did. They whispered affrightedly among themselves, and edged further

away from their master. For the Sultan in a temper was a person to be avoided.

And Rayma knew what was going to happen. She started up with dilated eyes and screaming, then clung piteously to his feet.

"Casim, my Lord, beloved, not that," she cried, her little face frantic. "Not that, I entreat you, for the sake of the nights that have been."

There was no pity on his face, only savagery. All mercy had been swept out of him by her attempt to shame and injure Pansy.

The guards returned, bringing whips.

On seeing them Rayma's screams broke out afresh. Piteous little pleas for mercy, wild promises never to offend again, that he ignored completely. Then she fell a sobbing, golden statue at the Sultan's feet.

Rayma's cries, terror-stricken and helpless, reached Pansy in the midst of her own dazed shame, making her glance in the direction of the man she hoped never to have to face again.

She saw the huge negroes with their whips, awaiting the Sultan's order. The sobbing, helpless girl at his feet, and on his face a look she had never seen before--the look of an angered and pitiless despot.

For a moment she stood aghast, not able to credit the scene before her. As she looked the Sultan nodded.

The guards raised their whips. And they fell with cruel, stinging force.

But they did not fall on Rayma.

There was one in the harem who dared come between the Sultan and his wrath.

The whips fell on white shoulders, not golden ones, bringing the blood oozing to satin-smooth skin.

The weight and pain brought Pansy to her knees before her captor.

"Raoul," she gasped, "I can't let you do this dreadful thing."

The whips fell from the negroes' hands. Aghast, they stared at the girl before them. It was not their fault the lashes had fallen on the new favourite and not on the culprit. But they would be held responsible, and doubtless beaten nevertheless. The women and girls started to scream and wail. Their master might turn on them for letting the new slave get within reach of the whips. But who was to know she would dare come between the Sultan and a girl he thought well to punish.

He paid no heed to the frightened stares of the guards, the wails of the scared women, to Rayma still sobbing, with fright, not pain. He had thoughts and eyes for nothing but the girl on her knees before him, with the red weals on her shoulders, horror and entreaty in her eyes--Pansy calling him once again by name.

With a fierce, possessive movement, he stooped and gathered her into his arms, crushing her against him, until she was almost lost in his voluminous robes.

"My little English flower, you can't quite hate me," he whispered passionately. "Or you wouldn't try to keep me what you once thought me. You wouldn't try to come between me and the man I am."

With the girl in his arms, he rose.

Scared eyes watched him as he crossed the big hall, and disappeared behind the silken curtains.

Then the girls started to whisper among themselves. For the Sultan had taken this new slave to the gilded chamber of their desires.