weak and weeping she collapsed against him, on a heart 
 that leapt to meet her. 
 
 There was a stone seat n?ar. On it the Sultan seated 
 himself, the girl in his arms. And in the scented, sighing
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 285 
 
 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 whis- 
 pered. "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 pil- 
 lowed 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." 
 
 He paused for a moment, watching her tenderly. 
 
 "Yet you paid me the greatest compliment I ever had 
 in my life. When you said you loved me. There could be 
 no sweeter music that those words. And the choicest gift 
 life has ever given me was a kiss from your lips, given 
 willingly." 
 
 He bent his head. 
 
 "Won't you give me another, Pansy?" 
 
 But the girl's strained face was turned away from the 
 proud, passionate one so close to her own. 
 
 "No, my little flower? Will you make a thief of your
 
 286 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 Sultan? Will you give him nothing willingly now? I 
 know I don't deserve it. But still I want it. And my 
 wants have been my only law so far." 
 
 Again he paused, stroking her curls with a loving hand. 
 
 "Just now, as man and woman together, Pansy, I know 
 I don't deserve you. I know I'm not worthy of you. But 
 I want my soul, although I've only a blackened body to 
 offer it. And the soul will have to do the best it can with 
 the grimy accommodation. For I must have you, my 
 darling. You've taken everything out of my life, but a de- 
 sire for you." 
 
 From a tangle of trees in an adjacent garden a nightin- 
 gale burst into song, filling the night with liquid melody. 
 At the sound the Sultan's arms tightened around the slender 
 figure he held. 
 
 "No man appreciates virtue so much as the one who 
 has had his fill of vice," he continued presently. "And I 
 was born into it, steeped and sodden in it from my earliest 
 recollection, until I didn't realise it was vice until I met 
 you. And then it seemed to me I had run off the lines, 
 and pretty badly." 
 
 As he sat talking and caressing her, Pansy's sobs died 
 down. There was always magic in his touch, happiness 
 within his arms. With throbbing heart she lay against him, 
 watching him anxiously. 
 
 He smiled into the tired, purple eyes. 
 
 "No, perhaps, I won't be a thief," he said. "Perhaps 
 I shall climb up and up with many a stumble to the clear 
 heights where you are, my darling. What would you say 
 if you saw me there? 'Here is a poor wretch who has 
 climbed painfully upwards to touch the feet of his ideal,' 
 you would say to yourself. And to me you would say, 
 'As a reward, will you come and have breakfast with me?' 
 And I should come, like a shot. And I should want lunch 
 and tea and dinner and you. Just you, my soul, always 
 and for ever." 
 
 After this outburst, he was quiet.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 287 
 
 Passive within his arms Pansy waited for the last hope- 
 less struggle for right against wrong. 
 
 He sat on, as if at peace with himself and the world. 
 The restless look that always lurked in his eyes had gone; 
 in its place was one of happiness and contentment. 
 
 Pansy's shivers roused him from his reverie. Not shivers 
 of fear, but of chilliness. A heavy dew had started falling, 
 bringing a sudden coolness into the night. 
 
 "Why, Heart's Ease," he said, full of concern. "I'm 
 keeping you out here when you ought to be indoors. But 
 with you in my arms, I forget everything but you." 
 
 Getting to his feet, he took her back to the gilded room. 
 The lamps had burnt out. It was a place of deep shadows, 
 and here and there the silver of the moon patched its golden 
 richness. 
 
 Once within its dimness Pansy started struggling again. 
 
 He took the slim white hands into one of his own, and 
 kissed them. 
 
 "There's no need for you to fight against me with weak 
 little hands," he whispered. "There's another fighting for 
 you, far stronger than you are. A new Raoul Le Breton of 
 your making Pansy. A man strong enough to wait until 
 we're really married." 
 
 Laying his burden on a couch, he bent his head until his 
 ear almost touched the girl's lips. 
 
 "Say 'Yes,' Pansy, and I'll go, 'nicely and quietly like 
 a good boy,' still remembering 'your reputation/" he said 
 in a teasing tone. 
 
