What passed between them none ever knew. The interview was brief; it
was possibly as stormy. Pregnant and decisive it assuredly was; and
the squadrons of Africa marveled that the man who dared beard Raoul de
Chateauroy in his lair came forth with his life. Whatever the spell he
used, the result was a marvel.
At the very moment that the sun touched the lower half of the western
heavens, the Sheik Ilderim, where he sat in his saddle, with all his
tribe stretching behind him, full-armed, to sweep down like falcons on
the spoilers, if the hour passed with the pledge unredeemed, saw the
form of the Chasseur reappear between his sight and the glare of the
skies; nor did he ride alone. That night the Pearl of the Desert lay
once more in the mighty, sinuous arms of the great Emir.
But, with the dawn, his vengeance fell in terrible fashion, on the
sleeping camp of the Franks; and from that hour dated the passionate,
savage, unconcealed hate of Raoul de Chateauroy for the most
daring soldier of all his fiery Horse, known in his troop as
"Bel-a-faire-peur."
It was in the tent of Ilderim now that he reclined, looking outward at
the night where flames were leaping ruddily under a large caldron, and
far beyond was the dark immensity of the star-studded sky; the light of
the moon strayed in and fell on the chestnut waves of his beard, out of
which the long amber stem of an Arab pipe glittered like a golden line,
and on the skin--fair, despite a warm hue of bronze--and the long,
slumberous softness of the hazel eyes, were in so marked a contrast of
race with the eagle outlines of the Bedouins around.
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