"THE SHEIK\n\nA Novel\n\n\n\n\nby E. M. HULL\n\n1921\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n\"Are you coming in to watch the dancing, Lady Conway?\"\n\n\"I most decidedly am not. I thoroughly disapprove of the expedition of\nwhich this dance is the inauguration. I consider that even by\ncontemplating such a tour alone into the desert with no chaperon or\nattendant of her own sex, with only native camel drivers and servants,\nDiana Mayo is behaving with a recklessness and impropriety that is\ncalculated to cast a slur not only on her own reputation, but also on\nthe prestige of her country. I blush to think of it. We English cannot\nbe too careful of our behavior abroad. No opportunity is slight enough\nfor our continental neighbours to cast stones, and this opportunity is\nvery far from being slight. It is the maddest piece of unprincipled\nfolly I have ever heard of.\"\n\n\"Oh, come, Lady Conway! It's not quite so bad as all that. It is\ncertainly unconventional and--er--probably not quite wise, but remember\nMiss Mayo's unusual upbringing----\"\n\n\"I am not forgetting her unusual upbringing,\" interrupted Lady Conway.\n\"It has been deplorable. But nothing can excuse this scandalous\nescapade. I knew her mother years ago, and I took it upon myself to\nexpostulate both with Diana and her brother, but Sir Aubrey is hedged\naround with an egotistical complacency that would defy a pickaxe to\npenetrate. According to him a Mayo is beyond criticism, and his\nsister's reputation her own to deal with. The girl herself seemed,\nfrankly, not to understand the seriousness of her position, and was\nvery flippant and not a little rude. I wash my hands of the whole\naffair, and will certainly not countenance to-night's entertainment by\nappearing at it. I have already warned the manager that if the noise is\nkept up beyond a reasonable hour I shall leave the hotel to-morrow.\"\nAnd, drawing her wrap around her with a little shudder, Lady Conway\nstalked majestically across the wide verandah of the Biskra Hotel.\n\nThe two men left standing by the open French window that led into the\nhotel ballroom looked at each other and smiled.\n\n\"Some peroration,\" said one with a marked American accent. \"That's the\nway scandal's made, I guess.\"\n\n\"Scandal be hanged! There's never been a breath of scandal attached to\nDiana Mayo's name. I've known the child since she was a baby. Rum\nlittle cuss she was, too. Confound that old woman! She would wreck the\nreputation of the Archangel Gabriel if he came down to earth, let alone\nthat of a mere human girl.\"\n\n\"Not a very human girl,\" laughed the American. \"She was sure meant for\na boy and changed at the last moment. She looks like a boy in\npetticoats, a damned pretty boy--and a damned haughty one,\" he added,\nchuckling. \"I overheard her this morning, in the garden, making\nmincemeat of a French officer.\"\n\nThe Englishman laughed.\n\n\"Been making love to her, I expect. A thing she does not understand and\nwon't tolerate. She's the coldest little fish in the world, without an\nidea in her head beyond sport and travel. Clever, though, and plucky as\nthey are made. I don't think she knows the meaning of the word fear.\"\n\n\"There's a queer streak in the family, isn't there? I heard somebody\nyapping about it the other night. Father was mad and blew his brains\nout, so I was told.\"\n\nThe Englishman shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"You can call it mad, if you like,\" he said slowly. \"I live near the\nMayos' in England, and happen to know the story. Sir John Mayo was\npassionately devoted to his wife; after twenty years of married life\nthey were still lovers. Then this girl was born, and the mother died.\nTwo hours afterwards her husband shot himself, leaving the baby in the\nsole care of her brother, who was just nineteen, and as lazy and as\nselfish then as he is now. The problem of bringing up a girl child was\ntoo much trouble to be solved, so he settled the difficulty by treating\nher as if she was a boy. The result is what you see.\"\n\nThey moved nearer to the open window, looking into the brilliantly lit\nballroom, already filled with gaily chattering people. On a slightly\nraised platform at one end of the room the host and hostess were\nreceiving their guests. The brother and sister were singularly unlike.\nSir Aubrey Mayo was very tall and thin, the pallor of his face\naccentuated by the blackness of his smoothly brushed hair and heavy\nblack moustache. His attitude was a mixture of well-bred courtesy and\nlanguid boredom. He seemed too tired even to keep the single eye-glass\nthat he wore in position, for it dropped continually. By contrast the\ngirl at his side appeared vividly alive. She was only of medium height\nand very slender, standing erect with the easy, vigorous carriage of an\nathletic boy, her small head poised proudly. Her scornful mouth and\nfirm chin showed plainly an obstinate determination, and her deep blue\neyes were unusually clear and steady. The long, curling black lashes\nthat shaded her eyes and the dark eyebrows were a foil to the thick\ncrop of loose, red-gold curls that she wore short, clubbed about her\nears.\n\n\"The result is worth seeing,\" said the American admiringly, referring\nto his companion's last remark.\n\nA third and younger man joined them.\n\n\"Hallo, Arbuthnot. You're late. The divinity is ten deep in would-be\npartners already.\"\n\nA dull red crept into the young man's face, and he jerked his head\nangrily.\n\n\"I got waylaid by Lady Conway--poisonous old woman! She had a great\ndeal to say on the subject of Miss Mayo and her trip. She ought to be\ngagged. I thought she was going on talking all night, so I fairly\nbolted in the end. All the same, I agree with her on one point. Why\ncan't that lazy ass Mayo go with his sister?\"\n\nNobody seemed to be able to give an answer. The band had begun playing,\nand the floor was covered with laughing, talking couples.\n\nSir Aubrey Mayo had moved away, and his sister was left standing with\nseveral men, who waited, programme in hand, but she waved them away\nwith a little smile and a resolute shake of her head.\n\n\"Things seem to be getting a hustle on,\" said the American.\n\n\"Are you going to try your luck?\" asked the elder of the two\nEnglishmen.\n\nThe American bit the end off a cigar with a little smile.\n\n\"I sure am not. The haughty young lady turned me down as a dancer very\nearly in our acquaintance. I don't blame her,\" he added, with a rueful\nlaugh, \"but her extreme candour still rankles. She told me quite\nplainly that she had no use for an American who could neither ride nor\ndance. I did intimate to her, very gently, that there were a few little\nopenings in the States for men beside cattle-punching and cabaret\ndancing, but she froze me with a look, and I faded away. No, Sir\nEgotistical Complacency will be having some bridge later on, which will\nsuit me much better. He's not a bad chap underneath if you can swallow\nhis peculiarities, and he's a sportsman. I like to play with him. He\ndoesn't care a durn if he wins or loses.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter when you have a banking account the size of his,\"\nsaid Arbuthnot. \"Personally, I find dancing more amusing and less\nexpensive. I shall go and take my chance with our hostess.\"\n\nHis eyes turned rather eagerly towards the end of the room where the\ngirl was standing alone, straight and slim, the light from an\nelectrolier gilding the thick bright curls framing her beautiful,\nhaughty little face. She was staring down at the dancers with an absent\nexpression in her eyes, as if her thoughts were far away from the\ncrowded ballroom.\n\nThe American pushed Arbuthnot forward with a little laugh.\n\n\"Run along, foolish moth, and get your poor little wings singed. When\nthe cruel fair has done trampling on you I'll come right along and mop\nup the remains. If, on the other hand, your temerity meets with the\nsuccess it deserves, we can celebrate suitably later on.\" And, linking\nhis arm in his friend's, he drew him away to the card-room.\n\nArbuthnot went through the window and worked slowly round the room,\nhugging the wall, evading dancers, and threading his way through groups\nof chattering men and women of all nationalities. He came at last to\nthe raised dais on which Diana Mayo was still standing, and climbed up\nthe few steps to her side.\n\n\"This is luck, Miss Mayo,\" he said, with an assurance that he was far\nfrom feeling. \"Am I really fortunate enough to find you without a\npartner?\"\n\nShe turned to him slowly, with a little crease growing between her\narched eyebrows, as if his coming were inopportune and she resented the\ninterruption to her thoughts, and then she smiled quite frankly.\n\n\"I said I would not dance until everybody was started,\" she said rather\ndoubtfully, looking over the crowded floor.\n\n\"They are all dancing. You've done your duty nobly. Don't miss this\nripping tune,\" he urged persuasively.\n\nShe hesitated, tapping her programme-pencil against her teeth.\n\n\"I refused a lot of men,\" she said, with a grimace. Then she laughed\nsuddenly. \"Come along, then. I am noted for my bad manners. This will\nonly be one extra sin.\"\n\nArbuthnot danced well, but with the girl in his arms he seemed suddenly\ntongue-tied. They swung round the room several times, then halted\nsimultaneously beside an open window and went out into the garden of\nthe hotel, sitting down on a wicker seat under a gaudy Japanese hanging\nlantern. The band was still playing, and for the moment the garden was\nempty, lit faintly by coloured lanterns, festooned from the palm trees,\nand twinkling lights outlining the winding paths.\n\nArbuthnot leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.\n\n\"I think you are the most perfect dancer I have ever met,\" he said a\nlittle breathlessly.\n\nMiss Mayo looked at him seriously, without a trace of\nself-consciousness.\n\n\"It is very easy to dance if you have a musical ear, and if you have\nbeen in the habit of making your body do what you want. So few people\nseem to be trained to make their limbs obey them. Mine have had to do\nas they were told since I was a small child,\" she answered calmly.\n\nThe unexpectedness of the reply acted as a silencer on Arbuthnot for a\nfew minutes, and the girl beside him seemed in no hurry to break the\nsilence. The dance was over and the empty garden was thronged for a\nlittle time. Then the dancers drifted back into the hotel as the band\nstarted again.\n\n\"It's rather jolly here in the garden,\" Arbuthnot said tentatively. His\nheart was pounding with unusual rapidity, and his eyes, that he kept\nfixed on his own clasped hands, had a hungry look growing in them.\n\n\"You mean that, you want to sit out this dance with me?\" she said with\na boyish directness that somewhat nonplussed him.\n\n\"Yes,\" he stammered rather foolishly.\n\nShe held her programme up to the light of the lantern. \"I promised this\none to Arthur Conway. We quarrel every time we meet. I cannot think why\nhe asked me; he disapproves of me even more than his mother does--such\nan interfering old lady. He will be overjoyed to be let off. And I\ndon't want to dance to-night. I am looking forward so tremendously to\nto-morrow. I shall stay and talk to you, but you must give me a\ncigarette to keep me in a good temper.\"\n\nHis hand shook a little as he held the match for her. \"Are you really\ndetermined to go through with this tour?\"\n\nShe stared at him in surprise. \"Why not? My arrangements have been made\nsome time. Why should I change my mind at the last moment?\"\n\n\"Why does your brother let you go alone? Why doesn't he go with you?\nOh, I haven't any right to ask, but I do ask,\" he broke out vehemently.\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders with a little laugh. \"We fell out, Aubrey\nand I. He wanted to go to America. I wanted a trip into the desert. We\nquarrelled for two whole days and half one night, and then we\ncompromised. I should have my desert tour, and Aubrey should go to New\nYork; and to mark his brotherly appreciation of my gracious promise to\nfollow him to the States without fail at the end of a month he has\nconsented to grace my caravan for the first stage, and dismiss me on my\nway with his blessing. It annoyed him so enormously that he could not\norder me to go with him, this being the first time in our wanderings\nthat our inclinations have not jumped in the same direction. I came of\nage a few months ago, and, in future, I can do as I please. Not that I\nhave ever done anything else,\" she conceded, with another laugh,\n\"because Aubrey's ways have been my ways until now.\"\n\n\"But for the sake of one month! What difference could it make to him?\"\nhe asked in astonishment.\n\n\"That's Aubrey,\" replied Miss Mayo drily.\n\n\"It isn't safe,\" persisted Arbuthnot.\n\nShe flicked the ash from her cigarette carelessly. \"I don't agree with\nyou. I don't know why everybody is making such a fuss about it. Plenty\nof other women have travelled in much wilder country than this desert.\"\n\nHe looked at her curiously. She seemed to be totally unaware that it\nwas her youth and her beauty that made all the danger of the\nexpedition. He fell back on the easier excuse.\n\n\"There seems to be unrest amongst some of the tribes. There have been a\nlot of rumours lately,\" he said seriously.\n\nShe made a little movement of impatience. \"Oh, that's what they always\ntell you when they want to put obstacles in your way. The authorities\nhave already dangled that bogey in front of me. I asked for facts and\nthey only gave me generalities. I asked definitely if they had any\npower to stop me. They said they had not, but strongly advised me not\nto make the attempt. I said I should go, unless the French Government\narrested me.... Why not? I am not afraid. I don't admit that there is\nanything to be afraid of. I don't believe a word about the tribes being\nrestless. Arabs are always moving about, aren't they? I have an\nexcellent caravan leader, whom even the authorities vouch for, and I\nshall be armed. I am perfectly able to take care of myself. I can shoot\nstraight and I am used to camping. Besides, I have given my word to\nAubrey to be in Oran in a month, and I can't get very far away in that\ntime.\"\n\nThere was an obstinate ring in her voice, and when she stopped speaking\nhe sat silent, consumed with anxiety, obsessed with the loveliness of\nher, and tormented with the desire to tell her so. Then he turned to\nher suddenly, and his face was very white. \"Miss Mayo--Diana--put off\nthis trip only for a little, and give me the right to go with you. I\nlove you. I want you for my wife more than anything on earth. I shan't\nalways be a penniless subaltern. One of these days I shall be able to\ngive you a position that is worthy of you; no, nothing could be that,\nbut one at least that I am not ashamed to offer to you. We've been very\ngood friends; you know all about me. I'll give my whole life to make\nyou happy. The world has been a different place to me since you came\ninto it. I can't get away from you. You are in my thoughts night and\nday. I love you; I want you. My God, Diana! Beauty like yours drives a\nman mad!\"\n\n\"Is beauty all that a man wants in his wife?\" she asked, with a kind of\ncold wonder in her voice. \"Brains and a sound body seem much more\nsensible requirements to me.\"\n\n\"But when a woman has all three, as you have, Diana,\" he whispered\nardently, his hands closing over the slim ones lying in her lap.\n\nBut with a strength that seemed impossible for their smallness she\ndisengaged them from his grasp. \"Please stop. I am sorry. We have been\ngood friends, and it has never occurred to me that there could be\nanything beyond that. I never thought that you might love me. I never\nthought of you in that way at all, I don't understand it. When God made\nme He omitted to give me a heart. I have never loved any one in my\nlife. My brother and I have tolerated each other, but there has never\nbeen any affection between us. Would it be likely? Put yourself in\nAubrey's place. Imagine a young man of nineteen, with a cold, reserved\nnature, being burdened with the care of a baby sister, thrust into his\nhands unwanted and unexpected. Was it likely that he would have any\naffection for me? I never wanted it. I was born with the same cold\nnature as his. I was brought up as a boy, my training was hard. Emotion\nand affection have been barred out of my life. I simply don't know what\nthey mean. I don't want to know. I am very content with my life as it\nis. Marriage for a woman means the end of independence, that is,\nmarriage with a man who is a man, in spite of all that the most modern\nwoman may say. I have never obeyed any one in my life; I do not wish to\ntry the experiment. I am very sorry to have hurt you. You've been a\nsplendid pal, but that side of life does not exist for me. If I had\nthought for one moment that my friendship was going to hurt you I need\nnot have let you become so intimate, but I did not think, because it is\na subject that I never think of. A man to me is just a companion with\nwhom I ride or shoot or fish; a pal, a comrade, and that's just all\nthere is to it. God made me a woman. Why, only He knows.\"\n\nHer quiet, even voice stopped. There had been a tone of cold sincerity\nin it that Arbuthnot could not help but recognise. She meant everything\nthat she said. She said no more than the truth. Her reputation for\ncomplete indifference to admiration and her unvarying attitude towards\nmen were as well known as her dauntless courage and obstinate\ndetermination. With Sir Aubrey Mayo she behaved like a younger brother,\nand as such entertained his friends. She was popular with everybody,\neven with the mothers of marriageable daughters, for, in spite of her\nwealth and beauty, her notorious peculiarities made her negligible as a\nrival to plainer and less well-dowered girls.\n\nArbuthnot sat in silence. It was hardly likely, he thought bitterly,\nthat he should succeed where other and better men had failed. He had\nbeen a fool to succumb to the temptation that had been too hard for him\nto resist. He knew her well enough to know beforehand what her answer\nwould be. The very real fear for her safety that the thought of the\ncoming expedition gave him, her nearness in the mystery of the Eastern\nnight, the lights, the music, had all combined to rush to his lips\nwords that in a saner moment would never have passed them. He loved\nher, he would love her always, but he knew that his love was as\nhopeless as it was undying. But it was men who were men whom she wanted\nfor her friends, so he must take his medicine like a man.\n\n\"May I still be the pal, Diana?\" he said quietly.\n\nShe looked at him a moment, but in the dim light of the hanging\nlanterns his eyes were steady under hers, and she held out her hand\nfrankly. \"Gladly,\" she said candidly. \"I have hosts of acquaintances,\nbut very few friends. We are always travelling, Aubrey and I, and we\nnever seem to have time to make friends. We rarely stay as long in one\nplace as we have stayed in Biskra. In England they call us very bad\nneighbours, we are so seldom there. We generally go home for three\nmonths in the winter for the hunting, but the rest of the year we\nwander on the face of the globe.\"\n\nHe held her slender fingers gripped in his for a moment, smothering an\ninsane desire to press them to his lips, which he knew would be fatal\nto the newly accorded friendship, and then let them go. Miss Mayo\ncontinued sitting quietly beside him. She was in no way disturbed by\nwhat had happened. She had taken him literally at his word, and was\ntreating him as the pal he had asked to be. It no more occurred to her\nthat she might relieve him of her society than it occurred to her that\nher continued presence might be distressing to him. She was totally\nunembarrassed and completely un-self-conscious. And as they sat silent,\nher thoughts far away in the desert, and his full of vain longings and\nregrets, a man's low voice rose in the stillness of the night. \"_Pale\nhands I loved beside the Shalimar. Where are you now? Who lies beneath\nyour spell_?\" he sang in a passionate, vibrating baritone. He was\nsinging in English, and yet the almost indefinite slurring from note to\nnote was strangely un-English. Diana Mayo leaned forward, her head\nraised, listening intently, with shining eyes. The voice seemed to come\nfrom the dark shadows at the end of the garden, or it might have been\nfurther away out in the road beyond the cactus hedge. The singer sang\nslowly, his voice lingering caressingly on the words; the last verse\ndying away softly and clearly, almost imperceptibly fading into\nsilence.\n\nFor a moment there was utter stillness, then Diana lay back with a\nlittle sigh. \"The Kashmiri Song. It makes me think of India. I heard a\nman sing it in Kashmere last year, but not like that. What a wonderful\nvoice! I wonder who it is?\"\n\nArbuthnot looked at her curiously, surprised at the sudden ring of\ninterest in her tone, and the sudden animation of her face.\n\n\"You say you have no emotion in your nature, and yet that unknown man's\nsinging has stirred you deeply. How do you reconcile the two?\" he\nasked, almost angrily.\n\n\"Is an appreciation of the beautiful emotion?\" she challenged, with\nuplifted eyes. \"Surely not. Music, art, nature, everything beautiful\nappeals to me. But there is nothing emotional in that. It is only that\nI prefer beautiful things to ugly ones. For that reason even pretty\nclothes appeal to me,\" she added, laughing.