 Into his ear "Yea" trembled. 
 
 He kissed the lips that at last had consented to his 
 rrishes. 
 
 "Good night, my little girl, and if you go on at this 
 rate you'll make a white man of me yet." 
 
 Long after he had gone Pansy stayed brooding on. his 
 words. The battle between them was over at last.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 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 cher- 
 ished 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. 
 
 Somehow or other the French Government must have 
 heard that he was responsible for the capture of the English 
 
 288
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 289 
 
 Governor ; and an expedition had been sent up to punish him 
 for his marauding ways. 
 
 That same death-dealing sound startled Pansy as she 
 stood by the sunken pond in the rose garden, feeding the 
 carp. Wondering what had happened, she looked up at the 
 smoke that lay like a little cloud between the city and the 
 sky. 
 
 She did not wonder for very long. 
 
 Present another shell came shrieking out of the distance. 
 
 Then she guessed what had occurred, and her face 
 blanched. 
 
 Swiftly she went to her room; her only idea to reach the 
 Sultan and save him from his enemies. 
 
 But all the doors of her prison were locked, and neither 
 knocks nor shouts produced any answer. 
 
 She went back to the fretted gallery, to see what could be 
 seen from there. 
 
 A mile or so away, like a dark snake on the desert, she 
 eaw the relief party. As she watched, a white-robed force 
 left El-Ammeh; an array of Arab soldiers. On recognising 
 their leader, her soul went sick within her. 
 
 He was there. Her lover. The man she ought to hate. 
 Going out to fight the men who had come to her rescue. 
 
 If the French officers heading the expeditionary force 
 imagined the Sultan of El-Ammeh had come out to surrender, 
 they quickly discovered their mistake. 
 
 He had come out to fight; and what was more, fight well 
 and recklessly against a force that, if inferior in numbers, 
 was vastly superior in arms. 
 
 Presently the shells no longer shrieked above El-Ammeh. 
 They were aimed at it. 
 
 From her gallery Pansy saw the two forces meet. 
 
 Then she could look no longer. Men fell in the sand and 
 rose no more. And any one of them might be her lover. 
 
 She went back to her room and crouched there in terror; 
 her father and friends all forgotten at the thought of the 
 man who might be lying dead in the sand.
 
 290 A SON OP THE SAHAKA 
 
 As the morning wore on, the din of battle grew nearer. 
 Every now and again a shell got home. There were screams 
 of terrified people; the heavy fall of masonry; the moans 
 and cries of the injured. 
 
 Once Pansy thought her end had come. 
 
 A shell struck the palace. The place rocked to its founda- 
 tions. There was the thunder of falling masonry as if the 
 four walls of her room were crashing down upon her. 
 
 She closed her eyes and waited. 
 
 A few moments later she opened them, and was sur- 
 prised to find her gilded prison very little damaged. It 
 was badly cracked, and several blocks of stone had crashed 
 down from the ceiling, one on the sandalwood bureau near 
 where she crouched, smashing it to splinters and scattering 
 the contents about her feet. 
 
 More than once Pansy had rummaged in its scented re- 
 cesses, until she knew its contents by heart. She had found 
 nothing but a few quills, sheets of paper yellow with age, 
 and quaint, cut-crystal bottles in which the coloured inks 
 had dried. She knew the desk had belonged to the Sultan's 
 mother. Just as she knew the gilded room had been the 
 French girl's prison. 
 
 As she gazed at the debris at her feet, it seemed she could 
 not have searched thoroughly. Among the splinters was 
 something she had not seen before. A few sheets of paper 
 folded flat and tied with a strand of silk, that must have 
 been hidden behind one of the many drawers. 
 
 More to get her thoughts away from the battle raging 
 round her than anything else, Pansy picked up the tiny 
 packet. Untying the silk, she opened the faded, scented 
 sheets and glanced at them. 
 
 After the first glance, she stayed riveted. And as she 
 read on, she forgot everything except what the letter said. 
 
