His white haik floated round limbs fit for a Colossus: and under the snowy folds of his turban the olive-bronze of his bold forehead, the sweep of his jet-black beard, and the piercing luminance of his eyes had a grand and kingly majesty.
A glance of recognition from him on the lascar, who had so often crossed swords with him; and he waved back the scroll with dignified courtesy.
"Read it me." It was read.

Bitterly, blackly shameful, the few brutal words were.

They netted him as an eagle is netted in a shepherd's trap.
The moment that he gave a sign of advancing against his ravishers, the captive's life would pay the penalty; if he merely remained in arms, without direct attack, she would be made the Marquis' mistress, and abandoned later to the army.

The only terms on which he could have her restored were instant submission to the Imperial rule, and personal homage of himself and all his Djouad to the Marquis as the representatives of France--homage in which they should confess themselves dogs and the sons of dogs.
So ran the message of peace.
The Chasseur read on to the end calmly.

Then he lifted his gaze, and looked at the Emir--he expected fifty swords to be buried in his heart.
As he gazed, he thought no more of his own doom; he thought only of the revelation before him, of what passion and what agony could be--things unknown in the world where the chief portion of his life had passed.