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 m.u.f.fled by distance, she heard her lover's voice calling hoa.r.s.ely:

"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 m.u.f.fled voices. Then the sound of masonry being shifted, as the men outside her prison started clearing away the debris that blocked the door.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

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. Immediately 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 kingdom, nor the girl he had risked all for in a vain attempt 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.

"Read 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 tremendous 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 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 Raoul 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 married 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.

When 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 governments 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 Raoul 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 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!