\n\n\"You are the best-dressed woman in Biskra,\" he acceded. \"But is not\nthat a concession to the womanly feelings that you despise?\"\n\n\"Not at all. To take an interest in one's clothes is not an exclusively\nfeminine vice. I like pretty dresses. I admit to spending some time in\nthinking of colour schemes to go with my horrible hair, but I assure\nyou that my dressmaker has an easier life than Aubrey's tailor.\"\n\nShe sat silent, hoping that the singer might not have gone, but there\nwas no sound except a cicada chirping near her. She swung round in her\nchair, looking in the direction from which it came. \"Listen to him.\nJolly little chap! They are the first things I listen for when I get to\nPort Said. They mean the East to me.\"\n\n\"Maddening little beasts!\" said Arbuthnot irritably.\n\n\"They are going to be very friendly little beasts to me during the next\nfour weeks.... You don't know what this trip means to me. I like wild\nplaces. The happiest times of my life have been spent camping in\nAmerica and India, and I have always wanted the desert more than either\nof them. It is going to be a month of pure joy. I am going to be\nenormously happy.\"\n\nShe stood up with a little laugh of intense pleasure, and half turned,\nwaiting for Arbuthnot. He got up reluctantly and stood silent beside\nher for a few moments. \"Diana, I wish you'd let me kiss you, just\nonce,\" he broke out miserably.\n\nShe looked up swiftly with a glint of anger in her eyes, and shook her\nhead. \"No. That's not in the compact. I have never been kissed in my\nlife. It is one of the things that I do not understand.\" Her voice was\nalmost fierce.\n\nShe moved leisurely towards the hotel, and he paced beside her\nwondering if he had forfeited her friendship by his outburst, but on\nthe verandah she halted and spoke in the frank tone of camaraderie in\nwhich she had always addressed him. \"Shall I see you in the morning?\"\n\nHe understood. There was to be no more reference to what had passed\nbetween them. The offer of friendship held, but only on her own terms.\nHe pulled himself together.\n\n\"Yes. We have arranged an escort of about a dozen of us to ride the\nfirst few miles with you, to give you a proper send-off.\"\n\nShe made a laughing gesture of protest. \"It will certainly need four\nweeks of solitude to counteract the conceit I shall acquire,\" she said\nlightly, as she passed into the ballroom.\n\nA few hours later Diana came into her bedroom, and, switching on the\nelectric lights, tossed her gloves and programme into a chair. The room\nwas empty, for her maid had had a _vertige_ at the suggestion that\nshe should accompany her mistress into the desert, and had been sent\nback to Paris to await Diana's return. She had left during the day, to\ntake most of the heavy luggage with her.\n\nDiana stood in the middle of the room and looked at the preparations\nfor the early start next morning with a little smile of satisfaction.\nEverything was _en train_; the final arrangements had all been\nconcluded some days before. The camel caravan with the camp equipment\nwas due to leave Biskra a few hours before the time fixed for the Mayos\nto start with Mustafa Ali, the reputable guide whom the French\nauthorities had reluctantly recommended. The two big suit-cases that\nDiana was taking with her stood open, ready packed, waiting only for\nthe last few necessaries, and by them the steamer trunk that Sir Aubrey\nwould take charge of and leave in Paris as he passed through. On a\nchaise-longue was laid out her riding kit ready for the morning. Her\nsmile broadened as she looked at the smart-cut breeches and high brown\nboots. They were the clothes in which most of her life had been spent,\nand in which she was far more at home than in the pretty dresses over\nwhich she had laughed with Arbuthnot.\n\nShe was glad the dance was over; it was not a form of exercise that\nappealed to her particularly. She was thinking only of the coming tour.\nShe stretched her arms out with a little happy laugh.\n\n\"It's the life of lives, and it's going to begin all over again\nto-morrow morning.\" She crossed over to the dressing-table, and,\npropping her elbows on it, looked at herself in the glass, with a\nlittle friendly smile at the reflection. In default of any other\nconfidant she had always talked to herself, with no thought for the\nbeauty of the face staring back at her from the glass. The only comment\nshe ever made to herself on her own appearance was sometimes to wish\nthat her hair was not such a tiresome shade. She looked at herself now\nwith a tinge of curiosity. \"I wonder why I'm so especially happy\nto-night. It must be because we have been so long in Biskra. It's been\nvery jolly, but I was beginning to get very bored.\" She laughed again\nand picked up her watch to wind. It was one of her peculiarities that\nshe would wear no jewellery of any kind. Even the gold repeater in her\nhand was on a plain leather strap. She undressed slowly and each moment\nfelt more wide-awake. Slipping a thin wrap over her pyjamas and\nlighting a cigarette she went out on to the broad balcony on to which\nher bedroom gave. The room was on the first floor, and opposite her\nwindow rose one of the ornately carved and bracketed pillars that\nsupported the balcony, stretching up to the second story above her\nhead. She looked down into the gardens below. It was an easy climb, she\nthought, with a boyish grin--far easier than many she had achieved\nsuccessfully when the need of a solitary ramble became imperative. But\nthe East was inconvenient for solitary ramble; native servants had a\ndisconcerting habit of lying down to sleep wherever drowsiness overcame\nthem, and it was not very long since she had slid down from her balcony\nand landed plumb on a slumbering bundle of humanity who had roused half\nthe hotel with his howls. She leant far over the rail, trying to see\ninto the verandah below, and she thought she caught a glimpse of white\ndrapery. She looked again, and this time there was nothing, but she\nshook her head with a little grimace, and swung herself up on to the\nbroad ledge of the railing. Settling herself comfortably with her back\nagainst the column she looked out over the hotel gardens into the\nnight, humming softly the Kashmiri song she had heard earlier in the\nevening.\n\nThe risen moon was full, and its cold, brilliant light filled the\ngarden with strong black shadows. She watched some that seemed even to\nmove, as if the garden were alive with creeping, hurrying figures, and\namused herself tracking them until she traced them to the palm tree or\ncactus bush that caused them. One in particular gave her a long hunt\ntill she finally ran it to its lair, and it proved to be the shadow of\na grotesque lead statue half hidden by a flowering shrub. Forgetting\nthe hour and the open windows all around her, she burst into a rippling\npeal of laughter, which was interrupted by the appearance of a figure,\nimperfectly seen through the lattice-work which divided her balcony\nfrom the next one, and the sound of an irritable voice.\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, Diana, let other people sleep if you can't.\"\n\n\"Which, being interpreted, is let Sir Aubrey Mayo sleep,\" she retorted,\nwith a chuckle. \"My dear boy, sleep if you want to, but I don't know\nhow you can on a night like this. Did you ever see such a gorgeous\nmoon?\"\n\n\"Oh, damn the moon!\"\n\n\"Oh, very well. Don't get cross about it. Go back to bed and put your\nhead under the clothes, and then you won't see it. But I'm going to sit\nhere.\"\n\n\"Diana, don't be an idiot! You'll go to sleep and fall into the garden\nand break your neck.\"\n\n\"_Tant pis pour moi. Tant mieux pour toi,_\" she said flippantly.\n\"I have left you all that I have in the world, dear brother. Could\ndevotion go further?\"\n\nShe paid no heed to his exclamation of annoyance, and looked back into\nthe garden. It was a wonderful night, silent except for the cicadas'\nmonotonous chirping, mysterious with the inexplicable mystery that\nhangs always in the Oriental night. The smells of the East rose up all\naround her; here, as at home, they seemed more perceptible by night\nthan by day. Often at home she had stood on the little stone balcony\noutside her room, drinking in the smells of the night--the pungent,\nearthy smell after rain, the aromatic smell of pine trees near the\nhouse. It was the intoxicating smells of the night that had first\ndriven her, as a very small child, to clamber down from her balcony,\nclinging to the thick ivy roots, to wander with the delightful sense of\nwrong-doing through the moonlit park and even into the adjoining gloomy\nwoods. She had always been utterly fearless.\n\nHer childhood had been a strange one. There had been no near relatives\nto interest themselves in the motherless girl left to the tender\nmercies of a brother nearly twenty years her senior, who was frankly\nand undisguisedly horrified at the charge that had been thrust upon\nhim. Wrapped up in himself, and free to indulge in the wander hunger\nthat gripped him, the baby sister was an intolerable burden, and he had\nshifted responsibility in the easiest way possible. For the first few\nyears of her life she was left undisturbed to nurses and servants who\nspoiled her indiscriminately. Then, when she was still quite a tiny\nchild, Sir Aubrey Mayo came home from a long tour, and, settling down\nfor a couple of years, fixed on his sister's future training, modelled\nrigidly on his own upbringing. Dressed as a boy, treated as a boy, she\nlearned to ride and to shoot and to fish--not as amusements, but\nseriously, to enable her to take her place later on as a companion to\nthe man whose only interests they were. His air of weariness was a\nmannerism. In reality he was as hard as nails, and it was his intention\nthat Diana should grow up as hard. With that end in view her upbringing\nhad been Spartan, no allowances were made for sex or temperament and\nnothing was spared to gain the desired result. And from the first Diana\nhad responded gallantly, throwing herself heart and soul into the\narduous, strenuous life mapped out for her. The only drawback to a\nperfect enjoyment of life were the necessary lessons that had to be\ngone through, though even these might have been worse. Every morning\nshe rode across the park to the rectory for a couple of hours' tuition\nwith the rector, whose heart was more in his stable than in his parish,\nand whose reputation was greater across country than it was in the\npulpit. His methods were rough and ready, but she had brains, and\nacquired an astonishing amount of diverse knowledge. But her education\nwas stopped with abrupt suddenness when she was fifteen by the arrival\nat the rectory of an overgrown young cub who had been sent by a\ndespairing parent, as a last resource, to the muscular rector, and who\nquickly discovered what those amongst whom she had grown up had hardly\nrealised, that Diana Mayo, with the clothes and manners of a boy, was\nreally an uncommonly beautiful young woman. With the assurance\nbelonging to his type, he had taken the earliest opportunity of telling\nher so, following it with an attempt to secure the kiss that up to now\nhis own good looks had always secured for him. But in this case he had\nto deal with a girl who was a girl by accident of birth only, who was\nquicker with her hands and far finer trained than he was, and whose\nnatural strength was increased by furious rage. She had blacked his\neyes before he properly understood what was happening, and was dancing\naround him like an infuriated young gamecock when the rector had burst\nin upon them, attracted by the noise.\n\nWhat she left he had finished, and then, breathless and angry, had\nridden back across the park with her and had briefly announced to Sir\nAubrey, who happened to be at home upon one of his rare visits, that\nhis pupil was both too old and too pretty to continue her studies at\nthe rectory, and had taken himself off as hurriedly as he had come,\nleaving Sir Aubrey to settle for himself the new problem of Diana. And,\nas before, it was settled in the easiest possible way. Physically she\nwas perfectly able to take up the role for which he had always intended\nher; mentally he presumed that she knew as much as it was necessary for\nher to know, and, in any case, travelling itself was an education, and\na far finer one than could be learned from books. So Diana grew up in a\nday, and in a fortnight the old life was behind her and she had started\nout on the ceaseless travels with her brother that had continued for\nthe last six years--years of perpetual change, of excitements and\ndangers.\n\nShe thought of it all, sitting on the broad rail of the balcony, her\nhead slanted against the column on which she leaned. \"It's been a\nsplendid life,\" she murmured, \"and to-morrow--to-day begins the most\nperfect part of it.\" She yawned and realised suddenly that she was\ndesperately sleepy. She turned back into her room, leaving the windows\nwide, and, flinging off her wrap, tumbled into bed and slept almost\nbefore her head was on the pillow.\n\nIt must have been about an hour later when she awoke, suddenly wide\nawake. She lay quite still, looking cautiously under her thick lashes.\nThe room was flooded with moonlight, there was nothing to be seen, but\nshe had the positive feeling that there was another presence in the\nroom beside her own; she had had a half-conscious vision in the moment\nof waking of a shadowy something that had seemed to fade away by the\nwindow. As the actual reality of this thought pierced through the sleep\nthat dulled her brain and became a concrete suggestion, she sprang out\nof the bed and ran on to the balcony. It was empty. She leaned over the\nrailing, listening intently, but she could see nothing and hear\nnothing. Puzzled, she went back into her room and turned on the lights.\nNothing seemed to be missing: her watch lay where she had left it on\nthe dressing table; and the suit-cases had apparently not been tampered\nwith. By the bedside the ivory-mounted revolver that she always carried\nwas lying as she had placed it. She looked around the room again,\nfrowning. \"It must have been a dream,\" she said doubtfully, \"but it\nseemed very real. It looked tall and white and solid, and I _felt_\nit there.\" She waited a moment or two, then shrugged her shoulders,\nturned out the lights, and got into bed. Her nerves were admirable, and\nin five minutes she was asleep again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nThe promised send-off had been enthusiastic. The arrangements for the\ntrip had been perfect; there had been no hitch anywhere. The guide,\nMustafa Ali, appeared capable and efficient, effacing himself when not\nwanted and replying with courteous dignity when spoken to. The day had\nbeen full of interest, and the long, hot ride had for Diana been the\nheight of physical enjoyment. They had reached the oasis where the\nfirst night was to be passed an hour before, and found the camp already\nestablished, tents pitched, and everything so ordered that Sir Aubrey\ncould find nothing to criticise; even Stephens, his servant, who had\ntravelled with him since Diana was a baby, and who was as critical as\nhis master on the subject of camps, had no fault to find.\n\nDiana glanced about her little travelling tent with complete content.\nIt was much smaller than the ones to which she had always been\naccustomed, ridiculously so compared with the large one she had had in\nIndia the previous year, with its separate bath--and dressing-rooms.\nServants, too, had swarmed in India. Here service promised to be\ninadequate, but it had been her whim on this tour to dispense with the\nelaborate arrangements that Sir Aubrey cultivated and to try\ncomparative roughing it. The narrow camp cot, the tin bath, the little\nfolding table and her two suit-cases seemed to take up all the\navailable space. But she laughed at the inconvenience, though she had\ndrenched her bed with splashing, and the soap had found its way into\nthe toe of one of her long boots. She had changed from her riding\nclothes into a dress of clinging jade-green silk, swinging short above\nher slender ankles, the neck cut low, revealing the gleaming white of\nher soft, girlish bosom. She came out of the tent and stood a moment\nexchanging an amused smile with Stephens, who was hovering near\ndubiously, one eye on her and the other on his master. She was late,\nand Sir Aubrey liked his meals punctually. The baronet was lounging in\none deck-chair with his feet on another.\n\nDiana wagged an admonishing forefinger. \"Fly, Stephens, and fetch the\nsoup! If it is cold there will be a riot.\" She walked to the edge of\nthe canvas cloth that had been thrown down in front of the tents and\nstood revelling in the scene around her, her eyes dancing with\nexcitement as they glanced slowly around the camp spread out over the\noasis--the clustering palm trees, the desert itself stretching away\nbefore her in undulating sweeps, but seemingly level in the evening\nlight, far off to the distant hills lying like a dark smudge against\nthe horizon. She drew a long breath. It was the desert at last, the\ndesert that she felt she had been longing for all her life. She had\nnever known until this moment how intense the longing had been. She\nfelt strangely at home, as if the great, silent emptiness had been\nwaiting for her as she had been waiting for it, and now that she had\ncome it was welcoming her softly with the faint rustle of the\nwhispering sand, the mysterious charm of its billowy, shifting surface\nthat seemed beckoning to her to penetrate further and further into its\nunknown obscurities.\n\nHer brother's voice behind her brought her down to earth suddenly.\n\"You've been a confounded long time.\"\n\nShe turned to the table with a faint smile. \"Don't be a bear, Aubrey.\nIt's all very well for you. You have Stephens to lather your chin and\nto wash your hands, but thanks to that idiot Marie, I have to look\nafter myself.\"\n\nSir Aubrey took his heels down leisurely from the second chair, pitched\naway his cigar, and, screwing his eyeglass into his eye with more than\nusual truculence, looked at her with disapproval. \"Are you going to rig\nyourself out like that every evening for the benefit of Mustafa Ali and\nthe camel-drivers?\"\n\n\"I do not propose to invite the worthy Mustafa to meals, and I am not\nin the habit of 'rigging myself out,' as you so charmingly put it, for\nany one's benefit. If you think I dress in camp to please you, my dear\nAubrey, you flatter yourself. I do it entirely to please myself. That\nexplorer woman we met in London that first year I began travelling with\nyou explained to me the real moral and physical value of changing into\ncomfortable, pretty clothes after a hard day in breeches and boots. You\nchange yourself. What's the difference?\"\n\n\"All the difference,\" he snapped. \"There is no need for you to make\nyourself more attractive than you are already.\"\n\n\"Since when has it occurred to you that I am attractive? You must have\na touch of the sun, Aubrey,\" she replied, with uplifted eyebrows,\ndrumming impatiently with her fingers on the table.\n\n\"Don't quibble. You know perfectly well that you are good-looking--too\ngood-looking to carry through this preposterous affair.\"\n\n\"Will you please tell me what you are driving at?\" she asked quietly.\nBut the dark blue eyes fixed on her brother's face were growing darker\nas she looked at him.\n\n\"I've been doing some hard thinking to-day, Diana. This tour you\npropose is impossible.\"\n\n\"Isn't it rather late in the day to find that out?\" she interrupted\nsarcastically; but he ignored the interruption.\n\n\"You must see for yourself, now that you are face to face with the\nthing, that it is impossible. It's quite unthinkable that you can\nwander for the next month all alone in the desert with those damned\nniggers. Though my legal guardianship over you terminated last\nSeptember I still have some moral obligations towards you. Though it\nhas been convenient to me to bring you up as a boy and to regard you in\nthe light of a younger brother instead of a sister, we cannot get away\nfrom the fact that you are a woman, and a very young woman. There are\ncertain things a young woman cannot do. If you had been the boy I\nalways wished you were it would have been a different matter, but you\nare not a boy, and the whole thing is impossible--utterly impossible.\"\nThere was a fretful impatience in his voice.\n\nDiana lit a cigarette slowly, and swung round on her chair with a hard\nlaugh. \"If I had not lived with you all my life, Aubrey, I should\nreally be impressed with your brotherly solicitude; I should think you\nreally meant it. But knowing you as I do, I know that it is not anxiety\non my behalf that is prompting you, but the disinclination that you\nhave to travel alone without me. You have come to depend on me to save\nyou certain annoyances and inconveniences that always occur in\ntravelling. You were more honest in Biskra when you only objected to my\ntrip without giving reasons. Why have you waited until to-night to give\nme those reasons?\"\n\n\"Because I thought that here, at least, you would have sense enough to\nsee them. In Biskra it was impossible to argue with you. You made your\nown arrangements against my wishes. I left it, feeling convinced that\nthe impossibility of it would be brought home to you here, and that you\nwould see for yourself that it was out of the question. Diana, give up\nthis insane trip.\"\n\n\"I will not.\"\n\n\"I've a thundering good mind to make you.