 It was in French, in a woman's hand, and the date was 
 now more than twenty years old; a statement written by 
 Annette Le Breton before she died, proclaiming her son's 
 real identity, and left by her in the bureau. Some servant
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 291 
 
 rummaging in the desk for trinkets, after her mistress's 
 death, must have let it slip behind one of the numerous 
 drawers. 
 
 Pansy read of Colonel Raoul Le Breton's ill-fated expedi- 
 tion to the north-east; how he and his little force had 
 been murdered by the Sultan Casim Ammeh. She learnt 
 of Annette Le Breton's fate at the hands of her savage 
 captor. Of the son who had come nearly nine months after 
 her husband's death the son the Sultan Casim Ammeh 
 imagined to be his. 
 
 "Raoul is not the son of the Sultan Casim Ammeh/' 
 the faint handwriting declared. "He is the son of my 
 murdered husband, Colonel Raoul Le Breton. I know, for 
 every day he grows more like his dear, dead father. Yet 
 he imagines the Sultan to be his father. And I dare not 
 tell him the truth. For if the Sultan learnt the boy was not 
 his, he would kill him. For Raoul's sake I must let the 
 deception go on. For the sake of my son who is all I have 
 to live for. And my heart breaks, for daily my boy grows 
 more and more to love that savage chief who murdered his 
 real father." 
 
 Pansy read of Annette's dreary years in the harem of 
 her captor. 
 
 "Years that have no light in them, save my son. Years 
 that I should not have endured except for my child, my boy, 
 the son of my brave Raoul." 
 
 It was a heart-breaking story of love and sacrifice, of a 
 mother tortured to save her child from the fate that had 
 befallen his father. 
 
 "The Sultan will make my boy like himself," the letter 
 went on. "For there is no one at hand to stop him. Daily 
 my influence grows less, and his stronger. The boy admires 
 and copies the man he deems his father. He is too young 
 to know the Sultan for what he really is. He sees only a
 
 292 A SON OF THE SAHARA 
 
 man, bold and picturesque. And the Sultan spoils him 
 utterly, he encourages him to be cruel and arrogant, he 
 fosters all that is bad in the boy. It is useless for me to 
 try and check him, for my own son laughs at me now." 
 
 The writing grew more feeble as the letter went on; 
 the wild entreaty of a mother who had no life outside of 
 her son, and who saw him being ruined by his own father's 
 murderer. 
 
 "Whoever finds this be kind to my boy, my Raoul, for 
 the sake of a woman who has suffered much, for the sake 
 of his martyred father, Colonel Raoul Le Breton. Do not 
 judge my son by what he is, but by what he might have 
 been. In the Sultan Casim he has a bad example, a savage 
 teacher, a wild, profligate, cruel man, who would make the 
 boy as barbarous as he is himself." 
 
 The writing grew even more feeble, a faint scrawl on 
 the yellow paper. 
 
 "I am dying, and my son is far away. I shall not live 
 until my boy returns. And he will be left with no influence 
 but the Sultan's. Fate, deal kindly with my boy, my 
 Raoul, left alone with savages in this barbaric city. I have 
 only endured these dreadful years for the sake of my son. 
 In the name of pity be kind to him. He will have no 
 chance in the hands of his present teacher. Have mercy for 
 the sake of his tortured mother, and his father, that brave 
 soldier who gave his life for France. 
 
 ANNETTE LE BRETON." 
 
 Pansy read the sheets through without once raising her 
 eyes. She was ravenous for the contents. 
 
 At that moment it seemed as if the dim, gilded room 
 were full of tears and sorrows; the faint, sweet fragrance 
 of the girl who had lived there long years ago, suffering and 
 enduring for the sake of her boy.
 
 293 
 
 It was not in Pansy's kind heart to refuse that tragic 
 mother pleading for her son. 
 
 Then she remembered that Colonel Le Breton's son was 
 out there fighting against his own people. If, indeed, he 
 were still left alive to fight. 
 
 Her lips moved in silent prayer. 
 
 She kissed the faded, scented sheets and tucked them 
 against her heart. She was not going to fail Annette. All 
 she wanted now was to be at the side of the dead girl's 
 son, to help him to build up a new character according to 
 the best white codes and standards. 
 
