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Updated: June 20, 2025
There would be no long rest for the colonel of the First Regiment for many months, consequently he would be unable to keep Sanda with him. She did not want to go back to France or Ireland, so she was told about the Agha of Djazerta and the sixteen-year-old girl, Ourïeda, whose Arab name meant "Little Rose."
He sat on his cushion aghast. "Jacob Lancey," continued the Pasha in a familiar tone that sent a thrill to the heart of his visitor, "hae ye forgotten your auld Scotch freen' and school-mate Sandy? In Sanda Pasha you behold Sandy Black!" Lancey sprang to his knees the low couch rendering that attitude natural grasped the Pasha's extended hand, and gazed wistfully into his eyes.
"Is it long since you parted?" Sanda asked quickly, to put away that persistent thought of trouble. "We parted more than once, because when our two mothers died, one after another, of the same sickness typhoid fever Manöel was sent away to school. He's nine years older than I am twenty-five now; a little more than three years younger than Tahar.
It was in the eyes: long, gray, haunted with thoughts and dreams. If Sanda DeLisle ever had to become acquainted with sorrow her eyes would be like her father's. The pause was but for a second or two, though it was full of suspense for the girl, and even for Max, who forgot himself in anxiety for her.
When Sanda, riding behind her curtains, or shrinking in her tent, heard Stanton cursing the negro porters, and roaring profane abuse at the camels and camel-drivers, she did not know that he was drunk; but the men knew, and, being sober by religion, ceased to respect him. Among themselves, they began to question the wisdom of his orders, and suspect him of treachery toward themselves.
"How soon can we be sure that you've cut all the poison out?" "In a few minutes, I think." "And if you haven't, it's death?" "I can't let myself die," Max exclaimed. "It's for my sake you care like that, I know!" Sanda said. "And I can't let you die anyhow, without telling you something first. Does the poison, if you've got it in you, kill very quickly?"
He was so confident of her adoring love that jealousy of Max would have seemed absurd, though Max was twenty-six and Stanton twenty years older. If it had occurred to him that Max might be romantically in love with Sanda, the idea would not have displeased him or made him hesitate to take the younger man as a member of his escort.
This was the "Arabian Night's Paradise" that Sanda had dreamed of! Inside a big, open doorway, stairs went steeply up, past piles of commercial travellers' show trunks, and an Arab bootblack who clamoured for custom. At the top Max Doran and his charge came into a hall, whence a bare-looking restaurant and several other rooms opened out.
"No, it's not the light. I remember now.... What happened after he I " "I'll tell you when you're stronger." "I'm strong enough for anything. Only a little odd in my head." "And your poor wounded hand? I bathed it and bandaged it again, and you never knew." "Queer! I thought if I were dead I should have known if you touched me!" He spoke more to himself than to Sanda, and she did not answer.
For an instant he hoped against hope that Sanda would hear the sound of his going, that she would look after him and call. But deep down in himself he knew that no girl in her place, feeling as she felt, would have heard a cannon-shot.
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