\"\n\n\"You can't. I'm my own mistress. You have no right over me at all. You\nhave no claim on me. You haven't even that of ordinary brotherly\naffection, for you have never given me any, so you cannot expect it\nfrom me. We needn't make any pretence about it, I am not going to argue\nany more. I will not go back to Biskra.\"\n\n\"If you are afraid of being laughed at----\" he sneered; but she took him\nup swiftly.\n\n\"I am not afraid of being laughed at. Only cowards are afraid of that,\nand I am not a coward.\"\n\n\"Diana, listen to reason!\"\n\n\"Aubrey! I have said my last word. Nothing will alter my determination\nto go on this trip. Your arguments do not convince me, who know you. It\nis your own considerations and not mine that are at the bottom of your\nremonstrances. You do not deny it, because you can't, because it is\ntrue.\"\n\nThey were facing each other across the little table. An angry flush\nrose in Sir Aubrey's face, and his eyeglass fell with a little sharp\ntinkle against a waistcoat button.\n\n\"You're a damned obstinate little devil!\" he said furiously.\n\nShe looked at him steadily, her scornful mouth firm as his own. \"I am\nwhat you have made me,\" she said slowly. \"Why quarrel with the result?\nYou have brought me up to ignore the restrictions attached to my sex;\nyou now round on me and throw them in my face. All my life you have set\nme an example of selfishness and obstinacy. Can you wonder that I have\nprofited by it? You have made me as hard as yourself, and you now\nprofess surprise at the determination your training has forced upon me.\nYou are illogical. It is your fault, not mine. There was bound to be a\nclash some day. It has come sooner than I expected, that's all. Up till\nnow my inclinations have gone with yours, but this seems to be the\nparting of the ways. As I reminded you before, I am my own mistress,\nand I will submit to no interference with my actions. Please understand\nthat clearly, Aubrey. I don't want to wrangle any more. I will join you\nin New York as I promised. I am not in the habit of breaking my\npromises, but my life is my own to deal with, and I will deal with it\nexactly as I wish and not as any one else wishes. I will do what I\nchoose when and how I choose, and I will _never_ obey any will but\nmy own.\"\n\nSir Aubrey's eyes narrowed suddenly. \"Then I hope to Heaven that one\nday you will fall into the hands of a man who will make you obey,\" he\ncried wrathfully.\n\nHer scornful mouth curled still more scornfully. \"Then Heaven help\nhim!\" she retorted scathingly, and turned away to her tent.\n\nBut, alone, her anger gave way to amusement. It had been something,\nafter all, to rouse the lazy Aubrey to wrath. She knew exactly the\ngrievance he had been nursing against her during the last few weeks in\nBiskra. Though he travelled perpetually and often in remote and\ndesolate places, he travelled with the acme of comfort and the minimum\nof inconveniences. He put himself out for nothing, and the inevitable\ndifficulties that accrued fell on Diana's younger and less blase\nshoulders. She had always known the uses he put her to and the\nconvenience she was to him. He might have some latent feelings with\nregard to the inadvisability of her behavior, he might even have some\nprickings of conscience on the subject of his upbringing of her, but it\nwas thoughts of his own comfort that were troubling him most. That she\nknew, and the knowledge was not conducive to any kinder feeling towards\nhim. He always had been and always would be supremely selfish. The\nwhole of their life together had been conducted to suit his\nconveniences and not hers. She knew, too, why her company was\nparticularly desired on his visit to America. It was a hunting trip,\nbut not the kind that they were usually accustomed to: it was a wife\nand not big game that was taking Sir Aubrey across the ocean on this\noccasion. It had been in his mind for some time as an inevitable and\nsomewhat unpleasant necessity. Women bored him, and the idea of\nmarriage was distasteful, but a son to succeed him was imperative--a\nMayo must be followed by a Mayo. An heir was essential for the big\nproperty that the family had held for hundreds of years. No woman had\never attracted him, but of all women he had met American women were\nless actively irritating to him, and so it was to America that he\nturned in search of a wife. He proposed to take a house in New York for\na few months and later on in Newport, and it was for that that Diana's\ncompany was considered indispensable. She would save him endless\ntrouble, as all arrangements could be left in her hands and Stephens'.\nHaving made up his mind to go through with a proceeding that he\nregarded in the light of a sacrifice on the family altar, his wish was\nto get it over and done with as soon as possible, and Diana's\ninterference in his plans had exasperated him. It was the first time\nthat their wills had crossed, and she shrugged her shoulders\nimpatiently, with a grimace at the recollection. A little more and it\nwould have degenerated into a vulgar quarrel. She banished Aubrey and\nhis selfishness resolutely from her mind. It was very hot, and she lay\nvery still in the narrow cot, wishing she had not been so rigid in the\nmatter of its width, and wondering if a sudden movement in the night\nwould precipitate her into the bath that stood alongside. She thought\nregretfully of a punkah, and then smiled derisively at herself.\n\n\"Sybarite!\" she murmured sleepily. \"You need a few discomforts.\"\n\nShe was almost aggressively cheerful next morning at breakfast and for\nthe time that they lingered at the oasis after the baggage camels had\nstarted. Sir Aubrey was morose and silent, and she exchanged most of\nher badinage with Stephens, who was superintending the packing of the\ntiffin basket that would accompany her in charge of the man who had\nbeen selected as her personal servant, and who was waiting, with\nMustafa Ali and about ten men, to ride with her.\n\nThe time for starting came. Stephens was fussing about the horse that\nDiana was to ride.\n\n\"Everything all right, Stephens? Up to your standard? Don't look so\nglum. I wish you were coming to look after me, but it couldn't be done.\nSir Aubrey would be lost without you.\"\n\nThe idea of a tour without Stephens in the background seemed suddenly\nmomentous, and the smile she gave him was more serious than she meant\nit to be. She went back to her brother, who was pulling his moustache\nsavagely. \"I don't think there's any use waiting any longer. You won't\nwant to hurry yourself too much, and you will want to be in Biskra in\ntime for dinner,\" she said as casually as she could.\n\nHe swung towards her. \"Diana, it's still not too late to change your\nmind. For Heaven's sake give up this folly. It's tempting Providence.\"\nFor the first time there was a genuine ring in his voice, and for a\nmoment Diana wavered, but only for a moment. Then she looked at him\nwith a slow smile.\n\n\"Do I fall on your neck and say, 'Take me back, dear Guardian; I will\nbe good,' or do I prostrate myself at your feet and knock my head on\nyour boots, and whine, in the language of the country, 'Hearing is\nobeying'? Don't be ridiculous, Aubrey. You can't expect me to change my\nmind at the eleventh hour. It's perfectly safe. Mustafa Ali will take\ncare that everything goes smoothly. He has his reputation in Biskra to\nthink of. You know the character the authorities gave him. He is not\nlikely to throw that away. In any case I can take care of myself,\nthanks to your training. I don't mind owning to being conceited about\nmy shooting. Even you admit that I am a credit to your teaching.\"\n\nWith a gay little laugh she whipped out the ivory-mounted revolver, and\naiming at a low flat rock, some distance away, fired. She was an\nunusually good revolver shot, but this time she seemed to have missed.\nThere was no mark on the stone. Diana stared at it stupidly, a frown of\nperplexity creasing her forehead. Then she looked at her brother, and\nback to the revolver in her hand.\n\nSir Aubrey swore. \"Diana! What a senseless piece of bravado!\" he cried\nangrily.\n\nShe took no notice of him. She was still staring at the smooth rock\nfate. \"I don't understand it. How could I miss? It's as big as a\nhouse,\" she murmured thoughtfully, and raised the revolver again.\n\nBut Sir Aubrey caught her wrist. \"For God's sake don't make a fool of\nyourself a second time. You have lowered your prestige quite enough\nalready,\" he said in a low voice, with a glance at the group of\nwatching Arabs.\n\nDiana jerked the little weapon back into its place reluctantly. \"I\ndon't understand it,\" she said again. \"It must be the light.\" She\nmounted and wheeled her horse alongside of Sir Aubrey's, and held out\nher hand. \"Good-bye, Aubrey. Expect me a month after you arrive. I will\ncable to you from Cherbourg. Good luck! I shall roll up in time to be\nbest man,\" she added, laughing, and with a nod to Mustafa Ali she\nturned her horse's head southwards.\n\nFor a long time she rode in silence. The quarrel with Aubrey had left a\nnasty taste in her mouth. She knew that what she was doing was\nconsidered unconventional, but she had been brought up to be\nunconventional. She had never even thought, when she planned her tour,\nof possible criticism; it would have made no difference to her if she\nhad thought, and she had been amazed and amused at the sensation that\nher proposed trip had caused. The publicity to which it had given rise\nhad annoyed her intensely; she had been scornful that people could not\noccupy themselves with their own affairs and leave her to deal with\nhers. But that Aubrey should join in the general criticism and present\nsuch a complete _volte-face_ to the opinions he had always held\nwas beyond her comprehension. She was angry with him, and contempt was\nmingled with her anger. It was inconsistent with the whole of his\nlifelong attitude toward her, and the discovery of his altered ideas\nleft her rather breathless and more than ever determined to adhere to\nher own deeply-rooted convictions. Aubrey was responsible for them, he\nhad instilled them, and if he chose now to abandon them that was his\nlook-out. For her own part she saw no reason to change principles she\nhad been brought up in. If Aubrey really thought there was danger in\nthis expedition he could have sacrificed himself for once and come with\nher. As Jim Arbuthnot had said, it was only a month, a negligible\nlength of time, but Aubrey's selfishness would not allow him to make\nthat concession any more than her own obstinacy would allow her to give\nway. It was too much to expect. And this was the desert! It was the\nexpedition that she had dreamed of and planned for years. She could not\ngive it up. The idea of danger brought a little laugh to her lips. How\ncould anything in the desert hurt her? It had been calling to her\nalways. There was nothing strange about the scene that lay all around\nher. Her surroundings seemed oddly familiar. The burning sun overhead\nin the cloudless sky, the shimmering haze rising from the hot, dry\nground, the feathery outline of some clustering palm trees in a tiny\ndistant oasis were like remembrances that she watched again with a\nfeeling of gladness that was fuller and deeper than anything that she\nhad been conscious of before. She was radiantly happy--happy in the\nsense of her youth and strength, her perfect physical fitness, happy in\nthe capacity of her power of enjoyment, happy with the touch of the\nkeen, nervous horse between her knees, exhilarated with her new\nauthority. She had looked forward so eagerly, and realisation was\nproving infinitely greater than anticipation. And for a whole month\nthis perfect happiness was to be hers. She thought of her promise to\nAubrey with impatience. To give up the joyous freedom of the desert for\nthe commonplace round of American social life seemed preposterous. The\nthought of the weeks in New York were frankly tedious; Newport would be\na little less bad, for there were alleviations. The only hope was that\nAubrey would find the wife he was looking for quickly and release her\nfrom an obligation that was going to be very wearisome. Aubrey was\ncounting on her, and it would be unsporting to let him down; she would\nhave to keep her promise, but she would be glad when it was over.\nAubrey married would settle definitely the possibility of any further\ndisagreements between them. She wondered vaguely what the future Lady\nMayo would be like, but she did not expend much pity on her. American\ngirls as a rule were well able to care for themselves. She stroked her\nhorse with a little smile. Aubrey and his possible wife seemed\nsingularly uninteresting beside the vivid interest of the moment. A\ncaravan that had been visible for a long time coming towards them drew\nnearer, and Diana reined in to watch the long line of slow, lurching\ncamels passing. The great beasts, with their disdainful tread and long,\nswaying necks, never failed to interest her. It was a large caravan;\nthe bales on the camels' backs looked heavy, and beside the merchants\non riding camels and a motley crowd of followers--some on lean little\ndonkeys and others on foot--there was an armed guard of mounted men. It\ntook some time to pass. One of two of the camels carried huddled\nfigures, swathed and shapeless with a multitude of coverings, that\nDiana knew must be women. The contrast between them and herself was\nalmost ridiculous. It made her feel stifled even to look at them. She\nwondered what their lives were like, if they ever rebelled against the\ndrudgery and restrictions that were imposed upon them, if they ever\nlonged for the freedom that she was revelling in, or if custom and\nusage were so strong that they had no thoughts beyond the narrow life\nthey led. The thought of those lives filled her with aversion. The idea\nof marriage--even in its highest form, based on mutual consideration\nand mutual forbearance--was repugnant to her. She thought of it with a\nshiver of absolute repulsion. To Aubrey it was distasteful, but to her\ncold, reserved temperament it was a thing of horror and disgust. That\nwomen could submit to the degrading intimacy and fettered existence of\nmarried life filled her with scornful wonder. To be bound irrevocably\nto the will and pleasure of a man who would have the right to demand\nobedience in all that constituted marriage and the strength to enforce\nthose claims revolted her. For a Western woman it was bad enough, but\nfor the women of the East, mere slaves of the passions of the men who\nowned them, unconsidered, disregarded, reduced to the level of animals,\nthe bare idea made her quiver and bring her hand down heavily on her\nhorse's neck. The nervous creature started sharply and she let him go,\ncalling to Mustafa Ali as she cantered past him. He had ridden to meet\nthe caravan and was dismounted, deep in conversation with the chief of\nthe armed guard. With the thoughts that it had provoked the caravan had\nlost all interest for Diana. She wanted to get away from it, to forget\nit, and she rode on unmindful of her escort, who, like her guide, had\nstopped to speak with the traders. Diana's horse was fleet, and it was\nsome time before they caught her up. There was a look of annoyance on\nMustafa Ali's face as she turned on hearing them behind her and signed\nto him to ride beside her.\n\n\"Mademoiselle is not interested in the caravan?\" he asked curiously.\n\n\"No,\" she replied shortly, and asked for some details connected with\nher own expedition. The man talked easily and well, in fluent French,\nand after giving the required information, volunteered anecdotes\nrelating to various well-known people whom he had guided in the desert.\nDiana watched him interestedly. He seemed a man of about middle age,\nthough it was difficult to guess more than approximately, for the\nthick, peaked beard that hid both mouth and chin made him look older\nthan he really was. His beard had been his only drawback from Diana's\npoint of view, for she judged men by their mouths. Eyes were\nuntrustworthy evidences of character in an Oriental, for they usually\nwavered under a European's. Mustafa Ali's were wavering now as she\nlooked at him, and it occurred to her that they had not seemed nearly\nso shifty in Biskra when she had engaged him. But she attached no\nimportance to the thought, and dismissed it as much less interesting\nthan the great difference displayed in their respective modes of\nriding. The Arab's exaggeratedly short stirrup would have given her\nagonies of cramp. She pointed the difference with a laugh of amusement\nand drew the man on to speak of his horses. The one Diana was riding\nwas an unusually fine beast, and had been one of the greatest points in\nthe guide's favour when he had brought it for her inspection. He was\nenthusiastic in its praise, but volubly vague as to its antecedents,\nwhich left Diana with the conviction that the animal had either been\nstolen or acquired in some irregular manner and that it would be\ntactless to pursue further inquiries. After all it was no business of\nhers. It was enough that her trip was to be conducted on the back of a\nhorse that it was a pleasure to ride and whose vagaries promised to\ngive interest to what otherwise might have been monotonous. Some of the\nhorses that she had seen in Biskra had been the veriest jades.\n\nShe asked Mustafa Ali about the country through which they were\npassing, but he did not seem to have much information that was really\nof interest, or what seemed important to him appeared trivial to her,\nand he constantly brought the conversation back to Biskra, of which she\nwas tired, or to Oran, of which she knew nothing. The arrival at a\nlittle oasis where the guide suggested that the midday halt might be\nmade was opportune. Diana swung to the ground, and, tossing down her\ngloves, gave herself a shake. It was hot work riding in the burning sun\nand the rest would be delightful. She had a thoroughly healthy\nappetite, and superintended the laying out of her lunch with interest.\nIt was the last time that it would be as daintily packed. Stephens was\nan artist with a picnic basket. She was going to miss Stephens. She\nfinished her lunch quickly, and then, with her back propped against a\npalm tree, a cigarette in her mouth, her arms clasped round her knees,\nshe settled down happily, overlooking the desert. The noontime hush\nseemed over everything. Not a breath of wind stirred the tops of the\npalms; a lizard on a rock near her was the only living thing she could\nsee. She glanced over her shoulder. The men, with their big cloaks\ndrawn over their heads, were lying asleep, or at any rate appeared to\nbe so; only Mustafa Ali was on foot, standing at the edge of the oasis,\nstaring fixedly in the direction in which they would ride later.\n\nDiana threw the end of her cigarette at the lizard and laughed at its\nprecipitant flight. She had no desire to follow the example of her\nescort and sleep. She was much too happy to lose a minute of her\nenjoyment by wasting it in rest that she did not require. She was\nperfectly content and satisfied with herself and her outlook. She had\nnot a care or a thought in the world. There was not a thing that she\nwould have changed or altered. Her life had always been happy; she had\nextracted the last ounce of pleasure out of every moment of it. That\nher happiness was due to the wealth that had enabled her to indulge in\nthe sports and constant travel that made up the sum total of her\ndesires never occurred to her. That what composed her pleasure in life\nwas possible only because she was rich enough to buy the means of\ngratifying it did not enter her head. She thought of her wealth no more\nthan of her beauty. The business connected with her coming of age, when\nthe big fortune left to her by her father passed unreservedly into her\nown hands, was a wearisome necessity that had been got through as\nexpeditiously as possible, with as little attention to detail as the\nold family lawyer had allowed, and an absence of interest that was\nevidenced in the careless scrawl she attached to each document that was\ngiven her to sign. The mere money in itself was nothing; it was only a\nmeans to an end. She had never even realised how much was expended on\nthe continuous and luxurious expeditions that she had made with Sir\nAubrey; her own individual tastes were simple, and apart from the\nexpensive equipment that was indispensable for their hunting trips, and\nwhich was Aubrey's choosing, not hers, she was not extravagant. The\nlong list of figures that had been so boring during the tedious hours\nthat she had spent with the lawyer, grudging every second of the\nglorious September morning that she had had to waste in the library\nwhen she was longing to be out of doors, had conveyed nothing to her\nbeyond the fact that in future when she wanted anything she would be\nput to the trouble of writing out an absurd piece of paper herself,\ninstead of leaving the matter in Aubrey's hands, as she had done\nhitherto.\n\nShe had hardly understood and had been much embarrassed by the formal\nand pedantic congratulations with which the lawyer had concluded his\nbusiness statement. She was not aware that she was an object of\ncongratulation. It all seemed very stupid and uninteresting. Of real\nlife she knew nothing and of the ordinary ties and attachments of\nfamily life less than nothing. Aubrey's cold, loveless training had\ndebarred her from all affection; she had grown up oblivious of it. Love\ndid not exist for her; from even the thought of passion she shrank\ninstinctively with the same fastidiousness as she did from actual\nphysical uncleanliness.