He signed to the Nubians and they vanished silently, leaving him alone with his captives.
He bowed to Rosamund. “This, mistress,” he said, “is to be your domain henceforth which is to treat you more as wife than slave. For it is to Muslim wives that the housetops in Barbary are allotted. I hope you like it.”
Lionel staring at him out of a white face, his conscience bidding him fear the very worst, his imagination painting a thousand horrid fates for him and turning him sick with dread, shrank back before his half-brother, who scarce appeared to notice him just then.
But Rosamund confronted him, drawn to the full of her splendid height, and if her face was pale, yet it was as composed and calm as his own; if her bosom rose and fell to betray her agitations yet her glance was contemptuous and defiant, her voice calm and steady, when she answered him with the question—
“What is your intent with me?”
“My intent?” said he, with a little twisted smile. Yet for all that he believed he hated her and sought to hurt, to humble and to crush her, he could not stifle his admiration of her spirit’s gallantry in such an hour as this.
From behind the hills peeped the edge of the moon—a sickle of burnished copper.
“My intent is not for you to question,” he replied. “There was a time, Rosamund, when in all the world you had no slave more utter than was I. Yourself in your heartlessness, and in your lack of faith, you broke the golden fetters of that servitude. You’ll find it less easy to break the shackles I now impose upon you.”
She smiled her scorn and quiet confidence. He stepped close to her.
“You are my slave, do you understand?—bought in the marketplace as I might buy me a mule, a goat, or a camel—and belonging to me body and soul. You are my property, my thing, my chattel, to use or abuse, to cherish or break as suits my whim, without a will that is not my will, holding your very life at my good pleasure.”
She recoiled a step before the dull hatred that throbbed in his words, before the evil mockery of his swarthy bearded face.
“You beast!” she gasped.
“So now you understand the bondage into which you are come in exchange for the bondage which in your own wantonness you dissolved.”
“May God forgive you,” she panted.
“I thank you for that prayer,” said he. “May He forgive you no less.”
And then from the background came an inarticulate sound, a strangled, snarling sob from Lionel.
Sakr-el-Bahr turned slowly. He eyed the fellow a moment in silence, then he laughed.
“Ha! My sometime brother. A pretty fellow, as God lives is it not? Consider him Rosamund. Behold how gallantly misfortune is borne by this pillar of manhood upon which you would have leaned, by this stalwart husband of your choice. Look at him! Look at this dear brother of mine.”
Under the lash of that mocking tongue Lionel’s mood was stung to anger where before it had held naught but fear.
“You are no brother of mine,” he retorted fiercely. “Your mother was a wanton who betrayed my father.”
Sakr-el-Bahr quivered a moment as if he had been struck. Yet he controlled himself.
“Let me hear my mother’s name but once again on thy foul tongue, and I’ll have it ripped out by the roots. Her memory, I thank God, is far above the insults of such a crawling thing as you. None the less, take care not to speak of the only woman whose name I reverence.”
And then turning at bay, as even the rat will do, Lionel sprang upon him, with clawing hands outstretched to reach his throat. But Sakr-el-Bahr caught him in a grip that bent him howling to his knees.
“You find me strong, eh?” he gibed. “Is it matter for wonder? Consider that for six endless months I toiled at the oar of a galley, and you’ll understand what it was that turned my body into iron and robbed me of a soul.”
He flung him off, and sent him crashing into the rosebush and the lattice over which it rambled.
“Do you realize the horror of the rower’s bench? to sit day in day out, night in night out, chained naked to the oar, amid the reek and stench of your fellows in misfortune, unkempt, unwashed save by the rain, broiled and roasted by the sun, festering with sores, lashed and cut and scarred by the boatswain’s whip as you faint under the ceaseless, endless, cruel toil?”
“Do you realize it?” From a tone of suppressed fury his voice rose suddenly to a roar. “You shall. For that horror which was mine by your contriving shall now be yours until you die.”
He paused; but Lionel made no attempt to avail himself of this. His courage all gone out of him again, as suddenly as it had flickered up, he cowered where he had been flung.
“Before you go there is something else,” Sakr-el-Bahr resumed, “something for which I have had you brought hither tonight.
“Not content with having delivered me to all this, not content with having branded me a murderer, destroyed my good name, filched my possessions and driven me into the very path of hell, you must further set about usurping my place in the false heart of this woman I once loved.
“I hope,” he went on reflectively, “that in your own poor way you love her, too, Lionel. Thus to the torment that awaits your body shall be added torment for your treacherous soul—such torture of mind as only the damned may know. To that end have I brought you hither. That you may realize something of what is in store for this woman at my
