She moistened her lips. With trembling fingers, she searched beneath her robes, andhanded him the miniature.He didn't even look at it. "It's Bruce," he said, still staring at her face. "It's Michael Bruce, isn't it? God forgive me. You're English."Zenia nodded."What have you made me do?" he asked wildly, thrusting up away from her. He paced the room. "You're English! You're an Englishwoman!" He stopped suddenly,looking over his shoulder at her. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," she said weakly.He laughed. "Oh God." He put his hands over his face and tilted his head back."God!"

Zenia stared down at her knees. "I'm sorry." She swallowed. "I didn't want to come

here.""You didn't want-" He gave a Fierce laugh. "You're an Englishwoman! By God,how the devil was I supposed to-" He stopped suddenly. "No!" He turned on her."No-tell me that it wasn't to get you to England. Tell me that you aren't such agoddamned little fool!"

She felt as if she could not draw breath. "My father!" she cried, unable to puttogether more of an explanation in the face of his vehement denial of her dream. "Iwas going to go to my father!"

The expression on his face frightened her. There was a strange glitter in his eyes, acold fury that made her press herself back against the wall."Then why didn't you go?" he asked, in a voice so soft that she trembled.

"How could I?" she asked on a sob. "I could not tell the consul; I had no money; I was alone!"

"Couldn't tell the consul?" He was shouting again. "Why the devil not? It's his bloody job to take care of you!"

"My mother's debts!" she cried. "They would have sold me to pay the debts!"

He stared at her. "Fool!" he whispered. "You ignorant little fool! What do you think we are, barbarians? You had only to say it. Only once to say, 'I'm a woman, I'm English, I need help,' and we would have moved heaven and earth to get you out of there!"

"Oh yes!" she said with a sudden aching bitterness. "My mother needed help, and they took away her income, and left to her starve to death alone."

"Your mother," he snapped, "should have been shot?"

She scrambled to her feet. "I'm sure that would have been more your taste, O Great Father of Ten Shots! I'm surprised you didn't do it yourself!"

"I would have, if I'd got there soon enough," he said viciously. "If I'd known about you!"

She felt a wild desire to defend her mother, and so attacked him instead. "You were her particular friend! You could have helped her!"

"She was impossible to help." He tore off his kuffiyah and flung it away, pacing. "I gave her a thousand pounds every time I came, to pay some of her debts, but she had it spent before I ever got out the gate, buying French champagne and silk suits for her bloody pashas!" He stopped before her, looking at her with narrowed eyes. "I never cared a damn what she did with the money-it was her life, she could live it as she pleased, but my God, look at you! If you've had a new shirt on your back in the last ten years, I'll be devilish amazed to hear it."

A deep sob welled up in her, choking her angry retort. She pressed her fist to her lips.

"For Christ's sake, don't start-" He broke off, his jaw taut.

She tried to stop them, but the warm tears tumbled down her cheeks. "I wanted English sh-shoes."

His gaze flicked to her bare feet, and up to her face. He squeezed his eyes closed, shaking his head with a twisted laugh. "I would have seen that you were sent to England." His voice, when he spoke, seemed oddly helpless. "I don't know why you didn't tell me."

"I was afraid of you," she said weakly.

"But why?" He shook his head again, as if in bewilderment. "Why?"

She moistened her lips and looked down. "I've heard you and my mother," she said in a small voice. "You don't like females."

"What?" he asked blankly.

"You agreed with her. You said you detest women." She hesitated. "I was afraid you would leave me if you knew. Or-or . . . you killed a woman for deceit. I thought- as long as I was Selim-you would abide me for a companion. You would not leave me here."

There was a long silence. She swallowed in a dry throat and looked up. His black hair was tousled by the kuffiyah, touched with sweat and dust.

"Abide you." He scowled fiercely as he lifted his hand and wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of his knuckle. "My God, I'm alive because of you." His touch moved over her skin, slightly rough, tears and a few grains of sand on his fingers. "Little wolf! What's your name?"

"Zenobia," she said.