\n\nThat she had awakened an emotion that she did not understand herself in\ncertain men had been an annoyance that had become more intolerable with\nrepetition. She had hated them and herself impartially, and she had\nscorned them fiercely. She had never been so gentle and so human with\nany one as she had been with Jim Arbuthnot, and that only because she\nwas so radiantly happy that night that not even the distasteful\nreminder that she was a woman whom a man coveted was able to disturb\nher happiness. But here there was no need to dwell on annoyances or\ndistasteful reminders.\n\nDiana dug her heels into the soft ground with a little wriggle of\ncontent; here she would be free from anything that could mar her\nperfect enjoyment of life as it appeared to her. Here there was nothing\nto spoil her pleasure. Her head had drooped during her thoughts, and\nfor the last few minutes her eyes had been fixed on the dusty tips of\nher riding-boots. But she raised them now and looked up with a great\ncontent in them. It was the happiest day of her life. She had forgotten\nthe quarrel with Aubrey. She had put from her the chain of ideas\nsuggested by the passing caravan. There was nothing discordant to\ndisturb the perfect harmony of her mind.\n\nA shade beside her made her turn her head. Mustafa Ali salaamed\nobsequiously. \"It is time to start, Mademoiselle.\"\n\nDiana looked up in surprise and then back over her shoulder at the\nescort. The men were already mounted. The smile faded from her eyes.\nMustafa Ali was guide, but she was head of this expedition; if her\nguide had not realised this he would have to do so now. She glanced at\nthe watch on her wrist.\n\n\"There is plenty of time,\" she said coolly.\n\nMustafa Ali salaamed again. \"It is a long ride to reach the oasis where\nwe must camp to-night,\" he insisted hurriedly.\n\nDiana crossed one brown boot over the other, and scooping up some sand\nin the palm of her hand trickled it through her fingers slowly. \"Then\nwe can ride faster,\" she replied quietly, looking at the shining\nparticles glistening in the sun.\n\nMustafa Ali made a movement of impatience and persisted doggedly.\n\"Mademoiselle would do well to start.\"\n\nDiana looked up swiftly with angry eyes. Under the man's suave manner\nand simple words a peremptory tone had crept into his voice. She sat\nquite still, her fingers raking the warm sand, and under her haughty\nstare the guide's eyes wavered and turned away. \"We will start when I\nchoose, Mustafa Ali,\" she said brusquely. \"You may give orders to your\nmen, but you will take your orders from me. I will tell you when I am\nready. You may go.\"\n\nStill he hesitated, swaying irresolutely backwards and forwards on his\nheels.\n\nDiana snapped her fingers over her shoulder, a trick she had learned\nfrom a French officer in Biskra. \"I said go!\" she repeated sharply. She\ntook no notice of his going and did not look back to see what orders he\ngave the men. She glanced at her watch again. Perhaps it was growing\nlate, perhaps the camp was a longer ride than she had thought; but\nMustafa Ali must learn his lesson if they rode till midnight to reach\nthe oasis. She pushed her obstinate chin out further and then smiled\nagain suddenly. She hoped that the night would fall before they reached\ntheir destination. There had been one or two moonlight riding picnics\nout from Biskra, and the glamour of the desert nights had gone to\nDiana's head. This riding into the unknown away from the noisy,\nchattering crowd who had spoiled the perfect stillness of the night\nwould be infinitely more perfect. She gave a little sigh of regret as\nshe thought of it. It was not really practical. Though she would wait\nnearly another hour to allow the fact of her authority to sink into\nMustafa Ali's brain she would have to hasten afterwards to arrive at\nthe camp before darkness set in. The men were unused to her ways and\nshe to theirs. She would not have Stephens' help to-night; she would\nhave to depend on herself to order everything as she wished it, and it\nwas easier done in daylight. One hour would not make much difference.\nThe horses had more in them than had been taken out of them this\nmorning; they could be pushed along a bit faster with no harm happening\nto them. She eyed her watch from time to time with a grin of amusement,\nbut suppressed the temptation to look and see how Mustafa Ali was\ntaking it, for her action might be seen and misconstrued.\n\nWhen the time she had set herself was up she rose and walked slowly\ntowards the group of Arabs. The guide's face was sullen, but she took\nno notice, and, when they started, motioned him to her side again with\na reference to Biskra that provoked a flow of words. It was the last\nplace she wanted to hear of, but it was one of which he spoke the\nreadiest, and she knew it was not wise to allow him to remain silent to\nsulk. His ill-temper would evaporate with the sound of his own voice.\nShe rode forward steadily, silent herself, busy with her own thoughts,\nheedless of the voice beside her, and unconscious of the fact when it\nbecame silent.\n\nShe had been quite right about the capabilities of the horses. They\nresponded without any apparent effort to the further demand made of\nthem. The one in particular that Diana was riding moved in a swift,\neasy gallop that was the perfection of motion.\n\nThey had been riding for some hours when they came to the first oasis\nthat had been sighted since leaving the one where the midday halt was\nmade. Diana pulled up her horse to look at it, for it was unusually\nbeautiful in the luxuriousness and arrangement of its group of palms\nand leafy bushes. Some pigeons were cooing softly, hidden from sight\namongst the trees, with a plaintive melancholy that somehow seemed in\nkeeping with the deserted spot. Beside the well, forming a triangle,\nstood what had been three particularly fine palm trees, but the tops\nhad been broken off about twenty feet up from the ground, and the\nmutilated trunks reared themselves bare and desolate-looking. Diana\ntook off her heavy helmet and tossed it to the man behind her, and sat\nlooking at the oasis, while the faint breeze that had sprung up stirred\nher thick, short hair, and cooled her hot head. The sad notes of the\npigeons and the broken palms, that with their unusualness vaguely\nsuggested a tragedy, lent an air of mystery to the place that pleased\nher.\n\nShe turned eagerly to Mustafa Ali. \"Why did you not arrange for the\ncamp to be here? It would have been a long enough ride.\"\n\nThe man fidgeted in his saddle, fingering his beard uneasily, his eyes\nwandering past Diana's and looking at the broken trees. \"No man rests\nhere, Mademoiselle. It is the place of devils. The curse of Allah is\nupon it,\" he muttered, touching his horse with his heel, and making it\nsidle restlessly--an obvious hint that Diana ignored.\n\n\"I like it,\" she persisted obstinately.\n\nHe made a quick gesture with his fingers. \"It is accursed. Death lurks\nbeside those broken palm trees,\" he said, looking at her curiously.\n\nShe jerked her head with a sudden smile. \"For you, perhaps, but not for\nme. Allah's curse rests only upon those who fear it. But since you are\nafraid, Mustafa Ali, let us go on.\" She gave a little light laugh, and\nMustafa Ali kicked his horse savagely as he followed.\n\nThe distance before her spread out cleanly with the sharp distinctness\nthat precedes the setting sun. She rode on until she began to wonder if\nit would indeed be night-fall before she reached her destination. They\nhad ridden longer and faster than had ever been intended. It seemed odd\nthat they had not overtaken the baggage camels. She looked at her watch\nwith a frown. \"Where is your caravan, Mustafa Ali?\" she called. \"I see\nno sign of an oasis, and the darkness will come.\"\n\n\"If Mademoiselle had started earlier----\" he said sullenly.\n\n\"If I had started earlier it would still have been too far. To-morrow\nwe will arrange it otherwise,\" she said firmly.\n\n\"To-morrow----\" he growled indistinctly.\n\nDiana looked at him keenly. \"What did you say?\" she asked haughtily.\n\nHis hand went to his forehead mechanically. \"To-morrow is with Allah!\"\nhe murmured with unctuous piety.\n\nA retort trembled on Diana's lips, but her attention was distracted\nfrom her annoying guide to a collection of black specks far off across\nthe desert. They were too far away for her to see clearly, but she\npointed to them, peering at them intently. \"See!\" she cried. \"Is that\nthe caravan?\"\n\n\"As Allah wills!\" he replied more piously than before, and Diana\nwished, with a sudden feeling of irritation, that he would stop\nrelegating his responsibilities to the Deity and take a little more\nactive personal interest in his missing camel train.\n\nThe black specks were moving fast across the level plain. Very soon\nDiana saw that it was not the slow, leisurely camels that they were\novertaking, but a band of mounted men who were moving swiftly towards\nthem. They had seen nobody since the traders' caravan had passed them\nin the morning. For Diana the Arabs that were approaching were even\nmore interesting than the caravan had been. She had seen plenty of\ncaravans arriving and departing from Biskra, but, though she had seen\nsmall parties of tribesmen constantly in the vicinity of the town, she\nhad never seen so large a body of mounted men before, nor had she seen\nthem as they were here, one with the wild picturesqueness of their\nsurroundings. It was impossible to count how many there were, for they\nwere riding in close formation, the wind filling their great white\ncloaks, making each man look gigantic. Diana's interest flamed up\nexcitedly. It was like passing another ship upon a hitherto empty sea.\nThey seemed to add a desired touch to the grim loneliness of the scene\nthat had begun to be a little awe-inspiring. Perhaps she was hungry,\nperhaps she was tired, or perhaps she was only annoyed by the bad\narrangements of her guide, but before the advent of the mounted Arabs\nDiana had been conscious of a feeling of oppression, as if the silent\ndesolation of the desert was weighing heavily upon her, but the body of\nswiftly moving men and horses had changed the aspect utterly. An\natmosphere of life and purpose seemed to have taken the place of the\nquiet stagnation that had been before their coming.\n\nThe distance between the two parties decreased rapidly. Diana, intent\non the quickly advancing horsemen, spurred ahead of her guide with\nsparkling eyes. They were near enough now to see that the horses were\nbeautiful creatures and that each man rode magnificently. They were\narmed too, their rifles being held in front of them, not slung on their\nbacks as she had seen in Biskra. They passed quite close to her, only a\nfew yards away--a solid square, the orderly ranks suggesting training\nand discipline that she had not looked for. Not a head turned in her\ndirection as they went by and the pace was not slackened. Fretted by\nthe proximity of the galloping horses, her own horse reared\nimpatiently, but Diana pulled him in, turning in her saddle to watch\nthe Arabs pass, her breath coming quick with excitement.\n\n\"What are they?\" she called out to Mustafa Ali, who had dropped some\nway behind her. But he, too, was looking back at the horsemen, and did\nnot seem to hear her question. Her escort had lagged still further\nbehind her guide and were some distance away. Diana watched the rapidly\nmoving, compact square eagerly with appreciatory eyes--it was a\nbeautiful sight. Then she gave a little gasp. The galloping horses had\ndrawn level with the last stragglers of her own party, and just beyond\nthey stopped suddenly. Diana would not have believed it possible that\nthey could have stopped so suddenly and in such close formation while\ntravelling at such a pace. The tremendous strain on the bridles flung\nthe horses far back on their haunches. But there was no time to dwell\non the wonderful horsemanship or training of the men. Events moved too\nrapidly. The solid square split up and lengthened out into a long line\nof two men riding abreast. Wheeling behind the last of Mustafa's men\nthey came back even faster than they had passed, and circled widely\nround Diana and her attendants. Bewildered by this manoeuvre she\nwatched them with a puzzled frown, striving to soothe her horse, who\nwas nearly frantic with excitement. Twice they galloped round her\nlittle band, their long cloaks fluttering, their rifles tossing in\ntheir hands. Diana was growing impatient. It was very fine to watch,\nbut time and the light were both going. She would have been glad if the\ndemonstration had occurred earlier in the day, when there would have\nbeen more time to enjoy it. She turned again to Mustafa Ali to suggest\nthat they had better try to move on, but he had gone further from her,\nback towards his own. She wrestled with her nervous mount, trying to\nturn him to join her guide, when a sudden burst of rifle shots made her\nstart and her horse bound violently. Then she laughed. That would be\nthe end of the demonstration, a parting salute, the _decharge de\nmousqueterie_ beloved of the Arab. She turned her head from her\nrefractory horse to look at them ride off, and the laugh died away on\nher lips. It was not a farewell salute. The rifles that the Arabs were\nfiring were not pointing up into the heavens, but aiming straight at\nher and her escort. And as she stared with suddenly startled eyes,\nunable to do anything with her plunging horse, Mustafa Ali's men were\nblotted out from her sight, cut off by a band of Arabs who rode between\nher and them. Mustafa Ali himself was lying forward on the neck of his\nhorse, who was standing quiet amidst the general confusion. Then there\ncame another volley, and the guide slid slowly out of his saddle on to\nthe ground, and at the same time Diana's horse went off with a wild\nleap that nearly unseated her.\n\nUntil they started shooting the thought that the Arabs could be hostile\nhad not crossed her mind. She imagined that they were merely showing\noff with the childish love of display which she knew was\ncharacteristic. The French authorities had been right after all.\nDiana's first feeling was one of contempt for an administration that\nmade possible such an attempt so near civilisation. Her second a\nfleeting amusement at the thought of how Aubrey would jeer. But her\namusement passed as the real seriousness of the attack came home to\nher. For the first time it occurred to her that her guide's descent\nfrom his saddle was due to a wound and not to the fear that she had at\nfirst disgustedly attributed to him. But nobody had seemed to put up\nany kind of a fight, she thought wrathfully. She tugged angrily at her\nhorse's mouth, but the bit was between his teeth and he tore on\nfrantically. Her own position made her furious. Her guide was wounded,\nhis men surrounded, and she was ignominiously being run away with by a\nbolting horse. If she could only turn the wretched animal. It would\nonly be a question of ransom, of that she was positive. She must get\nback somehow to the others and arrange terms. It was an annoyance, of\ncourse, but after all it added a certain piquancy to her trip, it would\nbe an experience. It was only a \"hold-up.\" She did not suppose the\nArabs had even really meant to hurt any one, but they were excited and\nsome one's shot, aimed wide, had found an unexpected billet. It could\nonly be that. It was too near Biskra for any real danger, she argued\nwith herself, still straining on the reins. She would not admit that\nthere was any danger, though her heart was beating in a way that it had\nnever done before. Then as she hauled ineffectually at the bridle with\nall her strength there came from behind her the sound of a long, shrill\nwhistle. Her horse pricked up his ears and she was conscious that his\npace sensibly lessened. Instinctively she looked behind. A solitary\nArab was riding after her and as she looked she realised that his horse\nwas gaining on hers. The thought drove every idea of stopping her\nrunaway from her and made her dig her spurs into him instead. There was\na sinister air of deliberation in the way in which the Arab was\nfollowing her; he was riding her down.\n\nDiana's mouth closed firmly and a new keenness came into her steady\neyes. It was one thing to go back voluntarily to make terms with the\nmen who had attacked her party; it was quite another thing to be\ndeliberately chased across the desert by an Arab freebooter. Her\nobstinate chin was almost square. Then the shadow of a laugh flickered\nin her eyes and curved her mouth. New experiences were crowding in upon\nher to-day. She had often wondered what the feelings of a hunted\ncreature were. She seemed in a fair way of finding out. She had always\nstoutly maintained that the fox enjoyed the run as much as the hounds;\nthat remained to be proved, but, in any case, she would give this hound\na run for his money. She could ride, and there seemed plenty yet in the\nfrightened animal under her. She bent down, lying low against his neck\nwith a little, reckless laugh, coaxing him with all her knowledge and\nspurring him alternately. But soon her mood changed. She frowned\nanxiously as she looked at the last rays of the setting sun. It would\nbe dark very soon. She could not go chasing through the night with this\ntiresome Arab at her heels. The humour seemed to have died out of the\nsituation and Diana began to get angry. In the level country that\nsurrounded her there were no natural features that could afford cover\nor aid in any way; there seemed nothing for it but to own herself\ndefeated and pull up--if she could. An idea of trying to dodge him and\nof returning of her own free will was dismissed at once as hopeless.\nShe had seen enough in her short glimpse of the Arabs' tactics when\nthey had passed her to know that she was dealing with a finished\nhorseman on a perfectly trained horse, and that her idea could never\nsucceed. But, perversely, she felt that to that particular Arab\nfollowing her she would never give in. She would ride till she dropped,\nor the horse did, before that.\n\nThe whistle came again, and again, in spite of her relentless spurring,\nher horse checked his pace. A sudden inspiration came to her. Perhaps\nit was the horse she was riding that was the cause of all the trouble.\nIt was certainly the Arab's whistle that had made it moderate its\nspeed; it was responding clearly to a signal that it knew. Her guide's\nreluctance to give any particulars of his acquisition of the horse came\nback to her. There could not be much doubt about it. The animal had\nunquestionably been stolen, and either belonged to or was known to the\nparty of Arabs who had met them.\n\nThe _naivete_ that paraded a stolen horse through the desert at\nthe risk of meeting its former owner made her smile in spite of her\nannoyance, but it was not a pleasant smile, as her thoughts turned from\nthe horse to its present owner. The sum of Mustafa Ali's delinquencies\nwas mounting up fast. But it was his affair, not hers. In the meantime\nshe had paid for the horse to ride through the desert, not to be\nwaylaid by Arab bandits. Her temper was going fast.\n\nShe urged the horse on with all her power, but perceptibly he was\nslowing up. She flashed another backward look. The Arab was close\nbehind her--closer than she had been aware. She had a momentary glimpse\nof a big white figure, dark piercing eyes, and white gleaming teeth,\nand passionate rage filled her. With no thought of what the\nconsequences or retaliation might be, with no thought at all beyond a\nwild desire to rid herself of her pursuer, driven by a sudden madness\nwhich seemed to rise up in her and which she could not control, she\nclutched her revolver and fired twice, full in the face of the man who\nwas following her. He did not even flinch and a low laugh of amusement\ncame from him. And at the sound of his laugh Diana's mouth parched\nsuddenly, and a cold shiver rippled across her spine. A strange feeling\nthat she had never experienced before went through her. She had missed\nagain as she had missed this morning. How, she did not know; it was\ninexplicable, but it was a fact, and a fact that left her with a\nfeeling of powerlessness. She dropped the useless revolver, trying\nvainly to force her horse's pace, but inch by inch the fiery chestnut\nthat the Arab was riding crept up nearer alongside. She would not turn\nto look again, but glancing sideways she could see its small,\nwicked-looking head, with flat laid ears and vicious, bloodshot eyes,\nlevel with her elbow. For a moment or two it remained there, then with\na sudden spurt the chestnut forged ahead, and as it shot past it\nswerved close in beside her, and the man, rising in his stirrups and\nleaning towards her, flung a pair of powerful arms around her, and,\nwith a jerk, swung her clear of the saddle and on to his own horse in\nfront of him. His movement had been so quick she was unprepared and\nunable to resist. For a moment she was stunned, then her senses came\nback to her and she struggled wildly, but, stifled in the thick folds\nof the Arab's robes, against which her face was crushed, and held in a\ngrip that seemed to be slowly suffocating her, her struggles were\nfutile. The hard, muscular arm round her hurt her acutely, her ribs\nseemed to be almost breaking under its weight and strength, it was\nnearly impossible to breathe with the close contact of his body. She\nwas unusually strong for a girl, but against this steely strength that\nheld her she was helpless. And for a time the sense of her helplessness\nand the pain that any resistance to the arm wrapped round her gave her\nmade her lie quiet. She felt the Arab check his horse, felt the\nchestnut wheel, spinning high on his hind legs, and then bound forward\nagain.