 Then she sat on, listening to the battle that raged around 
 the desert city. 
 
 If Raoul Le Breton were spared, there was another battle 
 before her a battle with two governments for his life. 
 But she had not many qualms about the result, with 
 Annette's letter, her own wealth, and her father on her side; 
 as he would be, once she had explained the situation. 
 
 Morning dragged on into afternoon, and the sound of the 
 conflict died down somewhat. 
 
 All at once, as if muffled by distance, she heard her lover's 
 voice calling hoarsely: 
 
 "Pansy." 
 
 She started to her feet. 
 
 Before she could answer, there was a sound of fighting 
 just beyond her quarters. 
 
 Then she heard her father's voice, strained and anxious: 
 
 "Pansy, are you in there?" 
 
 "Oh, father," she called back frantically. "Don't let 
 them kill the Sultan." 
 
 There came more muffled voices. Then the sound of 
 masonry being shifted, as the men outside her prison started 
 clearing away the debris that blocked the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 EVENING shadows were settling over El-Ammeh; deep, grey 
 shadows that, for all their gloomy darkness, were not as 
 dark and gloomy as the thoughts of a man who was a 
 prisoner in one of the rooms of his own palace. 
 
 Against a fluted column the Sultan stood watching night 
 settle on the lake; a night that would soon settle on him 
 for ever. 
 
 The day had gone against him. Outmatched, he had been 
 driven back to his city walls. Even then he could have 
 escaped with a handful of his following, and have started 
 life afresh as a desert marauder, but there was one treasure 
 in his palace the greatest treasure of his life that he 
 wanted to take with him. In a vain effort to secure Pansy 
 before he fled, he had been captured. 
 
 With his enemies close at his heels, he had made a dash 
 for the palace, to fetch the girl. On arriving outside of her 
 prison, he found a fall of masonry had blocked the doorway. 
 Before he could retrace his steps and try another entrance, 
 his pursuers were upon him. 
 
 The French were already in possession of that part of the 
 city where the Englishmen had been imprisoned. Immedi- 
 ately they were released, Sir George Barclay and his officers, 
 supplemented by a few Senegalese soldiers, had gone hot- 
 foot to the palace, to Pansy's rescue. 
 
 There they had found the Sultan. A brief struggle 
 against overpowering odds ensued, and once more the so- 
 called Casim Ammeh was a prisoner in the hands of George 
 Barclay. 
 
 With the shadows gathering round him, the Sultan stood, 
 in white burnoose, a bitter expression on his arrogant face. 
 
 He had nothing now, neither wealth, nor power, nor his 
 
 294
 
 A SON OF THE SAHARA 295 
 
 kingdom, nor the girl he had risked all for in a vain at- 
 tempt to win. To-morrow he would have even less. 
 
 There was short shrift for such as he. To-morrow his 
 life would have been taken from him. A life that had 
 become empty as he had grown older and pleasures palled, 
 until Pansy had come into it, filling it with freshness and 
 innocence. 
 
 The battle between them was over at last. Death would 
 end it. His death. 
 
 A European entered. A man he knew. George Barclay. 
 The man he hated more than ever; the man responsible 
 for his capture. 
 
 Barclay ordered one of the soldiers to light the lamp. 
 Then he dismissed his escort. 
 
 There were half a dozen Senegalese soldiers mounting 
 guard over the Sultan. The Englishman dismissed them 
 also, leaving himself alone with the prisoner. 
 
 "You're doing a bold thing, Barclay, leaving the two 
 of us together like this," the Sultan remarked. "It will 
 give me great pleasure to wring your neck, before I'm sent 
 the way of my father." 
 
 As if to carry out this design, he took a step towards the 
 Governor. 
 
 From his pocket, Barclay drew out a few sheets of faded, 
 scented paper. 
 
 "Head this," he said quietly, handing them to the 
 prisoner. 
 
 With some surprise, the Sultan took them. 
 
 On opening the letter, he started, for he recognised his 
 mother's writing. 
 