His fingers stilled. "Naturally," he said in a dry tone. "Oh, naturally!" He stepped back and threw his hands wide. "Zenobia, queen of Palmyra!" he said with a savage flamboyance. "I can guess whose vanity that was meant to serve."

"You can call me Zenia, if you don't like it," she said. "My mother did. She thought I was too missish to be a namesake for Zenobia."

"Did she?" He gave a scornful laugh. "I'll wager she never saw you drag a camel up a sand dune."

Zenia looked at the floor. "No."

"But you've lived with the Bedu. A long time."

"For eight years. She sent me to them. To live like this." She added violently, "I hate the desert! I hate it! I don't want to die here!"

He stood watching her. Zenia covered her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to hold back the pressing sob.

"You won't," he said, his blue eyes sober and clear. "I made a promise to you. I'll keep it, little wolf-unless they kill me first."

They were pawns. She was. Arden was not certain what his role must be, but he would go to whatever length he had to go to get her safely out of here.

He was afraid it would require a brazen walk through the fire of revolt. Prince Rashid called him into audience without her, demanding to know what forces the Englezys could bring, and Arden lied flagrantly. Ships and guns and men-he described them in detail, and put their arrival at a date as far distant as he dared.

"Two months, billah," Rashid said, displeased. He drew on his long pipe.

"We could have made arrangements with you privately," Arden said. "You've made your move too soon."

Rashid's dark, eyes widened a little at this blunt speaking. "There was no choice. The Saudis are a half day away." His lip lifted in scorn. "Those Wahhabi dogs come on the leash of their Egyptian masters. I will receive Prince Khalid el-Saud this evening.""With hospitality," Arden asked, "or with fire?"Rashid looked from one to another of the men who sat about him in the room. "We shall see, Englezy. We shall see. It is with God.""Does my queen have your protection?"He bent his head in acknowledgment. "She is under my protection." With a slight smile, he said, "Perhaps I should marry her today."Arden said nothing."What is she to you, O Father of Ten Shots?" Rashid inquired mildly."My queen," he said. "I am her sword and shield.""It is well, by Allah. She is a virgin?""Yes."Rashid nodded. "We have heard of her mother, the English queen Esther. Her courage, it is said, would shame a man's. This daughter too-she has ridden inghrazzu and crossed the sands. It is a wonder of Allah. She will breed fearless sons,God willing."

"Inshallah," Arden murmured. "You must protect her.""And the bride-price?" the prince inquired mildly.Arden looked into his black, shrewd eyes. It struck him that the case had gone far beyond caution. "A single mare," he said. "The String of Pearls."For a moment Rashid said nothing. Then he shrugged. He rose abruptly, with a haughty move, and all his men with him. "When the time is ripe, I shall take you tosee my mares. You will find pearls enough among them, by Allah."* * * * *It was a damned quiet rebellion. The silence made Arden uneasy as he pretended to sleep through the midday heat.He and the girl did not speak. After his first fury had subsided, he felt disarmed and awkward, unable to think of any word of reassurance that was not a lie. It seemedbetter to say nothing, the way they had said nothing in the sands.Instead Arden had prowled the chamber, looking for escape, but the windows were three times his height off the floor, the central row of columns too wide around to beuseful for anything, even supposing he could contrive some sort of rope, and thedoor impenetrable short of fire or axe. Finally he sat down, dropping onto his backagainst a dusty cushion.

For the hours that they waited, their fate swinging in balance, he lay on the rugs,

listening and thinking and watching.There was nothing soft or voluptuous in her. She was female as a she-animal wasfemale, her beauty hard-edged; almost painful, keen as the blade of sword.

Zenia. Zenobia. He could not seem to make either name fit her. She was Selim; his wolf cub, his free-striding child of the desert.

He closed his eyes. And started to his feet when the shouts and the slam of the lock finally came.

Zenia knew before any word was spoken that they were in grievous danger. In the barren guardroom, spears and weapons were piled high, the Wahhabi warriors and Egyptian garrison standing cold-eyed as she and Lord Winter passed.