\n\nHer feelings were indescribable. She did not know what to think. Her\nmind felt jarred. She was unable to frame any thoughts coherently. What\nhad happened was so unexpected, so preposterous, that no conclusion\nseemed adequate. Only rage filled her--blind, passionate rage against\nthe man who had dared to touch her, who had dared to lay his hands on\nher, and those hands the hands of a native. A shiver of revulsion ran\nthrough her. She was choking with fury, with anger and with disgust.\nThe ignominy of her plight hurt her pride badly. She had been\noutridden, swept from her saddle as if she were a puppet, and compelled\nto bear the proximity of the man's own hateful body and the restraint\nof his arms. No one had ever dared to touch her before. No one had ever\ndared to handle her as she was being handled now. How was it going to\nend? Where were they going? With her face hidden she had lost all sense\nof direction. She had no idea to what point the horse had turned when\nhe had wheeled so suddenly. He was galloping swiftly with continual\ndisconcerting bounds that indicated either temper or nerves, but the\nman riding him seemed in no way disturbed by his horse's behavior. She\ncould feel him swaying easily in the saddle, and even the wildest leaps\ndid not cause any slackening of the arm around her.\n\nBut by degrees as she continued to lie still the pressure on her body\nwas relieved slightly, and she was able to turn her head a little\ntowards the air for which she was almost fainting, but not enough to\nenable her to see what was passing around her. She drank in the cool\nair eagerly. Though she could not see she knew that the night had come,\nthe night that she had hoped would fall before she reached her\ndestination, but which now seemed horrible. The fresh strength that the\nair gave her fanned the courage that still remained with her.\nCollecting all her force she made a sudden desperate spring, trying to\nleap clear of the arm that now lay almost loosely about her, her\nspurred heels tearing the chestnut's flank until he reared\nperpendicularly, snorting and trembling. But with a quick sweep of his\nlong arm the Arab gathered her back into his hold, still struggling\nfiercely. His arms were both round her; he was controlling the maddened\nhorse only with the pressure of his knees.\n\n\"Doucement, doucement.\" She heard the slow, soft voice indistinctly,\nfor he was pressing her head again closely to him, and she did not know\nif the words were applied to herself or to the horse. She fought to\nlift her head, to escape the grip that held her, straining, striving\nuntil he spoke again.\n\n\"Lie still, you little fool!\" he snarled with sudden vehemence, and\nwith brutal hands he forced her to obey him, until she wondered if he\nwould leave a single bone unbroken in her body, till further resistance\nwas impossible. Gasping for breath she yielded to the strength that\noverpowered her, and ceased to struggle. The man seemed to know\nintuitively that she was beaten, and turned his undivided attention to\nhis horse with the same low laugh of amusement that had sent the\nstrange feeling through her when her shots had missed him. It had\npuzzled her then, but it grew now with a horrible intensity, until she\nknew that it was fear that had come to her for the first time in her\nlife--a strange fear that she fought against desperately, but which was\ngaining on her with a force that was sapping her strength from her and\nmaking her head reel. She did not faint, but her whole body seemed to\ngrow nerveless with the sudden realisation of the horror of her\nposition.\n\nAfter that Diana lost all sense of time, as she had already lost all\nsense of direction. She did not know if it was minutes or hours that\npassed as they still galloped swiftly through the night. She did not\nknow if they were alone or if the band of Arabs to which this man\nbelonged were riding with them, noiseless over the soft ground. What\nhad happened to her guide and his men? Had they been butchered and left\nwhere they fell, or were they, too, being hurried unwillingly into some\nobscure region of the desert? But for the moment the fate of Mustafa\nAli and his companions did not trouble her very much; they had not\nplayed a very valiant part in the short encounter, and her own\nsituation swamped her mind to the exclusion of everything else.\n\nThe sense of fear was growing on her. She scorned and derided it. She\ntried to convince herself it did not exist, but it did exist, torturing\nher with its strangeness and with the thoughts that it engendered. She\nhad anticipated nothing like this. She had never thought of a\ncontingency that would end so, that would induce a situation before\nwhich her courage was shuddering into pieces with the horror that was\nopening up before her--a thing that had always seemed a remote\nimpossibility that could never touch her, from even the knowledge of\nwhich her life with Aubrey had almost shielded her, but which now\nloomed near her, forcing its reality upon her till she trembled and\ngreat drops of moisture gathered on her forehead.\n\nThe Arab moved her position once, roughly, but she was glad of the\nchange for it freed her head from the stifling folds of his robes. He\ndid not speak again--only once when the chestnut shied violently he\nmuttered something under his breath. But her satisfaction was\nshort-lived. A few minutes afterwards his arm tightened round her once\nmore and he twined a fold of his long cloak round her head, blinding\nher. And then she understood. The galloping horse was pulled in with\nalmost the same suddenness that had amazed her when she had first seen\nthe Arabs. She felt him draw her close into his arms and slip down on\nto the ground; there were voices around her--confused, unintelligible;\nthen they died away as she felt him carry her a few paces. He set her\ndown and unwound the covering from her face. The light that shone\naround her seemed by contrast dazzling with the darkness that had gone\nbefore. Confused, she clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment and\nthen looked up slowly. She was in a big, lofty tent, brightly lit by\ntwo hanging lamps. But she took no heed of her surroundings; her eyes\nwere fixed on the man who had brought her there. He had flung aside the\nheavy cloak that enveloped him from head to foot and was standing\nbefore her, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in white flowing robes,\na waistcloth embroidered in black and silver wound several times about\nhim, and from the top of which showed a revolver that was thrust into\nthe folds.\n\nDiana's eyes passed over him slowly till they rested on his brown,\nclean-shaven face, surmounted by crisp, close-cut brown hair. It was\nthe handsomest and cruellest face that she had ever seen. Her gaze was\ndrawn instinctively to his. He was looking at her with fierce burning\neyes that swept her until she felt that the boyish clothes that covered\nher slender limbs were stripped from her, leaving the beautiful white\nbody bare under his passionate stare.\n\nShe shrank back, quivering, dragging the lapels of her riding jacket\ntogether over her breast with clutching hands, obeying an impulse that\nshe hardly understood.\n\n\"Who are you?\" she gasped hoarsely.\n\n\"I am the Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan.\"\n\nThe name conveyed nothing. She had never heard it before. She had\nspoken without thinking in French, and in French he replied to her.\n\n\"Why have you brought me here?\" she asked, fighting down the fear that\nwas growing more terrible every moment.\n\nHe repeated her words with a slow smile. \"Why have I brought you here?\nBon Dieu! Are you not woman enough to know?\"\n\nShe shrank back further, a wave of colour rushing into her face that\nreceded immediately, leaving her whiter than she had been before. Her\neyes fell under the kindling flame in his. \"I don't know what you\nmean,\" she whispered faintly, with shaking lips.\n\n\"I think you do.\" He laughed softly, and his laugh frightened her more\nthan anything he had said. He came towards her, and although she was\nswaying on her feet, desperately she tried to evade him, but with a\nquick movement he caught her in his arms.\n\nTerror, agonising, soul-shaking terror such as she had never imagined,\ntook hold of her. The flaming light of desire burning in his eyes\nturned her sick and faint. Her body throbbed with the consciousness of\na knowledge that appalled her. She understood his purpose with a horror\nthat made each separate nerve in her system shrink against the\nunderstanding that had come to her under the consuming fire of his\nardent gaze, and in the fierce embrace that was drawing her shaking\nlimbs closer and closer against the man's own pulsating body. She\nwrithed in his arms as he crushed her to him in a sudden access of\npossessive passion. His head bent slowly down to her, his eyes burned\ndeeper, and, held immovable, she endured the first kiss she had ever\nreceived. And the touch of his scorching lips, the clasp of his arms,\nthe close union with his warm, strong body robbed her of all strength,\nof all power of resistance.\n\nWith a great sob her eyes closed wearily, the hot mouth pressed on hers\nwas like a narcotic, drugging her almost into insensibility. Numbly she\nfelt him gather her high up into his arms, his lips still clinging\nclosely, and carry her across the tent through curtains into an\nadjoining room. He laid her down on soft cushions. \"Do not make me wait\ntoo long,\" he whispered, and left her.\n\nAnd the whispered words sent a shock through her that seemed to wrench\nher deadened nerves apart, galvanising her into sudden strength. She\nsprang up with wild, despairing eyes, and hands clenched frantically\nacross her heaving breast; then, with a bitter cry, she dropped on to\nthe floor, her arms flung out across the wide, luxurious bed. It was\nnot true! It was not true! It could not be--this awful thing that had\nhappened to her--not to her, Diana Mayo! It was a dream, a ghastly\ndream that would pass and free her from this agony. Shuddering, she\nraised her head. The strange room swam before her eyes. Oh, God! It was\nnot a dream. It was real, it was an actual fact from which there was no\nescape. She was trapped, powerless, defenceless, and behind the heavy\ncurtains near her was the man waiting to claim what he had taken. Any\nmoment he might come; the thought sent her shivering closer to the\nground with limbs that trembled uncontrollably. Her courage, that had\nfaced dangers and even death without flinching, broke down before the\nhorror that awaited her. It was inevitable; there was no help to be\nexpected, no mercy to be hoped for. She had felt the crushing strength\nagainst which she was helpless. She would struggle, but it would be\nuseless; she would fight, but it would make no difference. Within the\ntent she was alone, ready to his hand like a snared animal; without,\nthe place was swarming with the man's followers. There was nowhere she\ncould turn, there was no one she could turn to. The certainty of the\naccomplishment of what she dreaded crushed her with its surety. All\npower of action was gone. She could only wait and suffer in the\ncomplete moral collapse that overwhelmed her, and that was rendered\ngreater by her peculiar temperament. Her body was aching with the grip\nof his powerful arms, her mouth was bruised with his savage kisses. She\nclenched her hands in anguish. \"Oh, God!\" she sobbed, with scalding\ntears that scorched her cheeks. \"Curse him! Curse him!\"\n\nAnd with the words on her lips he came, silent, noiseless, to her side.\nWith his hands on her shoulders he forced her to her feet. His eyes\nwere fierce, his stern mouth parted in a cruel smile, his deep, slow\nvoice half angry, half impatiently amused. \"Must I be valet, as well as\nlover?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nThe warm sunshine was flooding the tent when Diana awoke from the deep\nsleep of exhaustion that had been almost insensibility, awoke to\nimmediate and complete remembrance. One quick, fearful glance around\nthe big room assured her that she was alone. She sat up slowly, her\neyes shadowy with pain, looking listlessly at the luxurious\nappointments of the tent. She looked dry-eyed, she had no tears left.\nThey had all been expended when she had grovelled at his feet imploring\nthe mercy he had not accorded her. She had fought until the unequal\nstruggle had left her exhausted and helpless in his arms, until her\nwhole body was one agonised ache from the brutal hands that forced her\nto compliance, until her courageous spirit was crushed by the\nrealisation of her own powerlessness, and by the strange fear that the\nman himself had awakened in her, which had driven her at last moaning\nto her knees. And the recollection of her abject prayers and weeping\nsupplications filled her with a burning shame. She loathed herself with\nbitter contempt. Her courage had broken down; even her pride had failed\nher.\n\nShe wound her arms about her knees and hid her face against them.\n\"Coward! Coward!\" she whispered fiercely. Why had she not scorned him?\nOr why had she not suffered all that he had done to her in silence? It\nwould have pleased him less than the frenzied entreaties that had only\nprovoked the soft laugh that made her shiver each time she heard it.\nShe shivered now. \"I thought I was brave,\" she murmured brokenly. \"I am\nonly a coward, a craven.\"\n\nShe lifted her head at last and looked around her. The room was a\ncurious mixture of Oriental luxury and European comfort. The lavish\nsumptuousness of the furnishings suggested subtly an unrestrained\nindulgence, the whole atmosphere was voluptuous, and Diana shrank from\nthe impression it conveyed without exactly understanding the reason.\nThere was nothing that jarred artistically, the rich hangings all\nharmonised, there were no glaring incongruities such as she had seen in\nnative palaces in India. And everything on which her eyes rested drove\nhome relentlessly the hideous fact of her position. His things were\neverywhere. On a low, brass-topped table by the bed was the half-smoked\ncigarette he had had between his lips when he came to her. The pillow\nbeside her still bore the impress of his head. She looked at it with a\ngrowing horror in her eyes until an uncontrollable shuddering seized\nher and she cowered down, smothering the cry that burst from her in the\nsoft pillows and dragging the silken coverings up around her as if\ntheir thin shelter were a protection. She lived again through every\nmoment of the past night until thought was unendurable, until she felt\nthat she would go mad, until at last, worn out, she fell asleep.\n\nIt was midday when she awoke again. This time she was not alone. A\nyoung Arab girl was sitting on the rug beside her looking at her with\nsoft brown eyes of absorbed interest As Diana sat up she rose to her\nfeet, salaaming, with a timid smile.\n\n\"I am Zilah, to wait on Madame,\" she said shyly in stumbling French,\nholding out a wrap that Diana recognised with wonder as her own. She\nlooked behind her. Her suit-cases were lying near her, open, partially\nunpacked. The missing baggage camels had been captured first, then. She\nwas at least to be allowed the use of her own belongings. A gleam of\nanger shot into her tired eyes and she swung round with a sharp\nquestion; but the Arab girl shook her head uncomprehendingly, drawing\nback with frightened eyes; and to all further questions she remained\nsilent, with down-drooping mouth like a scared child. She was little\nmore. She evidently only half understood what was said to her and could\ngive no answer to what she did understand, and turned away with obvious\nrelief when Diana stopped speaking. She went across the tent and pulled\naside a curtain leading into a bathroom that was as big and far better\nequipped than the one that Diana had had in the Indian tent, and which,\nup to now, had seemed the last word in comfort and luxury. Though the\ngirl's knowledge of French was limited her hands were deft enough, but\nher ignorance of the intricacies of a European woman's toilette was\nvery apparent, and constantly provoked in her a girlish giggle that\nchanged hurriedly to a startled gravity when Diana looked at her.\nLaughter was very far from Diana, but she could not help smiling now\nand again at her funny mistakes.\n\nThe girl, with her big, wondering eyes, her shy, hesitating French and\nchildish curiosity, in some indefinable way gave back to Diana the\nself-control that had slipped from her. Her pride reasserted itself,\nrigidly suppressing any sign of feeling or emotion that could be\nnoticed by the gentle, inquisitive eyes fixed on her.\n\nThe hot bath that took the soreness out of her limbs brought back the\ncolour to her face and lips. She even tubbed her head, rubbing the\nglistening curls dry with fierce vigour, striving to rid herself of the\ncontamination that seemed to have saturated her. Yet the robes against\nwhich they had been pressed were spotless, and the hands that had held\nher were fastidiously clean, even to the well-kept nails.\n\nShe came back into the bedroom to find Zilah on her knees poring over\nher scanty but diverse wardrobe with bewilderment, fingering the\nevening dresses with shy hands, and finally submitting tentatively to\nDiana the tweed skirt that had been packed with her other things for\nthe journey when Oran should be reached. But Diana put it aside, and\npointed to the riding clothes she had worn the previous day. In them\nshe felt more able to face what might be before her, the associations\nconnected with them seemed to give her moral strength, in them she\nwould feel herself again--Diana the boy, not the shivering piece of\nwomanhood that had been born with tears and agony last night. She bit\nher lip as she stamped her foot down into the long boot.\n\nShe sent the girl away at last, and noticed that she avoided passing\ninto the adjoining room, but vanished instead through the curtains\nleading into the bathroom. Did that mean that in the outer room the\nArab Sheik was waiting? The thought banished the self-control she had\nregained and sent her weakly on to the side of the bed with her face\nhidden in her hands. Was he there? Her questions to the little\nwaiting-girl had only been concerned with the whereabouts of the camp\nto which she had been brought and also of the fate of the caravan; of\nthe man himself she had not been able to bring herself to speak. The\nstrange fear that he had inspired in her filled her with rage and\nhumiliation. The thought of seeing him again brought a shame that was\nunspeakable. But she conquered the agitation that threatened to grow\nbeyond restraint, pride helping her again. It was better to face the\ninevitable of her own free will than be fetched whether she would or\nnot. For she knew now the strength of the man who had abducted her,\nknew that physically she was helpless against him. She raised her head\nand listened. It was very silent in the next room. Perhaps she was to\nbe allowed a further respite. She jerked her head impatiently at her\nown hesitation. \"Coward!\" she whispered again contemptuously, and flung\nacross the room. But at the curtains she halted for a moment, then with\nset face drew them aside and went through.\n\nThe respite had been granted, the room appeared to be empty. But as she\ncrossed the thick rugs her heart leapt suddenly into her throat, for\nshe became aware of a man standing in the open doorway. His back was\nturned to her, but in a moment she saw that the short, slim figure in\nwhite linen European clothes bore no resemblance to the tall Arab she\nhad expected to see. She thought her footsteps were noiseless, but he\nturned with a little quick bow. A typical Frenchman with narrow, alert,\nclean-shaven face, sleek black hair and dark restless eyes. His legs\nwere slightly bowed and he stooped a little; his appearance was that of\na jockey with the manners of a well-trained servant. Diana coloured\nhotly under his glance, but his eyes were lowered instantly.\n\n\"Madame is doubtless ready for lunch.\" He spoke rapidly, but his voice\nwas low and pleasant. His movements were as quick and as quiet as his\nvoice, and in a dream Diana found herself in a few moments before a\nlunch that was perfectly cooked and daintily served. The man hovered\nabout her solicitously, attending to her wants with dexterous hands and\nwatchful eyes that anticipated every need. She was bewildered, faint\nfrom want of food, everything seemed unreal. For the moment she could\njust sit still and be waited on by the soft-footed, soft-spoken\nmanservant who seemed such a curious adjunct to the household of an\nArab chief.\n\n\"Monseigneur begs that you will excuse him until this evening. He will\nreturn in time for dinner,\" he murmured as he handed her a cous-cous.\n\nDiana looked up blankly. \"Monseigneur?\"\n\n\"My master. The Sheik.\"\n\nShe flushed scarlet and her face hardened. Hypocritical, Oriental beast\nwho \"begged to be excused\"! She refused the last dish curtly, and as\nthe servant carried it away she propped her elbows on the table and\nrested her aching head on her hands. A headache was among the new\nexperiences that had overwhelmed her since the day before. Suffering in\nany form was new to her, and her hatred of the man who had made her\nsuffer grew with every breath she drew.\n\nThe Frenchman came back with coffee and cigarettes. He held a match for\nher, coaxing the reluctant flame with patience that denoted long\nexperience with inferior sulphur.