A Son of the Sahara Part 38

"Four shots for them, Pansy, and the fifth for you," he answered hoa.r.s.ely.

"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 a.s.sault. 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 such 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.

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 but 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 hoa.r.s.ely.

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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 onrus.h.i.+ng Arabs.

And with ruthless joy Cameron noted that four of them fell.

Then he turned his weapon on the girl beside him. Now 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 intended. 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 onrus.h.i.+ng 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 V

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 cus.h.i.+ons, 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.

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 pa.s.sed 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.