She walked first, still in her ragged desert shirt and bare feet. Lord Winter came behind her; when they had left their imprisonment he had stood back as if in homage to her, and flanked her now like an honor guard.

She recognized the role that she must take, though they had not spoken of it. It was as if from the moment the soldiers had come for them, she was locked with him in sense and spirit, knowing his mind as she knew her own.

At the door to the emir's hall, she paused. The feast had already been partaken by the guests of honor, and now groups of men huddled around the huge trays, scraping up what was left of the rice and lamb. Prince Rashid stood overlooking all, his arms crossed, a solemnly courteous host. The Saudi emir sat upon a pile of rugs, his robes all purest white, austere beside Rashid's brilliant purple and green and red. The agha that was bound about the Saudi's head scarf was of plain dark wool instead of gold. To his right in an honored position sat an Egyptian general, conspicuous by his Turkish pantaloons, red cloak and tall betasseled fez. He held Lord Winter's revolving rifle across his lap, so absorbed in examining it that he did not even look up when all conversation ceased.

Zenia stood in the door. She felt Lord Winter's presence at her back. In the silence she could hear him breathing, soft and steady, his calmness like a firm hand on her shoulder.

Her chin was high. She thought of her mother; she made herself her mother, Lady Hester who had defied all danger, challenged Ibrahim Pasha himself. Her mother, whose whole life was unflinching, reckless, scornful courage. She walked down the center of the hall and stopped.

"Who are you?" she demanded of the Saudi prince in a voice that rang high to the roof.

His lean jaw dropped a little under the hooked beak of his nose. His black eyes grew furious, and for a moment, just a moment, he made as if to rise.

He caught himself in time. It would have been an acknowledgment of her rank if he had stood for her. The men grouped about him muttered softly, and then quieted as Prince Rashid lifted his hand.

"Khalid ibn Saud, of long life and prosperity, may Allah bless my prince," Rashid said, smoothing over the moment. He turned his head slightly toward the Wahhabi emir. "The daughter of Esther, queen of the Englezys, who searches the desert for a blooded prince to marry."

"Allah cut her off!" cried one of the men with Khalid, all in puritanical white too, one of their religious sheiks who expounded the laws of the Koran. "May she be blackened, and her parents blackened, and her family, and all of the Englezys, by the Prophet!"

Zenia took a step forward, lifting her hand as if she would slap him. The men nearest her shrank back, a faint start, but she held her hand erect a moment, and then dropped it. "Cowards," she spat at them. "Billah, do you flinch from a woman?"

"A woman in the clothes of a man! An abomination!" the sheik cried. "Cover your shamefulness, and may Allah rip up your belly in you!"

Zenia's throat was tight with terror. Her face was frozen in calm. She ignored the sheik, staring steadily at Prince Rashid. Lord Winter had said that the prince had taken them under his protection.

"Shall I suffer this?" she asked.

"You are my guest," he said.

"No." The Saudi emir's bitter voice interposed. "She has no appeal to the laws of hospitality. This woman comes before me accused of immorality and vice. She must be punished. And the man with her, as a Frankish spy."

The Egyptian general looked up. With an expression of boredom, he leaned on the rifle stock and watched the emir with dark unblinking eyes.

"At the proper hour tomorrow, before the assembled people of God, the man's head shall be struck off with a sword," Prince Khalid declared, "and the woman stoned until death. That is my judgment, in the name of the Prophet and of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate!"

CHAPTER 8.

They sat silently, returned to the room of their imprisonment. Arden stuffed a cushion behind his back and leaned his head against the whitewashed wall. For a long time, he sat with his eyes closed. It was a battle within himself. His mind refused reality, and he concentrated on physical sensation for an anchor: the slightly rough pressure of the wall against his shoulders, the carpet beneath him, the occasional sound of a water wheel from outside the barred windows. He breathed the dry air, scentless, that whispered in off the desert.

He opened his eyes. The figure opposite him seemed too small, propped up against one of the two great columns that supported the chamber.