\n\n\"Monseigneur dines at eight. At what hour will Madame have tea?\" he\nasked, as he cleared away and folded up the table.\n\nDiana choked back the sarcastic retort that sprang to her lips. The\nman's quiet, deferential manner, that refused to see anything\nextraordinary in her presence in his master's camp, was almost harder\nto bear than flagrant impertinence would have been. That she could have\ndealt with; this left her tingling with a feeling of impotence, as if a\nnet were gradually closing round her in whose entangling meshes her\nvaunted liberty was not only threatened, but which seemed destined even\nto stifle her very existence. She pulled her racing thoughts up with a\njerk. She must not think if she was going to keep any hold over herself\nat all. She gave him an answer indifferently and turned her back on\nhim. When she looked again he was gone, and she heaved a sigh of\nrelief. She had chafed under his watchful eyes until the feeling of\nrestraint had grown unbearable.\n\nShe breathed more freely now that he was gone, flinging up her head and\njerking her shoulders back with an angry determination to conquer the\nfear that made her ashamed. Natural curiosity had been struggling with\nher other emotions, and she gave way to it now to try and turn the\nchannel of her thoughts from the fixed direction in which they tended,\nand wandered round the big room. The night before she had taken in\nnothing of her surroundings, her eyes had been held only by the man who\nhad dominated everything. Here, also, were the same luxurious\nappointments as in the sleeping-room. She had knowledge enough to\nappreciate that the rugs and hangings were exquisite, the former were\nPersian and the latter of a thick black material, heavily embroidered\nin silver. The main feature of the room was a big black divan heaped\nwith huge cushions covered with dull black silk. Beside the divan,\nspread over the Persian rugs, were two unusually large black bearskins,\nthe mounted heads converging. At one end of the tent was a small\ndoorway, a little portable writing-table. There were one or two Moorish\nstools heaped with a motley collection of ivories and gold and silver\ncigarette cases and knick-knacks, and against the partition that\nseparated the two rooms stood a quaintly carved old wooden chest.\nThough the furniture was scanty and made the tent seem even more\nspacious than it really was, the whole room had an air of barbaric\nsplendour. The somber hangings gleaming with thick silver threads\nseemed to Diana like a studied theatrical effect, a setting against\nwhich the Arab's own white robes should contrast more vividly; she\nremembered the black and silver waistcloth she had seen swathed round\nhim, with curling scornful lip. There was a strain of vanity in all\nnatives, she generalised contemptuously. Doubtless it pleased this\nnative's conceit to carry out the colour scheme of his tent even in his\nclothes, and pose among the sable cushions of the luxurious divan to\nthe admiration of his retainers. She made a little exclamation of\ndisgust, and turned from the soft seductiveness of the big couch with\ndisdain.\n\nShe crossed the tent to the little bookcase and knelt beside it\ncuriously. What did a Francophile-Arab read? Novels, probably, that\nwould harmonise with the atmosphere that she dimly sensed in her\nsurroundings. But it was not novels that filled the bookcase. They were\nbooks of sport and travel with several volumes on veterinary surgery.\nThey were all in French, and had all been frequently handled, many of\nthem had pencilled notes in the margins written in Arabic. One shelf\nwas filled entirely with the works of one man, a certain Vicomte Raoul\nde Saint Hubert. With the exception of one novel, which Diana only\nglanced at hastily; they were all books of travel. From the few\nscribbled words in the front of each Diana could see that they had all\nbeen sent to the Arab by the author himself--one even was dedicated to\n\"My friend, Ahmed Ben Hassan, Sheik of the Desert.\" She put the books\nback with a puzzled frown. She wished, with a feeling that she could\nnot fathom, that they had been rather what she had imagined. The\nevidence of education and unlooked-for tastes in the man they belonged\nto troubled her. It was an unexpected glimpse into the personality of\nthe Arab that had captured her was vaguely disquieting, for it\nsuggested possibilities that would not have existed in a raw native, or\none only superficially coated with a veneer of civilisation. He seemed\nto become infinitely more sinister, infinitely more horrible. She\nlooked at her watch with sudden apprehension. The day was wearing away\nquickly. Soon he would come. Her breath came quick and short and the\ntears welled up in her eyes.\n\n\"I mustn't! I mustn't!\" she whispered in a kind of desperation. \"If I\ncry again I shall go mad.\" She forced them back, and crossing to the\nbig black divan that she had scorned before dropped down among the soft\ncushions. She was so tired, and her head throbbed persistently.\n\nShe was asleep when the servant brought tea, but she started up as he\nput the tray on a stool beside her.\n\n\"It is Madame's own tea. If she will be good enough to say if it is\nmade to her taste,\" he said anxiously, as if his whole happiness was\ncontained in the tiny teapot at which he was frowning deprecatingly.\n\nHis assiduity jarred on Diana's new-found jangling nerves. She\nrecognised that he was sincere in his efforts to please her, but just\nnow they only seemed an added humiliation. She longed to shout \"Go\naway!\" like an angry schoolboy, but she managed to give him the\ninformation he wanted, and putting cigarettes and matches by her he\nwent out with a little smile of satisfaction. The longing for fresh air\nand the desire to see what place she had been brought to grew\nirresistible as the evening came nearer. She went to the open doorway.\nA big awning stretched before it, supported on lances. She stepped out\nfrom under its shade and looked about her wonderingly. It was a big\noasis--bigger than any she had seen. In front of the tent there was an\nopen space with a thick belt of palm trees beyond. The rest of the camp\nlay behind the Chief's tent. The place was alive with men and horses.\nThere were some camels in the distance, but it was the horses that\nstruck Diana principally. They were everywhere, some tethered; some\nwandering loose, some exercising in the hands of grooms. Mounted Arabs\non the outskirts of the oasis crossed her view occasionally. There were\ngroups of men engaged on various duties all around her. Those who went\nby near her salaamed as they passed, but took no further notice of her.\nA strange look came into Diana's eyes. This was the desert indeed, the\ndesert as she had never expected to see it, the desert as few could\nexpect to see it. But the cost! She shuddered, then turned at a sudden\nnoise near her. A biting, screaming chestnut fury was coming past close\nto the tent, taking complete charge of the two men who clung, yelling,\nto his head. He was stripped, but Diana recognised him at once. The one\nbrief view she had had of his small, vicious head as he shot past her\nelbow the evening before was written on her brain for all time. He came\nto a halt opposite Diana, refusing to move, his ears laid close to his\nhead, quivering all over, snatching continually at his grooms, who\nseemed unable to cope with him. Once he swung up on his hind legs and\nhis cruel teeth flashed almost into the face of one of the men, who was\ntaken off his guard, and who dropped on to the ground, rolling out of\nthe way with a howl that provoked a shout of laughter from a knot of\nArabs who had gathered to watch the usual evening eccentricities of the\nchestnut. The French servant, coming from behind the tent, stopped to\nspeak to the man as he picked himself up and made a grab at the horse's\nhead, and then turned to Diana with his pleasant smile.\n\n\"He is rightly named Shaitan, Madame, for he is assuredly possessed of\na devil,\" he said, indicating the chestnut, who, at that moment, with a\nviolent plunge, broke away from the men who were holding him and headed\nfor the edge of the oasis with the Arabs streaming after him. \"The\nmounted men will catch him,\" he added with a little laugh, in response\nto Diana's exclamation.\n\n\"Is he amusing himself, or is it really vice?\" she asked.\n\n\"Pure vice, Madame. He has killed three men.\"\n\nDiana looked at him incredulously, for his tone was casual and his\nmanner did not indicate any undue feeling.\n\n\"He ought to be shot,\" she said indignantly.\n\nThe man shrugged. \"Monseigneur is fond of him,\" he said quietly.\n\nAnd so because Monseigneur was fond of him the vicious animal was\nsurrounded with every care that his master's pleasure might not be\ninterfered with. Evidently the lives of his wretched people were of\nless value to him than that of a favourite horse. It sounded compatible\nwith the mercilessness she had herself experienced. What she would not\nhave believed yesterday to-day seemed terribly credible. The courage\nthat the relief of his absence brought back was sinking fast, as fast\nas the red ball glowing in the heavens was sinking down towards the\nhorizon. She turned from her own fearful thoughts to look at some more\nhorses that were being led away to the lines on the other side of the\ncamp.\n\n\"The horses are magnificent, but they are bigger than any Arabs I have\nseen before.\"\n\n\"They are a special breed, Madame,\" replied the Frenchman. \"The tribe\nhas been famous for them for generations. Monseigneur's horses are\nknown through all the Barbary States, and as far as France,\" he added,\nwith a little accent of pride creeping into his voice.\n\nDiana looked at him speculatively. There was an inflection in his voice\neach time he mentioned his master that indicated a devotion that she\nwas unable to accredit to the brute for whose treatment she was still\nsuffering. But her thoughts were broken into abruptly.\n\n\"There is Monseigneur,\" said the servant suddenly. He spoke as if she,\ntoo, must be glad of his coming. Did the valet imagine for one moment\nthat she was here of her own free will? Or was it all a part of the\nhypocrisy in which she seemed to be enveloped? She flashed one glance\nat the horseman riding through the belt of trees that fringed the oasis\nand an icy perspiration chilled her from head to foot. She shrank back\nunder the awning and into the coolness of the tent, raging against the\nmastering fear that she could not overcome. But just inside the open\ndoorway she stood firm; even her fear could make her go no further. She\nwould meet him here, not cowering into the inner room like a trembling\ncreature skulking in the furthest corner of its cage. That much pride\nat least was left.\n\nFrom the shelter of the tent she watched the troop arrive at the open\nspace before her. The horse the Sheik was riding was jet black, and\nDiana looked from the beautiful creature's satiny coat to the man's\nwhite robes with angry contempt.\n\n\"Black and white! Black and white! Mountebank!\" she muttered through\nher clenched teeth. Then as he swung to the ground every thought fell\nfrom her but the terror he inspired. She waited, breathless, the swift\nracing of her heart an actual physical pain.\n\nHe lingered, fondling the great black horse, and even after it had been\nled away he stood looking after it, talking to a tall young Arab who\nhad ridden in with him. At last he turned and came leisurely towards\nthe tent. He paused at the door to speak to the Frenchman, a\npicturesque, barbaric figure, with flowing robes and great white cloak,\nthe profile of his lean face clean cut against the evening sky, the\nhaughty poise of his head emphasised by the attitude in which he was\nstanding, arrogant, dominating. He moved his hands when he spoke with\nquick, expressive gestures, but his voice was slow and soft, pitched in\na deep musical key, but with all its softness unmistakably\nauthoritative. He pointed with outstretched, steady hand to something\nbeyond her line of vision, and as he turned to enter the tent he\nlaughed softly, and she shivered involuntarily. Then he swept in, and\nshe drew back from him with lowered eyes. She would not look at him;\nshe would not meet his look. His presence was an offence, she was\nscorched with shame. Every fibre of her being cried out in protest at\nhis proximity. She wished with passionate fierceness that she could\ndie. She shook feverishly and caught her quivering lip between her\nteeth to keep it still, and the red-gold curls lay wet against her\nforehead. Her breast heaved stormily with the rapid beating of her\nheart, but she held herself proudly erect. He crossed the tent with a\nlong noiseless stride.\n\n\"I hope that Gaston took care of you properly and gave you everything\nthat you wanted?\" he said easily, stooping to a little table to light a\ncigarette. The coolness of his words and manner were like a dash of\ncold water. She had been prepared for anything but this calm\nnonchalance in a situation that was intolerable. His tone conveyed the\nperfunctory regret of a host for an unavoidable absence. Her fear gave\nway to rage, her body stiffened, her hands clenched.\n\n\"Is it not time that this ended? Haven't you done enough?\" she burst\nout passionately. \"Why have you committed this outrage?\"\n\nA thin thread of smoke drifted towards her, as if the hand holding the\ncigarette had moved in her direction in one of the gestures that she\nhad noticed outside, but there was no answer. His silence infuriated\nher and she grew utterly reckless.\n\n\"Do you think that you can keep me here, you fool? That I can vanish\ninto the desert and no notice be taken of my disappearance--that no\ninquiries will be made?\"\n\n\"There will be no inquiries,\" he answered calmly.\n\nShe ground the heel of her boot into the soft carpet. \"There\n_will_ be inquiries,\" she choked furiously. \"I am not such a\nnonentity that nothing will be done when I am missed. The English\nauthorities will make the French Government find out who is\nresponsible, and you will have to pay for what you have done.\"\n\nHe laughed--the little amused laugh that sent the same cold feeling of\ndread through her that she had felt the day before.\n\n\"The French Government has no jurisdiction over me. I am not subject to\nit. I am an independent chief, my own master. I recognise no\ngovernment. My tribe obey me and only me.\"\n\nHer shaking fingers found the handkerchief for which they were groping,\nand she wiped the moisture that had gathered on the palms of her hands.\n\n\"When I am missed----\" she began desperately, trying to keep a bold\nfront, but her assurance was leaving her.\n\n\"You will not be missed for so long that it will be too late,\" he\nreplied drily.\n\n\"Too late! What do you mean?\" she gasped.\n\n\"Your own plans will stop any possibility of inquiry for some time to\ncome.\" He paused, and behind her, Diana heard him strike another match.\nThe banal little incident nearly snapped her nerves that were stretched\nto breaking-point. She put her hands to her head to try and stop the\nthrobbing in her temples.\n\n\"You engaged a caravan in charge of Mustafa Ali,\" he went on evenly,\n\"to travel in the desert for a month. You set out from Biskra, but your\nintention was at the end of the time to travel northward to Oran and\nthere dismiss the caravan. From there you were to cross to Marseilles,\nthen to Cherbourg, where you would embark for America to follow your\nbrother, who has already started.\"\n\nShe listened breathlessly with an ever-increasing fear growing in her\neyes. The slow, casual voice detailing her itinerary with the quiet\ncertainty of perfect knowledge filled her with a terror that made her\nwant to scream. She swayed a little as she stood, her eyes fixed on the\nendless strip of desert and gold-flecked sky visible through the\nopening of the tent, but she saw nothing of the undulating sand, nor\nthe red glory of the setting sun.\n\n\"How do you know--all--this?\" she whispered with dry lips that\ntrembled.\n\n\"I wished to know. It was quite simple.\" The answer was given\ncarelessly, and again the thin thread of smoke drifted across her face.\n\nHer anger flamed up again. \"Is it money that you want? Are you holding\nme for ransom?\" But her scornful voice faltered and died away on the\nlast word, and it did not need his silence to convince her that it was\nno question of ransom. She had only spoken to try and stifle the inner\nconviction that grew despite her efforts to crush it. Her hands were\nlocked together tightly, her eyes still staring out unseeing at the\nwonderful sunset. She felt dazed, hopeless, like a fugitive who has\nturned into a cul-de-sac, hemmed in on every side; there seemed no way\nout, no loophole of escape. She wrung her hands convulsively and a\ngreat shudder shook her. Then in her despair a faint ray of hope came.\n\n\"Mustafa Ali, or one of the caravan men may have given the alarm\nalready in Biskra--if you have not--murdered them all,\" she whispered\njerkily.\n\n\"I have not murdered them all,\" he rejoined shortly, \"but Mustafa Ali\nwill not give any alarm in Biskra.\"\n\n\"Why?\" She tried to keep silent, but the question was forced from her,\nand she waited tense for his answer. Tales of ruthless Arab cruelty\nsurged through her mind. What had been the fate of the unfortunate\ncaravan leader? Her eyes closed and her throat grew dry.\n\n\"There was no need for any murder,\" he continued sarcastically. \"When\nyou come to know me better you will realise that I do not leave too\nmuch to chance. 'All things are with Allah, blessed be his name.' Good!\nBut it is well to remember that Allah does not always concern himself\nwith the affairs of men, and arrange accordingly. If I had left this\naffair to chance there might very easily have been, as you suggest,\nmurder done--though we do not call it murder in the desert. It was very\nsimple. _Voyons_! You paid Mustafa Ali well to guide you in the\ndesert. I paid him better to lead you to me. I paid him well enough to\nmake him content to remove himself from Biskra, where awkward questions\nmight be asked, to another sphere of usefulness where he is not known,\nand where he can build up for himself a new reputation as a caravan\nleader.\"\n\nThere was another silence and her hands went groping to her throat. It\nhad been no chance affair then--no accidental meeting that the Arab\nchief had turned to his own account, but an organised outrage that had\nbeen carefully planned from the beginning. From the very outset she had\nbeen a dupe. She ground her teeth with rage. Her suave, subservient\nguide had been leading her the whole time, not in the direction that\nhad been mapped out in Biskra, but towards the man who had bought him\nto betray his trust. Mustafa Ali's shifting eyes, his desire to hurry\nher from the oasis where they had rested at mid-day, his tone were all\nexplained. He had acted well. The last touch--the imaginary wound that\nhad toppled him slowly out of his saddle had been a masterpiece, she\nreflected bitterly. Nothing had been omitted to make the attempt a\nsuccess. The horse that had been given her to ride was the Sheik's\nbeyond all doubt, trained to his whistle. Even her revolver had been\ntampered with. She had not missed, as she had thought. She remembered\nthe noise, the fleeting vision she had had in the hotel at Biskra. It\nhad been some one in her room, Mustafa Ali himself, or one of his men,\nwho had stolen in and substituted the blank cartridges. The possibility\nof Aubrey changing his mind and accompanying her must also have been\nthought of, for the Sheik had provided against the resistance that\nwould certainly have then been made by the number of followers he had\nbrought with him--a large enough force to frustrate easily any\nattempted opposition to the attack.\n\nThe net that she had felt closing round her earlier in the afternoon\nseemed wrapped round her now inextricably, drawing tighter and tighter,\nsmothering her. She gasped for breath. The sinking sun seemed suddenly\nto leap up wildly into the heavens; then she pulled herself together\nwith a tremendous effort. \"Why have you done this?\" she murmured\nfaintly.\n\nThen for a moment her heart stood still, her eyes dilating. He had come\nclose behind her, and she waited in an agony, until he caught her to\nhim, crushing her against him, forcing her head back on his arm.\n\n\"Because I wanted you. Because one day in Biskra, four weeks ago, I saw\nyou for a few moments, long enough to know that I wanted you. And what\nI want I take. You played into my hands. You arranged a tour in the\ndesert. The rest was easy.\"\n\nHer eyes were shut, the long dark lashes quivering on her pale cheeks\nso that she could not see his face, but she felt him draw her closer to\nhim and then his fierce kisses on her mouth. She struggled frantically,\nbut she was helpless, and he laughed softly as he kissed her lips, her\nhair, her eyes passionately. He stood quite still, but she felt the\nheavy beating of his heart under her cheek, and understood dimly the\npassion that she had aroused in him. She had experienced his tremendous\nstrength. She realised from what he had told her that he recognised no\nlaw beyond his own wishes, and was prepared to go to any lengths to\nfulfil them. She knew that her life was in his hands, that he could\nbreak her with his lean brown fingers like a toy is broken, and all at\nonce she felt pitifully weak and frightened. She was utterly in his\npower and at his mercy--the mercy of an Arab who was merciless.