 As he read on, his bronzed face whitened, and a dazed 
 look came to his eyes, like a man reeling under a tremen- 
 dous blow. 
 
 In a critical, but not unfriendly manner, Barclay studied 
 his companion. He knew now why the Sultan of El-Ammeh 
 differed so in appearance from the wild people he ruled. 
 
 On reaching Pansy, he had had Annette Le Breton's letter
 
 I 
 
 296 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 
 
 thrust into his hands. His daughter had had no greeting 
 for him, only wild entreaties for him to save the Sultan. 
 When Barclay read the tragic confession he was quite ready 
 to do his best. 
 
 Then Pansy had told him more. 
 
 How Kaoul Le Breton was the man she loved. But she 
 did not say that Lucille Lemesurier was responsible for their 
 parting. She led her father to believe that the discovery 
 of the supposed black blood in her lover had been her 
 "hole in the floor of heaven." 
 
 Barclay did not trouble his daughter with many questions. 
 It was enough that she was safe. What was more, he knew 
 she would marry the man of her choice, no matter what 
 obstacles were put in her way, as the first Pansy had mar- 
 ried him with the world against her. 
 
 All he wanted now was to save the man his daughter 
 had set her heart on; that death should not blight her life 
 as it had blighted his. 
 
 WTien the conflict was over, and the French and English 
 officers met again, Barclay had shown the letter to the 
 commander of the expeditionary force the man who held 
 the Sultan's life in his hand. 
 
 The officer had read Annette Le Breton's statement 
 through in silence. Considering the contents, it did not 
 need Pansy's lovely, anxious face or her father's pleadings 
 to make him promise them life and liberty for Colonel Le 
 Breton's son. More he could not promise. The two gov- 
 ernments would want an indemnity that would swallow up 
 most of the kingdom of El-Ammeh. 
 
 But his life was all Pansy wanted. 
 
 His life, and to be at his side when the blow fell. For a 
 blow it was bound to be, to a man as proud and fierce as 
 her lover. A shock and then a relief. 
 
 As Eaoul Le Breton read the letter, his old world crashed 
 in ruins about him. 
 
 Now he understood his dead mother's hatred of the 
 Sultan Casim. Her endeavours to mould him on European
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 29T 
 
 lines. Her pleadings and entreaties for him not to forget 
 the white side. That poor, frail, tortured little mother who 
 had suffered so much for his sake! 
 
 His hand went across his anguished face. 
 
 He had not forgotten the white side. He had done 
 worse. He had just ignored it. Knowing good, he had 
 preferred evil. He had gone his way as barbaric and licen- 
 tious as the savage who had murdered his father. 
 
 AVith tortured eyes he glanced at Barclay. 
 
 This man whom he had hated so bitterly for sixteen 
 years and more was his best friend, not his enemy. For 
 Barclay had shot the savage chief who had murdered his 
 father and outraged his mother. 
 
 Like a whisper through the chaos surrounding him, Le 
 Breton heard Barclay talking, telling him Pansy had found 
 the letter. On account of its contents the French com- 
 mander was not going to push the case against him. He 
 would be given his life and freedom, but an indemnity 
 would have to be paid, and the price would leave him only 
 a shadow of his wealth. 
 
 Le Breton knew that again Pansy had saved his worth- 
 less life. For worthless it seemed, judging from his new 
 standpoint. 
 
 "I owe you thanks, not hatred/' he said to Barclay, his 
 voice hoarse with suffering. 
 
 "And I owe you thanks too," the governor replied. 
 "My daughter tells me you treated her with every kindness 
 and consideration." 
 
 It seemed to Le Breton that he had been anything but 
 kind and considerate; that no woman could forgive such 
 dealings as his had been with her. 
 
 He had taken a girl used to a free and active life and had 
 shut her up in a scented, sensual prison, trying to make her 
 fall a victim to himself and her own senses; until she had 
 grown morbid and hysterical, seeking death in preference 
 to himself and the sort of life he had forced her to lead. 
 
 "I don't know that I should call myself exactly kind or
 
 298 A SON OP THE SAHAEA 
 
 considerate to your daughter/' he remarked. "Not after 
 reading this letter. Or to you either," he finished. 
 
