“Not … not for sale?” he echoed, faltering in his amazement.
“Not if thou offered me thy Bashalik as the price of her,” was the solemn answer. Then more warmly, in a voice that held a note of intercession—“Ask anything else that is mine,” he continued, “and gladly will I lay it at thy feet in earnest of my loyalty and love for thee.”
“But I want nothing else.” Asad’s tone was impatient, petulant almost. “I want this slave.”
“Then,” replied Oliver, “I cast myself upon thy mercy and beseech thee to turn thine eyes elsewhere.”
Asad scowled upon him. “Dost thou deny me?” he demanded, throwing back his head.
“Alas!” said Sakr-el-Bahr.
There fell a pause. Darker and darker grew the countenance of Asad, fiercer glowed the eyes he bent upon his lieutenant. “I see,” he said at last, with a calm so oddly at variance with his looks as to be sinister. “I see. It seems that there is more truth in Fenzileh than I suspected. So!” He considered the corsair a moment with his sunken smouldering eyes.
Then he addressed him in a tone that vibrated with his suppressed anger. “Bethink thee, Sakr-el-Bahr, of what thou art, of what I have made thee. Bethink thee of all the bounty these hands have lavished on thee. Thou art my own lieutenant, and mayest one day be more. In Algiers there is none above thee save myself. Art, then, so thankless as to deny me the first thing I ask of thee? Truly is it written ‘Ungrateful is Man.’ ”
“Didst thou know,” began Sakr-el-Bahr, “all that is involved for me in this. …”
“I neither know nor care,” Asad cut in. “Whatever it may be, it should be as naught when set against my will.” Then he discarded anger for cajolery. He set a hand upon Sakr-el-Bahr’s stalwart shoulder. “Come, my son. I will deal generously with thee out of my love, and I will put thy refusal from my mind.”
“Be generous, my lord, to the point of forgetting that ever thou didst ask me for her.”
“Dost still refuse?” The voice, honeyed an instant ago, rang harsh again. “Take care how far thou strain my patience. Even as I have raised thee from the dirt, so at a word can I cast thee down again. Even as I broke the shackles that chained thee to the rowers’ bench, so can I rivet them on thee anew.”
“All this canst thou do,” Sakr-el-Bahr agreed. “And since, knowing it, I still hold to what is doubly mine—by right of capture and of purchase—thou mayest conceive how mighty are my reasons. Be merciful, then, Asad. …”
“Must I take her by force in spite of thee?” roared the Basha.
Sakr-el-Bahr stiffened. He threw back his head and looked the Basha squarely in the eyes.
“Whilst I live, not even that mayest thou do,” he answered.
“Disloyal, mutinous dog! Wilt thou resist me—me?”
“It is my prayer that thou’lt not be so ungenerous and unjust as to compel thy servant to a course so hateful.”
Asad sneered. “Is that thy last word?” he demanded.
“Save only that in all things else I am thy slave, O Asad.”
A moment the Basha stood regarding him, his glance baleful. Then deliberately, as one who has taken his resolve, he strode to the door. On the threshold he paused and turned again. “Wait!” he said, and on that threatening word departed.
Sakr-el-Bahr remained a moment where he had stood during the interview, then with a shrug he turned. He met Rosamund’s eyes fixed intently upon him, and invested with a look he could not read. He found himself unable to meet it, and he turned away. It was inevitable that in such a moment the earlier stab of remorse should be repeated. He had overreached himself indeed. Despair settled down upon him, a full consciousness of the horrible thing he had done, which seemed now so irrevocable. In his silent anguish he almost conceived that he had mistaken his feelings for Rosamund; that far from hating her as he had supposed, his love for her had not yet been slain, else surely he should not be tortured now by the thought of her becoming Asad’s prey. If he hated her, indeed, as he had supposed, he would have surrendered her and gloated.
He wondered was his present frame of mind purely the result of his discovery that the appearances against him had been stronger far than he imagined, so strong as to justify her conviction that he was her brother’s slayer.
And then her voice, crisp and steady, cut into his torture of consideration.
“Why did you deny him?”
He swung round again to face her, amazed, horror-stricken.
“You understood?” he gasped.
“I understood enough,” said she. “This lingua franca is none so different from French.” And again she asked—“Why did you deny him?”
He paced across to her side and stood looking down at her.
“Do you ask why?”
“Indeed,” she said bitterly, “there is scarce the need perhaps. And yet can it be that your lust of vengeance is so insatiable that sooner than willingly forgo an ounce of it you will lose your head?”
His face became grim again. “Of course,” he sneered, “it would be so that you’d interpret me.”
“Nay. If I have asked it is because I doubt.”
“Do you realize what it can mean to become the prey of Asad-ed-Din?”
She shuddered, and her glance fell from his, yet her voice was composed when she answered him—
“Is it so very much worse than becoming the prey of Oliver-Reis or Sakr-el-Bahr, or whatever they may call you?”
“If you say that it is all one to you there’s an end to my opposing him,” he answered coldly. “You may go to him. If I resisted him—like a fool, perhaps—it was for no sake of vengeance upon you. It was because the thought of it fills me with horror.”
“Then it should fill you with horror of yourself no less,” said she.
His answer startled her.
“Perhaps it does,” he said, scarcely above a murmur. “Perhaps it does.”
She flashed him an upward glance