\n\nShe gave in suddenly, lying quiet in his arms. She had touched the\nlowest depths of degradation; he could do nothing more to her than he\nhad done. For the moment she could fight no further, she was worn out\nand utterly weary. A numb feeling of despair came over her and with it\na sense of unreality, as if it were a hideous nightmare from which she\nwould wake, for the truth seemed too impossible, the setting too\ntheatrical. The man himself was a mystery. She could not reconcile him\nand the barbaric display in which he lived with the evidences of\nrefinement and education that the well-worn books in the tent evinced.\nThe fastidious ordering of his appointments puzzled her; it was strange\nto find in such a place. A dozen incongruities that she had noticed\nduring the day crowded into her recollection until her head reeled. She\nturned from them wearily; she was too tired to think, too spent in mind\nand body. And with the despair a kind of indifference stole over her.\nShe had suffered so much that nothing more mattered.\n\nThe strong arms around her tightened slowly. \"Look at me,\" he said in\nthe soft slow voice that seemed habitual to him, and which contrasted\noddly with the neat, clipping French that he spoke. She shivered and\nher dark lashes flickered for a moment. \"Look at me.\" His voice was\njust as slow, just as soft, but into it had crept an inflection that\nwas unmistakable.\n\nTwenty-four hours ago Diana Mayo had not known the meaning of the word\nfear, and had never in all her life obeyed any one against her\ninclination, but in twenty-four hours she had lived through years of\nemotions. For the first time she had pitted her will against a will\nthat was stronger than her own, for the first time she had met an\narrogance that was greater and a determination that was firmer than\nhers. For the first time she had met a man who had failed to bow to her\nwishes, whom a look had been powerless to transform into a willing\nslave. In a few hours that had elapsed she had learned fear, a terrible\nfear that left her sick with apprehension, and she was learning\nobedience. Obedient now, she forced herself to lift her eyes to his,\nand the shamed blood surged slowly into her cheeks. His dark,\npassionate eyes burnt into her like a hot flame. His encircling arms\nwere like bands of fire, scorching her. His touch was torture.\nHelpless, like a trapped wild thing, she lay against him, panting,\ntrembling, her wide eyes fixed on him, held against their will.\nFascinated she could not turn them away, and the image of the brown,\nhandsome face with its flashing eyes, straight, cruel mouth and strong\nchin seemed searing into her brain. The faint indefinite scent of an\nuncommon Turkish tobacco clung about him, enveloping her. She had been\nconscious of the same scent the previous day when he had held her in\nhis arms during the wild ride across the desert.\n\nHe smiled down at her suddenly. \"_Bon Dieu_! Do you know how\nbeautiful you are?\" he murmured. But the sound of his voice seemed to\nbreak a spell that had kept her dumb. She struggled again to free\nherself.\n\n\"Let me go!\" she cried piteously, and it was her complete immunity from\nhim that she prayed for, but he chose wilfully to misunderstand her.\nThe passion faded from his eyes, giving place to a gleam of mockery.\n\n\"There is plenty of time. Gaston is the most discreet servant. We shall\nhear him when he comes,\" he said with a low laugh.\n\nBut she persisted with the courage of desperation. \"When will you let\nme go?\"\n\nWith an exclamation of impatience he put her from him roughly, and\ngoing to the divan flung himself down on the cushions, lit another\ncigarette and picked up a magazine that was lying on an inlaid stool\nbeside him.\n\nShe bit her lips to keep back the hysterical sobs that rose in her\nthroat, nerving herself with clenched hands, and followed him. \"You\n_must_ tell me. I _must_ know. When will you let me go?\"\n\nHe turned a page with deliberation, and flicked the ash from his\ncigarette before looking up. A heavy scowl gathered on his face, and\nhis eyes swept her from head to foot with a slow scrutiny that made her\nshrink. \"When I am tired of you,\" he said coldly.\n\nShe shuddered violently and turned away with a little moan, stumbling\nblindly towards the inner room, but as she reached the curtains his\nvoice arrested her. He had thrown aside the magazine and was lying back\non the divan, his long limbs stretched out indolently, his hands\nclasped behind his head.\n\n\"You make a very charming boy,\" he said lightly, with a faint smile,\n\"but it was not a boy that I saw in Biskra. You understand?\"\n\nBeyond the curtains she stood a moment, shaking all over, her face\nhidden in her hands, able to relax a little the hold she was keeping on\nherself. Yes! She understood, plainly enough. The understanding had\nalready been forced upon her. It was an order from one who was prepared\nto compel his commands, to make herself more attractive with all that\nit implied in the eyes of the man who held her in his power and who\nlooked at her as no other man had ever dared to look, with appraising\ncriticism that made her acutely conscious of her sex, that made her\nfeel like a slave exposed for sale in a public market.\n\nShe must take off the boyish clothes that somehow seemed to lend her\ncourage and substitute, to gratify the whim of the savage in the next\nroom, the womanly dress that revealed more intimately the slender lines\nof her figure and intensified the uncommon beauty of her face.\n\nShe went to the dressing table with lagging feet and stared resentfully\nat the white face and haggard eyes that looked back at her from the\nmirror. It was like the face of a stranger. Aubrey's words came back to\nher with an irony that was horrible. To-night she did not dress to\nplease herself. Her face was set, her eyes almost black with rage, but\nbehind the rage there was lurking apprehension. She started at every\nsound that came from the adjoining room. Her fingers, wet with\nperspiration, seemed almost unable to fulfil their task. She hated him,\nshe hated herself, she hated her beauty that had brought this horror\nupon her. She would have rebelled if she had dared, but instinctively\nshe hurried--fear had already driven her so far. But when she was ready\nshe did not move from the table beside which she stood. Fear had forced\nher to haste, but her still struggling pride would not permit her to\nobey her fear any further. She raised her eyes to the glass again,\nglowering angrily at the pale reflection, and the old obstinacy mingled\nwith the new pain that filled them. Must she endure his mocking glance\nwith chalk-like cheeks and eyes like a beaten hound? Had she not even\ncourage enough left to hide the fear that filled her with\nself-contempt? The wave of anger that went through her rushed the\ncolour into her face and she leaned nearer the glass with a little\nmurmur of satisfaction that stopped abruptly as her fingers gripped the\nedge of the table, and she continued staring into the mirror not at her\nown face, but at the white robes that appeared behind her head,\nblotting out the limited view she had had of the room.\n\nThe Sheik was standing behind her. He had come with the peculiar\nnoiseless tread that she had noticed before. He swung her round to look\nat her and she writhed under his eyes of admiration, straining from him\nas far as his grip allowed. Holding her with one hand he took her chin\nin the other and tilted her face up to his with a little smile. \"Don't\nlook so frightened. I don't want anything more deadly than some soap\nand water. Surely even an Arab may be allowed to wash his hands?\"\n\nHis mocking voice and his taunt of fear stung her, but she would not\nanswer and, with a laugh and a shrug, he lot her go, picking up a razor\nfrom the table and lounging into the bathroom.\n\nWith crimson cheeks Diana fled into the outer room, His manner could\nnot have been more casual if she had been his wife a dozen years. She\nwaited for him in a tumult of emotions, but with the advent of Gaston\nand dinner he returned to the attitude of dispassionate, courteous host\nthat he had assumed when he first came in. He was a few minutes late,\nand apologised gravely as he sat down opposite her. He maintained the\nattitude throughout dinner, and conscious of the watching manservant\nDiana made herself reply to his easy conversation.\n\nHe talked mainly of the desert and the sport that it offered, as if he\nhad studied her tastes and chosen the topic to please her. He spoke\nwell; what he said was interesting, and showed complete knowledge of\nthe subject, and at any other time Diana would have listened fascinated\nand absorbed, but now the soft, slow, cultured voice only seemed to add\nto the incongruity of the situation. The role of willing guest that he\nwas forcing upon her was almost more than she could play, and the\nnecessity of sitting still and responding was taxing her endurance to\nthe utmost. And all the time she was aware acutely of his constant\nsurveillance. Reluctantly her own furtive glance was drawn frequently\nto his face, and always his dark fierce eyes were watching her with a\nsteadiness that racked her nerves, till she was reminded irresistibly\nof an exhibition that she had seen in a circus in Vienna, where a lion\ntamer had concluded an unusually daring performance by dining in the\nlions' cage, surrounded by savage snarling brutes very different from\nthe sleepy half-drugged creatures ordinarily shown. Interested in the\nanimals, she had gone behind with Aubrey after the performance, and\nwhile fondling some tiny lion cubs that had been brought for her to see\nhad chatted with the tamer, a girl little older than herself. She had\nbeen somewhat unapproachable until she had realised from Diana's\nfriendly manner that her questions were prompted by real interest and\nnot mere curiosity, and had unbent with surprising swiftness, accepting\nDiana's proffered cigarettes and taking her to see her special lions,\nwho were boxed for the night. Diana had wandered up and down before the\nnarrow cages, looking at the big brutes still restless from the show,\nrubbing her cheek on the soft little round head of the cub she was\nholding in her arms, smiling at its sleepy rasping purr.\n\n\"Are you ever afraid?\" she had asked suddenly--\"not of the ordinary\nperformance, but of that last act, when you dine all alone with them?\"\n\nThe girl shrugged her shoulders, blowing a little cloud of smoke into\nthe cub's face, and her eyes had met Diana's slowly over his little\nyellow body. \"One does not taste very much,\" she had said drily.\n\nAnd it was so with Diana. She had eaten mechanically everything that\nhad been put before her, but she had tasted nothing. She had one\nthought in her mind that excluded everything else--to hide from the\nprobing eyes that watched her ceaselessly the overmastering fear that\naugmented every moment. One thing she had noticed during the meal. For\nher only the servant poured out the light French wine that he had\nbrought. Her eyes wandered to the Sheik's empty glass, and meeting her\nglance he smiled, with a little inclination.\n\n\"Excuse me. I do not drink wine. It is my only virtue,\" he added, with\na sudden gleam leaping into his eyes that drove the blood into her\ncheeks and her own eyes on to her plate.\n\nShe had forgotten that he was an Arab.\n\nThe dinner seemed interminable, and yet she wished that it would never\nend. While the servant was in the room she was safe; the thought of his\ngoing sent a cold shudder through her. With the coffee came a huge\nPersian hound, almost upsetting the Frenchman in the entrance in his\nfrantic endeavour to precede him through the doorway. He flung his long\ngrey body across the Sheik's knees with a whine of pleasure and then\nturned his head to growl at Diana. But the growl died away quickly, and\nhe lumbered down and came to her side curiously, eyeing her for a\nmoment and then thrusting his big head against her.\n\nThe Sheik laughed. \"You are honoured. Kopec makes few friends.\"\n\nShe did not answer. The natural reply was almost certain to provoke a\nretort that she did not desire, so she remained silent, smoothing the\nhound's rough coat. With her heart turning slowly to lead she lingered\nover her coffee until there was no further possible pretext for\nremaining at the table, then rose with a short, sharp sigh.\n\nFor some minutes the Sheik had sat silent, his own coffee long since\nfinished. He made no comment when she got up, and went himself to the\nbig divan, followed by the hound, who had gone back to him as soon as\nhe moved.\n\nDiana turned to the little bookcase, snatching at the opportunity it\noffered for further silence, and took a book at random. She did not\nknow what she was looking at, she did not care. She only prayed\nfervently that she might be left alone, that the sudden silent fit that\nhad come over him might continue.\n\nNear her Gaston was clearing away the table and as he finished he\npaused to speak to his master. Diana heard the words \"le petit Sheik,\"\nbut the rest was in Arabic and unintelligible to her. The Sheik frowned\nwith a gesture of annoyance, then nodded, and the servant left the\ntent.\n\nA few moments after a voice that she had not heard before made her look\nup.\n\nThe young Arab who had ridden in with the Sheik was standing beside the\ndivan. The fierce eyes that were watching her every movement met hers,\nand his cigarette was waved towards the young man. \"My lieutenant,\nYusef, a son of the desert with the soul of a _flaneur._ His body\nis here with me, but his heart is on the _trottoirs_ of Algiers.\"\n\nThe tall lad laughed and salaamed profoundly, then straightened\nhimself, posing magnificently until a curt word from the Sheik recalled\nhim to his errand and his swagger changed swiftly to a deference of\nwhich the significance was not lost on Diana. The Arab might unbend to\nhis people if it so pleased him, but he kept them well in hand. She\nlooked at the lieutenant as he stood before his chief. He was tall and\nslender as a girl, with an air of languid indolence that was obviously\na pose, for it was slipping from him now fast as he talked. His face\nwas strikingly handsome, only saved from effeminacy by a firm chin. He\nwas patently aware of his good looks. But he was also patently in awe\nof his chief, and the news that he brought was apparently not welcome.\n\nThrough her thick lashes Diana watched them intently. The younger man\nvoluble, gesticulating, at times almost cringing. The Sheik silent,\nexcept for an occasional word, the heavy scowl back on his face,\ngrowing blacker every moment. At last with a shrug of impatience he got\nup and they went out together, the hound following them. Diana subsided\non to the thick rug beside the bookcase. For a moment again she was\nalone, free of the watching eyes that seemed to be burning into her all\nthe time, free of the hated proximity. She dropped her head on her\nknees with a little whimper of weariness. For a moment she need not\ncheck the tide of misery that rushed over her. She was tired in mind\nand body, exhausted with the emotion that had shaken her until she knew\nthat no matter what happened in the future the Diana of yesterday was\ndead, and her new self was strange and unfamiliar. She did not trust\nit; she feared its capacity for maintaining the struggle she had\nresolved upon. The old courageous self had never failed her, this new\nshrinking fearful personality filled her with distrust. Her confidence\nin herself was gone. Her contempt of herself was unutterable. The\nstrength that remained was not sufficient to conquer the fear that had\ntaken so strong a hold upon her. She could only hope to hide it, to\ndeny him at least that much satisfaction. She had grovelled at his feet\nonce and it had amused him. He had laughed! She would die rather than\nafford him a similar amusement. She could never wipe out the\nrecollection of her cowardice; he would remember always, and so would\nshe; but she could atone for it if her strength held. And she prayed\nthat it might hold, until a sob broke from her and her hands cramped\naround her knees. She pushed her hair off her forehead with a heavy\nsigh, and she looked back over her shoulder at the empty room. It had\nchanged since this morning in the indefinable way a strange room does\nchange after a few hours' association. If she could leave it now and\nnever see it again in all her life no single detail of it would ever be\nforgotten. Its characteristics had been stamped upon her as familiarly\nas if the hours passed in it had been years. And yesterday was years\nago, when the poor silly fool that had been Diana Mayo had ridden\nblindly into the trap from which her boasted independence had not been\nable to save her. She had paid heavily for the determination to ignore\nthe restrictions of her sex laid upon her and the payment was not yet\nover. Her tired body shrank from the struggle that must recommence so\nsoon. If he would only spare her until this numbing weariness that made\nher so powerless should lessen. She heard his voice at the door and her\nicy fingers grasped at the book that had slipped to the ground. The\nthick rugs deadened the sound of his movements, but she knew\ninstinctively that he had come in and gone back to the divan where he\nhad been sitting before. She knew that he was looking at her. She could\nfeel his eyes fixed on her and she quivered with the consciousness of\nhis stare. She waited, shivering, for him to speak or move. His methods\nof torture were diverse, she thought with dreary bitterness. Behind the\ntent in the men's lines a tom-tom was beating, and the irregular rhythm\nseemed hammering inside her own head. She could have shrieked with the\nagony of it.\n\n\"Come here--Diane.\"\n\nShe started, for a moment hardly recognising the Gallic rendering of\nher name, and then flushed angrily without answering or moving. It was\na very little thing to stir her after all that had been done, but the\nuse of her name flamed the anger that had been almost swamped in fear.\nThe proprietory tone in his voice roused all her inherent obstinacy.\nShe was not his to go at his call. What he wanted he must take--she\nwould never give voluntarily. She sat with her hands gripped tightly in\nher lap, breathing rapidly, her eyes dark with apprehension.\n\n\"Come here,\" he repeated sharply.\n\nStill she took no notice, but the face that he could not see was\ngrowing very white.\n\n\"I am not accustomed to having my orders disobeyed,\" he said at last,\nvery slowly.\n\n\"And I am not accustomed to obeying orders,\" she retorted fiercely,\nthough her lips were trembling.\n\n\"You will learn.\" The sinister accent of his voice almost shattered her\nremaining courage.\n\nShe crouched, gasping, on the ground, the same horrible terror that had\ncome to her last night stealing over her irresistibly, paralysing her.\nWaiting, listening, agonising, the tom-tom growing louder and\nlouder--or was it only the throbbing in her own head? With a choking\ncry she leaped to her feet suddenly and fled from him, back till the\nside of the tent stopped her and she stood, with wide-flung arms,\ngripping the black and silver hangings until he reached her.\n\nStooping he disengaged her clinging fingers from the heavy drapery and\ndrew her hands slowly together up to his breast with a little smile.\n\"Come,\" he whispered, his passionate eyes devouring her.\n\nShe fought against the fascination with which they dominated her,\nresisting him dumbly with tight-locked lips till he held her\npalpitating in his arms.\n\n\"Little fool,\" he said with a deepening smile. \"Better me than my men.\"\n\nThe gibe broke her silence.\n\n\"Oh, you brute! You brute!\" she wailed, until his kisses silenced her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n\"A month! Thirty-one days! Oh, God! Only thirty-one days. It seems a\nlifetime. Only a month since I left Biskra. A month! A month!\"\n\nDiana flung herself on to her face, burying her head deeply into the\ncushions of the divan, shutting out from her sight the barbaric luxury\nof her surroundings, shuddering convulsively. She did not cry. The\ncomplete breakdown of the first night had never been repeated. Tears of\nshame and anger had risen in her eyes often, but she would not let them\nfall. She would not give her captor the satisfaction of knowing that he\ncould make her weep. Her pride was dying hard. Her mind travelled back\nslowly over the days and nights of anguished revolt, the perpetual\nclash of will against will, the enforced obedience that had made up\nthis month of horror. A month of experience of such bitterness that she\nwondered dully how she still had the courage to rebel. For the first\ntime in her life she had had to obey. For the first time in her life\nshe was of no account. For the first time she had been made conscious\nof the inferiority of her sex. The training of years had broken down\nunder the experience. The hypothetical status in which she had stood\nwith regard to Aubrey and his friends was not tolerated here, where\nevery moment she was made to feel acutely that she was a woman, forced\nto submit to everything to which her womanhood exposed her, forced to\nendure everything that he might put upon her--a chattel, a slave to do\nhis bidding, to bear his pleasure and his displeasure, shaken to the\nvery foundation of her being with the upheaval of her convictions and\nthe ruthless violence done to her cold, sexless temperament. The\nhumiliation of it seared her proud heart. He was pitiless in his\narrogance, pitiless in his Oriental disregard of the woman subjugated.