 "I wouldn't worry too much about the past, if I were 
 you," Barclay replied. "You've plenty of time ahead of 
 you to 'make good' in." 
 
 Le Breton said nothing. He stayed brooding on the ruins 
 around him, hating himself and the savage chief who had 
 been his teacher. 
 
 All his old world had been swept away from him. Lost 
 and alone, he would have to start afresh, according to new 
 lights and new ideals, and without a hand to guide him. 
 
 He had nothing, neither wealth nor kingdom. Not his 
 pride even. Unknowingly he had been a renegade, fighting 
 against his own nation. 
 
 He was utterly broken. But he did not look it only 
 unutterably dreary. 
 
 As he pondered on his past life, he realised to the fullest 
 what he must look like to Pansy. No wonder she had 
 fought against her love for him! Any decent woman 
 would. 
 
 He did not hear Barclay go, leaving him alone with his 
 thoughts and the deepening shadows. He was aware of 
 nothing except his own wild career, and how he had run 
 foul of all white ideals. 
 
 The door opened, but he did not hear that either. He 
 was too full of suffering and repentance. 
 
 Then another whisper penetrated the whirl in which he 
 moved. 
 
 "Baoul," a girl's voice said gently. 
 
 He looked at Pansy as a man dying of thirst in a desert 
 would look at a mirage of lakes and fountains a vision of 
 torturing desire that he knew was not for him. 
 
 No apologies could condone for his behaviour. Love he 
 dared not mention; not with a past like his; not to this 
 innocent, high-principled girl. 
 
 Pansy came to his side.
 
 A SON OF THE SAHAEA 299 
 
 "Stoop down a bit, Kaoul," she said. "I want to say 
 something." 
 
 He bent his dark head. 
 
 Into his ear "I love you" was whispered shyly, as it had 
 been that night months ago in a moonlit garden in Grand 
 Canary. 
 
 At her whispered words his face started working strangely. 
 
 "I don't deserve such love, such forgiveness," he said in 
 a broken voice. 
 
 She laughed the laughter that kept tears at bay and 
 slipping her arms about his neck, tip-toed, and kissed the lips 
 that dared not touch her now. 
 
 "And I want to marry you at once. I want to be with 
 you always." 
 
 At her words his arms went round her in their old 
 possessive manner. 
 
 Then he remembered that all his wealth had been swept 
 from him; that now he had the girl, he had nothing left 
 to give her. 
 
 "I've nothing to offer you," he said, his voice bitter, 
 "except a love that's not worth having." 
 
 With soft, gentle hands Pansy stroked the lines of bitter- 
 ness from the proud face that watched her with such love 
 and longing. 
 
 "You can have all that's mine. I don't want anything 
 but you." 
 
 He kissed the lips that were held up to his so willingly. 
 
 "My darling, help me to grope back to your white ways," 
 he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. 
 
 "You won't have to grope. You got there last night when 
 you 'remembered my reputation' and 'went nicely and quietly 
 like a good boy.'" 
 
 He laughed, but there was a alight catch in his laughter, 
 and pressed the girl closer to the heart she could always ease. 
 
 There were no shadows now, no ruins. For the greatest 
 treasure of his life was left to him. 
 
 THE END.
 
 Another tremendous success by 
 the author of "DESERT LOVE" 
 
 THE HAWK OF EGYPT 
 
 Joan Conquest's exotic story of the love-madness 
 with which mysterious Egypt drugs the souls of 
 men and women, 
 
 Its realism will 
 thrill you 
 
 You will see: 
 
 Cairo, the native quarter, the bazaars, the naming 
 desert, the love tryst in the temple of Ammon, 
 Zulannah, the dancing girl the jewelled siren of 
 the Nile, Damans, the beautiful English heroine, 
 Kelham, the lion hunter and Hugh Garden Ali, 
 the man who sold his life for 
 
 One Hour of Love
 
 Here are two pages selected at random from 
 
 THE HAWK OF EGYPT 
 a love story -without asterisks 
 
 DAMARIS bowed her head so that the curls 
 danced and glistened in the light, as the tor- 
 rent of his words, in the Egyptian tongue, 
 swept about her like a flood. 
 