He saw a Bedu boy; beardless young Selim, timid and courageous, a handsome child with wild elf-locks and huge kohl-darkened eyes, small calloused hands and feet. A boy whose death sentence lay on Arden's shoulders, grieving him beyond speech.

But the perception was like a picture he had seen once, a black and white silhouette that in one glance appeared to be an ornate vase, and in the next a pair of faces looking at one another. The same way he had frowned at the silhouette and seen only a vase, he stared and stared and could not distinguish anyone but Selim, until in one instant of transformation his mind made the leap and he saw the other image.

A woman, full-grown. Willow-slender, with skin sun-dyed to darkest gold-and the same huge eyes that gazed back at him in distress-a woman that he did not know, and yet he knew. An Englishwoman. Her mother's daughter, but beautiful, so savagely unkempt and beautiful that his soul seemed to sink down in anguish, unable to bear the intensity of it.

He felt that Selim was lost already. He was angry, surrendering a friend; mourning the boy who had never been, but when he looked in this new perception and knowledge, his feelings were beyond enduring. He could not suffer them. He was numb.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he heard a woman's voice, pitched in a fair, clear timbre like the desert air.

He shook his head. Her lips parted to speak again.

"Don't," he commanded. He was afraid that she would say that it was her fault, when it was his. When he had been blind, blind, blind. Repentance was not a familiar sentiment to him. If one could die of an emotion, he was dying of it. Crushed and annihilated by it, until he could barely pull air into his chest.

She said nothing more. Only knelt, her feet tucked up under her, her delicate shoulder resting against the great pillar. The tangled locks of hair framed her face.

After a long time, she said, "I should have told you."

And what was he to say to that? That she should have; that he would never have brought her; that he would have abandoned her at the first possible place if he had known? Because she was female, and he would never have believed it possible that such heroism could quietly exist in a female heart.

She glanced up at him diffidently. The late afternoon light glowed on her hair, picking out the tiny flying strands, and brought rose to the deep gold of her skin. It was as if he had been traveling with a shabby cocoon, a secret, and something magical and fragile and brief had suddenly appeared from within it.

He thought-She's going to die tomorrow. They're going to stone her to death. If Prince Rashid, God rot him in hell, had stood up for them ...

But he had not. He had bowed to his emir and fanatical sheiks and the Egyptian officers and jiven up his little stab at revolt with a calm smile.

There was a depth of panic in Arden that he couldn't touch, did not dare feel. He could think of his own death. A just penalty for this, for bringing her here. She had wished to go to England, and he had led her to destruction instead. And she had come so bravely, warning him, imploring him to turn back, and still riding beside him into whatever hell he chose to take her.

Even now she looked to him, without tears or recriminations. The way she looked at him-in sober trust, a wild creature wandered into the hunter's camp.

"Tell me," he said. "Do you wish to be known as Miss Stanhope, or Miss Bruce?"

As soon as he said it, he thought it an idiotic thing. He never knew the precise thing to say, the way to be easy and charming and comforting. But she answered instantly, lifting her face.

"Miss Bruce," she said. "I should like to be known as Miss Bruce."

He said, "Miss Bruce, come here."

She rose with a grace that seemed new to him, as if he had not seen her rise a hundred times before. As she settled on the carpet before him, folding her legs beneath her, he felt a brilliant rush of physical desire, a longing that seemed the culmination of all the days he had watched her and not known himself or her.

He lifted the braid that fell from behind her ear, fingering it. Such braids were the pride of young Bedouin men, their ornament to beguile the ladies. With his fingers, he broke the twist that bound the braid, and began to comb out her hair.

In silence he worked, his hands gentle. He spread her braids, and then began to draw his fingers through the wild disorder, unknotting a lifetime of tangles. He had never combed a woman's long hair before, but he found the way, tiny threads, with each snarl caught up in his fingers so that he would not hurt her. He was aware of her eyes upon his face, but he could not look directly into them. He kept his gaze on his work.

"Lord Winter," she whispered, "would you tell me what England is like?"

He smoothed her hair against his palm. "What do you mean?"

"What is it like? Your home-is there a garden?"