A Son of the Sahara Part 5

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, handsome son of his loved him.

Like one stunned, the youngster submitted to being led 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, dreading the worst from Barclay's silence.

The word made the Englishman wince. For it did seem like murder with this fierce, handsome boy pleading desperately 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 Government, 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 pa.s.sionately; "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 become the bondswomen of my servants. Remember, white 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 guidance.

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 distressfully.

Then there followed the story of the youthful Sultan Casim Ammeh.

"Oh, what a wicked boy!" she exclaimed.

Then she glanced across at her G.o.dfather who was sitting near.

"Isn't he a bad, naughty boy, Grand-G.o.dfather, 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 dreadfully 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.

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 interesting because her father was one of the princ.i.p.al 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."