 "Hast thou come to me in love, thou dove from the 
 nest? Nay, what knowest thou of love? I ask it not 
 of thee yet but the seed I siiall plant within thee 
 shall grow in the passing of the days and the nights and 
 the months and the years, until it is as a grove of 
 perfumed flowers which shall change to golden fruit 
 ready to the plucking of my hand." 
 
 He pressed her little hands back against her breast so 
 that the light fell full upon her face, and he held her 
 thuswise, watching the colour rise and fade. 
 
 "Allah!" he whispered. "Allah! God of all, what 
 have I done to deserve such signs of Thy great good-" 
 ness? Wilt thou love me?" He laughed gently. "Canst 
 thou look into mine eyes and shake thy golden head 
 which shall be pillowed upon my heart my wife the 
 mother of my children ? Look at me ! Look at me ! Ah ! 
 thine eyes, which were as the pools of Lebanon at night, 
 are as a sun-kissed sea of love. Thou know'st it not, 
 but love is within thee for me, thy master." 
 
 And was there not truth in what he said? May there 
 hot have been love in the heart of the girl? 
 
 Not, maybe, the love which stands sweet and sturdy 
 like the stocky hyacinth, to bloom afresh, no matter how 
 gften the flowers be struck, or the leaves be bruised,
 
 THE HAWK OF EGYPT 
 
 from the humdrum bulb deep in the soil of cornel con- 
 tent. But the God-given, iridescent love of youth foi 
 youth, with its passion so swift, so sweet ; a love like tht 
 rose-bud which hangs half-closed over the door in the 
 dawn; which is wide-flung to the sun at noon; which 
 scatters its petals at dusk. 
 The rose ! 
 
 She has filled your days with the memory of her 
 fragrance ; her leaves still scent the night from out the 
 sealed crystal vase which is your heart. 
 
 But an' you would attain the priceless boon of peace, 
 see to it that a humdrum bulb be planted in the brown 
 flower-pot which is your home. 
 
 And because of this God-given love of youth which 
 was causing her heart to thud and the blood to race 
 through her veins, she did not withdraw her hands when 
 he held and kissed them and pressed his forehead upon 
 them. 
 
 "Lotus-flower," he whispered so that she could 
 scarcely hear. "Bud of innocence ! ivory tower of 
 womanhood ! temple of love ! Beloved, beloved, I am at 
 thy feet." And he knelt and kissed the little feet in the 
 heelless little slippers ; then, rising, took both her hands 
 and led her to the door; and his eyes were filled with a 
 great sadness, in spite of the joy which sang in hu 
 heart as he took her into the shelter of his arms. 
 
 "I love thee too well," he said, as he bent and kissed 
 the riotous curls so near his mouth. "Yes, I love thet 
 too well to snatch thee even as a hungry dog snatches 
 his food, though, verily, I be more near to starving than 
 any hungry dog. What dost thou know of love, of life, 
 in the strange countries ?f the East? For thy life will
 
 They Were Alone 
 
 The magic of the desert night had closed about 
 them. Cairo, friends, civilization as she knew 
 it were left far behind. She, an unbeliever, 
 was in the heart of the trackless wastes with a 
 man whose word was more than law. 
 
 And yet, he was her slave! 
 
 "I shall ask nothing of you until you shall love 
 me," he promised. ''You shall draw your cur- 
 tains, and until you call, you shall go undis- 
 turbed." 
 
 And she believed him! 
 
 Do you want to see luxury beyond your imag- 
 ination to conjure, feel the softness of silks 
 finer than the gossamer web of the spider hear 
 the night voices of the throbbing desert, or sway 
 to the jolting of the clanking caravan? 
 
 Egypt, Arabia pass before your eyes. The 
 impatient cursing of the camel men comes to 
 your ears. Your nostrils quiver in the acrid 
 smoke of the little fires of dung that flare in the 
 darkness when the caravan halts. The night has 
 shut off prying eyes. Yashmaks are lowered. 
 White flesh gleams against burnished bands of 
 gold. The children of Allah are at home. 
 
 And the promise he had given her?. . .let Joan 
 Conquest, who knows and loves the East, tell 
 you in 
 
 DESERT LOVE 
 
 For salf wherever books are sold> or from 
 
 The Macaulay Company 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 15-17 W. 38th SL New York
 
 A beautifully illustrated edition of 
 
 THREE WEEKS 
 
 The Famous Romantic Novel 
 
 By Elinor Glyn 
 
 Now ready at the same price aa 
 "Beyond the Rocks" 
 
 The world has felt upon its hot lips the perfumed kisses 
 of the beautiful heroine of "Three Weeks." The brilliant 
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 consuming emotion that has made the name of its author, 
 Elinor Glyn, the most discussed of all writers of modern 
 fiction. 
 
 WHAT THE CRITICS HAVE SAID 
 ABOUT IT 
 
 Percival Pollard in Town Topics: 
 
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 and read 'Three Weeks.' " 
 
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 The Brooklyn Eagle: 
 
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 The San Francisco Argonaut: 
 
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 upon a powerful story that lays a grip upon the mind 
 and heart." 
 
 The Detroit Free Press: 
 
 "No wonder that 'Three Weeks' is one of the best 
 sellers."
 
 A beautifully illustrated edition of 
 
 Beyond the Rocks 
 
 By Elinor Glyn 
 
 Now ready at the same price as 
 "Three Weeks" 
 
 A flaming romance as only the author of "THREE 
 WEEKS" could write it; as only Gloria Swanson, with 
 dashing Rodolph Valentino playing the lover, could 
 make it live in all its ardent splendor. 
 The story of a passionate young heart bound by 
 society's conventions, struggling and risking all for 
 happiness. 
 
 of gay nights of revelry in the Parisian world of 
 fashion. 
 
 of intrigue and coquetry in the gilded resorts of 
 London high society. 
 
 Never before have such dramatic love-scenes, such 
 spectacular adventure been placed before the public. 
 The love-drama with all the thrills and luxury of a 
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 get!
 
 FAMOUS NOVELS BY 
 VICTORIA CROSS 
 
 LIFE'S SHOP WINDOW 
 
 It tears tbe garments of conventionality from woman, presenting her 
 as she must appear to the Divine Eye. 
 
 HILDA AGAINST THE WORLD 
 
 Fancy a married man, denied divorce by law, falling desperately in 
 love with a charming maiden waiting for love. 
 
 A GIRL OF THE KLONDIKE 
 
 A stirring story of love, intrigue and adventure, wove about a 
 proud, reckless heroine. 
 
 SIX WOMEN 
 
 A half-dozen of the most vivid love stories that ever lit up tha 
 dusk of a tired civilization. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF TEMPTATION 
 
 The self-sacrifice of woman in love. Regina, the heroine, gfi^es 
 herself to a man for his own sake. The world, however, exacts a severe 
 price for her unconventional conduct. 
 
 SIX CHAPTERS OF A MAN'S LIFE 
 
 A bold, brilliant, defiant presentation of the relations of men and 
 women who find themselves in. situations never before conceived. 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 A daring innovation of great strength and almost photographic 
 intensity, that appeals to the lovers of sensational fiction; wise, witty, 
 yet touchingly pathetic. 
 
 DAUGHTERS OF HEAVEN 
 
 As life cannot be described, but must be livd, so this book cannot 
 be revealed it must be read. Its daring situations and tense moments 
 will thrill you. 
 
 OVER LIFE'S EDGE 
 
 No one but Victoria Cross could have written this thrilling tale of 
 a girl who left the gayeties of London to dwell in a lonely cavern until 
 the man, who loved her with the passion of impetuous youth, found her. 
 
 A beautifully written story, full of life, nature, passion and pathos. 
 The weaknesses of a proud, cultured woman lead to a strange climax. 
 
 THE MACAULAY COMPANY 
 15-17 West 38th Street New York 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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