\nHe was an Arab, to whom the feelings of a woman were non-existent. He\nhad taken her to please himself and he kept her to please himself, to\namuse him in his moments of relaxation.\n\nTo Diana before she had come to Africa the life of an Arab Sheik in his\nnative desert had been a very visionary affair. The term sheik itself\nwas elastic. She had been shown Sheiks in Biskra who drove hard\nbargains to hire out mangy camels and sore-covered donkeys for trips\ninto the interior. Her own faithless caravan-leader had called himself\n\"Sheik.\" But she had heard also of other and different Sheiks who lived\nfar away across the shimmering sand, powerful chiefs with large\nfollowings, who seemed more like the Arabs of her imaginings, and of\nwhose lives she had the haziest idea. When not engaged in killing their\nneighbours she visualized them drowsing away whole days under the\ninfluence of narcotics, lethargic with sensual indulgence. The pictures\nshe had seen had been mostly of fat old men sitting cross-legged in the\nentrance of their tents, waited on by hordes of retainers, and looking\nlanguidly, with an air of utter boredom, at some miserable slave being\nbeaten to death.\n\nShe had not been prepared for the ceaseless activity of the man whose\nprisoner she was. His life was hard, strenuous and occupied. His days\nwere full, partly with the magnificent horses that he bred, and partly\nwith tribal affairs that took him from the camp for hours at a time.\nUpon one or two occasions he had been away for the whole night and had\ncome back at daybreak with all the evidences of hard riding. Some days\nshe rode with him, but when he had not the time or the inclination, the\nFrench valet went with her. A beautiful grey thoroughbred called Silver\nStar was kept for her use, and sometimes on his back she was able to\nforget for a little time. So the moments of relaxation were less\nfrequent than they might have been, and it was only in the evenings\nwhen Gaston had come and gone for the last time and she was alone with\nthe Sheik that an icy hand seemed to close down over her heart. And,\naccording to his mood, he noticed or ignored her. He demanded implicit\nobedience to his lightest whim with the unconscious tyranny of one who\nhad always been accustomed to command. He ruled his unruly followers\ndespotically, and it was obvious that while they loved him they feared\nhim equally. She had even seen Yusef, his lieutenant, cringe from the\nheavy scowl that she had, herself, learned to dread.\n\n\"You treat them like dogs,\" she said to him once. \"Are you not afraid\nthat one day they will rise against you and murder you?\"\n\nAnd he had only shrugged his shoulders and laughed, the same low laugh\nof amusement that never failed to make her shiver.\n\nThe only person whose devotion seemed untinged by any conflicting\nsentiment was the French valet, Gaston.\n\nIt was the Sheik's complete indifference to everything beyond his own\nwill, his Oriental egoism, that stung her most. He treated her\nsupplications and invectives with a like unconcern. The paroxysms of\nwild rage that filled her periodically made no impression on him. He\naccorded them a shrug of ennui or watched her with cold curiosity, his\nlips parted in a little cruel smile, as if the dissection of her\nlacerated feelings amused him, until his patience was exhausted, and\nthen, with one of the lithe, quick movements that she could never\nevade, his hands would grip and hold her and he would look at her. Only\nthat, but in the grasp of his lean, brown fingers and under the stare\nof his dark, fierce eyes her own would drop, and the frantic words die\nfrom her lips. She was physically afraid of him, and she hated him and\nloathed herself for the fear he inspired. And her fear was legitimate.\nHis strength was abnormal, and behind it was the lawlessness and\nabsolutism that allowed free rein to his savage impulses. He held life\nand death in his hand.\n\nA few days after he had taken her she had seen him chastise a servant.\nShe did not know what the man's fault had been, but the punishment\nseemed out of all proportion to anything that could be imagined, and\nshe had watched fascinated with horror, until he had tossed away the\nmurderous whip, and without a second glance at the limp, blood-stained\nheap that huddled on the ground with suggestive stillness had strolled\nback unconcerned to the tent. The sight had sickened her and haunted\nher perpetually. His callousness horrified her even more than his\ncruelty. She hated him with all the strength of her proud, passionate\nnature. His personal beauty even was an additional cause of offence.\nShe hated him the more for his handsome face and graceful, muscular\nbody. His only redeeming virtue in her eyes was his total lack of\nvanity, which she grudgingly admitted. He was as unconscious of himself\nas was the wild animal with which she compared him.\n\n\"He is like a tiger,\" she murmured deep into the cushions, with a\nshiver, \"a graceful, cruel, merciless beast.\" She remembered a tiger\nshe had shot the previous winter in India. After hours of weary,\ncramped waiting in the machan the beautiful creature had slipped\nnoiselessly through the undergrowth and emerged into the clearing. He\nhad advanced midway towards the tree where she was perched and had\nstopped to listen, and the long, free stride, the haughty poise of the\nthrown-back head, the cruel curl of the lips and the glint in the\nferocious eyes flashing in the moonlight, were identical with the\nexpression and carriage of the man who was her master. Then it had been\nadmiration without fear, and she had hesitated at wantonly destroying\nso perfect a thing, until the quick pressure of her shikari's fingers\non her arm brought her back to facts and reminded her that the \"perfect\nthing\" was reported to have eaten a woman the previous week. And now it\nwas fear with a reluctant admiration that she despised herself for\naccording.\n\nA hand on her shoulder made her start up with a cry. Usually her nerves\nwere in better control, but the thick rugs deadened every sound, and\nshe had not expected him so soon. He had been out since dawn and had\ncome in much past his usual time, and had been having a belated siesta\nin the adjoining room.\n\nAngry with herself she bit her lip and pushed the tumbled hair off her\nforehead. He dropped on to the divan beside her and lit the inevitable\ncigarette; he smoked continuously every moment he was not in the\nsaddle. She glanced at him covertly. He was lying with his head thrown\nback against the cushions, idly blowing smoke-rings and watching them\ndrift towards the open door-way. And as she looked he yawned and turned\nto her.\n\n\"Zilah is careless. Insist that she puts away your boots, and does not\nleave your clothes lying on the floor. There was a scorpion in the\nbathroom to-day,\" he said lazily, stretching out his long legs.\n\nShe flushed hotly, as she always did when he made any casual reference\nto the intimacy of their life. It was his casualness that frightened\nher, the carelessly implied continuance of a state that scorched her\nwith shame. His attitude invariably suggested a duration of their\nrelations that left her numb with a kind of helpless despair. He was so\nsure of himself, so sure of his possession of her.\n\nShe felt the warm blood pouring over her face now, up to the roots of\nher bright hair and dyeing her slender neck, and she put her hands up\nto her head, her fingers thrust through her loose curls, to shield her\nface from his eyes.\n\nShe gave a sigh of relief when Gaston came in bringing a little tray\nwith two filigree-cased cups of coffee.\n\n\"I have brought coffee; Madame's tea is finished,\" he murmured in tones\nof deepest distress, and with a gesture that conveyed a national\ncalamity.\n\nThere had been just enough tea taken on the tour to last a month. It\nwas another pin-prick, another reminder. She set her teeth, moving her\nhead angrily, and found herself looking into a pair of mocking eyes,\nand, as always, her own dropped.\n\nGaston said a few words in Arabic to his master, and the Sheik\nswallowed the boiling coffee and went out hastily. The valet moved\nabout the tent with his usual deft noiselessness, gathering up\ncigarette ends and spent matches, and tidying the room with an\nassiduous orderliness that was peculiarly his own. Diana watched him\nalmost peevishly. Was it the influence of the desert that made all\nthese men cat-like in their movements, or was the servant consciously\nor unconsciously copying his master? With a sudden fit of childish\nirritability she longed to smash something, and, with an impetuous\nhand, sent the little inlaid table with the tray and coffee-cups\nflying. She was ashamed of the impulse even before the crash came, and\nlooked at Gaston clearing up the debris with anxious eyes. What was the\nmatter with her? The even temper on which she prided herself and the\nnerves that had been her boast had vanished, gone by the board in the\nlast month. If her nerve failed her utterly what would become of her?\nWhat would she do?\n\nGaston had gone, and she looked around the tent with a hunted\nexpression. There seemed no escape possible from the misery that was\nalmost more than she could bear.\n\nThere was a way out that had been in her mind often, and she had\nsearched frequently in the hope that she might find the means. But the\nSheik had also thought and had taken precautions. One day it seemed as\nif her desperate wish might be fulfilled, and she had had only a\nmoment's hesitation as she stretched out her hand to take the revolver\nthat had been left lying on a table, but as her fingers closed on the\nbutt a muscular hand closed over hers. He had come in with his usual\nsilent step and was close to her without her knowing. He had taken the\nweapon from her quietly, holding her eyes with his own, and had jerked\nit open, showing the empty magazine. \"Do you think that I am quite a\nfool?\" he had asked without a trace of expression in his voice.\n\nAnd since then she had been under a ceaseless, unobtrusive surveillance\nthat had left her no chance of carrying out her terrible resolve. She\nburied her face in her hands. \"Oh, my God! Is it never going to end? Am\nI never going to get away from him?\"\n\nShe sprang to her feet and walked restlessly round the tent, her hands\nclasped behind her back, her head thrown up, and her lips pressed close\ntogether. She panted as if she had been running, and her eyes had a\nfar-away, unseeing look. Gradually she got command of herself again and\nthe nervous excitement died down, leaving her weary and very desolate.\nThe solitude seemed suddenly horrible. Anything would be better than\nthe silent emptiness of the great tent. A noise outside attracted her,\nand she wandered to the doorway and out under the awning. Near her the\nSheik with Gaston and Yusef stood watching a mad, ramping colt that was\nbeing held with difficulty by two or three men, who clung to him\ntenaciously in spite of his efforts to break away, and beyond was a\nsemi-circle of Arabs, some mounted and some on foot, leaving a wide,\nopen space between them and the tent. They were intensely excited,\ntalking and gesticulating, the mounted men riding round the outer ring\nthat they formed. Diana leaned against one of the lances that supported\nthe awning and watched the scene with growing interest. This camp was\nmany miles to the south of the one to which she had first been brought,\nand which had been broken up a few days after her capture. The setting\nwas wonderful, the far-off hills dusky in the afternoon light, the\nclustering palms behind the tents, the crowd of barbaric figures in\npicturesque, white robes, the horsemen moving continuously up and down,\nand in the midst of everything the beautiful, wild creature, frenzied\nby the noise, kicking and biting at the men holding him. After a moment\nthe Sheik held up his hand, and a man detached himself from the\nchattering crowd and came to him salaaming. The Sheik said a few words,\nand with another salaam and a gleam of white teeth, the man turned and\napproached the struggling group in the centre of the ring.\n\nDiana straightened up with interest. The frantic colt was going to be\nbroken. It was already saddled. Several additional men ran forward, and\nbetween them the horse was forcibly held for a moment--only for a\nmoment, but it was long enough for the man who leaped like a flash on\nto his back. The others fell away, racing from the reach of the\nterrible lashing heels. Amazed for the moment at the sudden\nunaccustomed weight, the colt paused, and then reared straight up, till\nit seemed to Diana that he must fall backward and crush the man who was\nclinging to him. But he came down at last, and for a few moments it was\nalmost impossible to follow his spasmodic movements as he strove to rid\nhimself of his rider. The end came quickly. With a twisting heave of\nhis whole body he shot the Arab over his head, who landed with a dull\nthud and lay still, while the men who had been holding the colt dashed\nin and secured him before he was aware of his liberty. Diana looked\ntowards the fallen man; a little crowd were gathered around him, and\nher heart beat faster as she thought that he was dead. Dead so quickly,\nand only a moment before he had been so full of life and strength.\nDeath meant nothing to these savages, she thought bitterly, as she\nwatched the limp body being carried away by three or four men, who\nargued violently over their burden. She glanced at the Sheik. He seemed\nperfectly unconcerned and did not even look in the direction of the man\nwho had fallen. On the contrary, he laughed, and, turning to Yusef, put\nhis hand en his shoulder and nodded towards the colt. Diana gave a\ngasp. He spared no one. He was going to make the young man take his\nchance as the rough-rider had taken his. She knew that the lieutenant\nrode well, as did all Ahmed Ben Hassan's followers, and that his\nlanguid manner was only a pose, but he looked so young and boyish, and\nthe risk seemed enormous. She had seen colts broken before many times,\nbut never a colt so madly savage as this one. But to Yusef the chance\nwas evidently welcome. With an answering laugh, he swaggered out into\nthe arena, where the men greeted him with shouts. There was the same\nprocedure as before, and Yusef bounded up lightly into the saddle. This\ntime, instead of rearing, the frightened beast dashed forward in a wild\neffort to escape, but the mounted men, closing up, headed him into the\nmiddle of the ring again, and he went back to his first tactics with a\nrapidity that was too much for the handsome lad on his back, and in a\nfew moments he was thrown heavily. With a shrill scream the colt turned\non him open-mouthed, and Yusef flung up one arm to save his face. But\nthe men reached him in time, dragging the colt from him by main force.\nHe rose to his feet unsteadily and limped to the tents behind. Diana\ncould not see him easily for the throng around him.\n\nAgain she looked at the Sheik and ground her teeth. He was stooping to\nlight a cigarette from a match that Gaston was holding, and then they\nwalked together nearer to the colt. The animal was now thoroughly\nmaddened, and it was increasingly difficult to hold him. They went up\nclose to the struggling, yelling grooms, and the next minute Diana saw\nGaston sitting firmly in the empty saddle. The little man rode\nmagnificently, and put up a longer fight than the others had done, but\nat last his turn came, and he went flying over the colt's head. He came\ndown lightly on his hands and knees, and scrambled to his feet in an\ninstant amidst a storm of shouts and laughter. Laughing himself he came\nback to the Sheik with a shrug of the shoulders and outspread, eloquent\nhands. They spoke together for a moment, too low for Diana to hear, and\nthen Ahmed Ben Hassan went again into the middle of the ring. Diana's\nbreath came more quickly. She guessed his intention before he reached\nthe colt, and she moved forward from under the awning and joined\nGaston, who was wrapping his handkerchief round a torn hand.\n\n\"Monseigneur will try?\" she asked a little breathlessly.\n\nGaston looked at her quickly. \"Try, Madame?\" he repeated in a queer\nvoice. \"Yes, he will try.\"\n\nAgain the empty saddle was filled, and a curious hush came over the\nwatching crowd. Diana looked on with bright, hard eyes, her heart\nbeating heavily. She longed passionately that the colt might kill him,\nand, at the same time, illogically, she wanted to see him master the\ninfuriated animal. The sporting instinct in her acknowledged and\nresponded to the fight that was going on before her eyes. She hated him\nand she hoped that he might die, but she was forced to admire the\nwonderful horsemanship that she was watching. The Sheik sat like a\nrock, and every effort made to unseat him was unsuccessful. The colt\nplunged wildly, making furious blind dashes backward and forward,\nstopping dead in the hope of dislodging his rider, twirling round\nsuddenly until it seemed impossible that he could keep his feet. Then\nhe started rearing, straight up, his forelegs beating the air, higher\nand higher, and then down, to commence again without a moment's\nbreathing-space.\n\nDiana heard Gaston's breath whistle through his teeth. \"Look, Madame!\"\nhe cried sharply, and Diana saw the Sheik give a quick glance behind\nhim, and, as the colt shot up again, almost perpendicular, with a jerk\nhe pulled him deliberately over backwards, leaping clear with a\ntremendous effort as the horse crashed to the ground. He was in the\nsaddle again almost before the dazed creature had struggled to its\nfeet. And then began a scene that Diana never forgot. It was the final\nstruggle that was to end in defeat for either man or horse, and the\nSheik had decided that it was not to be for the man. It was a\npunishment of which the untamed animal was never to lose remembrance.\nThe savagery and determination of the man against the mad determination\nof the horse. It was a hideous exhibition of brute strength and\nmerciless cruelty. Diana was almost sick with horror from the\nbeginning; she longed to turn away, but her eyes clung fascinated to\nthe battle that was going on. The hush that had fallen on the crowd had\ngiven way to roars of excitement, and the men pressed forward eagerly,\nto give back precipitately when the still-fighting animal's heels\nflashed too near.\n\nDiana was shaking all over and her hands were clenching and unclenching\nas she stared at the man, who seemed a part of the horse he was sitting\nso closely. Would it never end? She did not care now which killed the\nother so that it would only stop. The man's endurance seemed mere\nbravado. She clutched Gaston's arms with a hand that was wringing wet.\n\"It is horrible,\" she gasped with an accent of loathing.\n\n\"It is necessary,\" he replied quietly.\n\n\"Nothing can justify that,\" she cried passionately.\n\n\"Your pardon, Madame. He must learn. He killed a man this morning,\nthrew him, and what you call in English 'savaged' him.\"\n\nDiana hid her face in her hands. \"I can't bear it,\" she said pitifully.\n\nA few minutes later Gaston clicked his tongue against his teeth. \"See,\nMadame. It is over,\" he said gently.\n\nShe looked up fearfully. The Sheik was standing on the ground beside\nthe colt, who was swaying slowly from side to side with heaving sides\nand head held low to the earth, dripping blood and foam. And as she\nlooked he tottered and collapsed exhausted. There was a rush from all\nsides, and Gaston went towards his master, who towered above the crowd\naround him.\n\nDiana turned away with an exclamation of disgust. It was enough to have\nseen a display of such brutality; it was too much to stand by while his\nfellow-savages acclaimed him for his cruelty.\n\nShe went slowly back into the tent, shaken with what she had seen, and\nstood in undecided hesitation beside the divan. The helpless feeling\nthat she so often experienced swept over her with renewed force. There\nwas nowhere that she could get away from him, no privacy, no respite.\nDay and night she must endure his presence with no hope of escape. She\nclosed her eyes in a sudden agony, and then stiffened at the sound of\nhis voice outside.\n\nHe came in laughing, a cigarette dangling from one blood-stained hand,\nwhile with the other he wiped the perspiration from his forehead,\nleaving a dull red smear. She shrank from him, looking at him with\nblazing eyes. \"You are a brute, a beast, a devil! I hate you!\" she\nchoked furiously.\n\nFor a moment an ugly look crossed his face, and then he laughed again.\n\"Hate me by all means, _ma belle_, but let your hatred be\nthorough. I detest mediocrity,\" he said lightly, as he passed on into\nthe other room.\n\nShe sank down on to the couch. She had never felt so desperate, so\npowerless. She stared straight before her, shivering, as she went over\nthe scene she had just witnessed, her fingers picking nervously at the\njade-green silk of her dress. She longed for some power that would\ndeaden her feelings and blunt her capacity for suffering. She looked at\nGaston with hard eyes when he came in. He had approved of what the\nSheik had done, would have done it himself if he had been able. They\nwere all alike.\n\n\"The man who was hurt first,\" she asked abruptly, with a touch of her\nold hauteur in her voice, \"is he dead?\"\n\n\"Oh no, Madame. He has concussion but he will be all right. They have\nhard heads, these Arabs.\"\n\n\"And Yusef?\"\n\nGaston grinned. \"_Le petit_ Sheik has a broken collar-bone. It is\nnothing. A few days' holiday to be petted in his harem, _et\nvoila_!\"\n\n\"His harem?\" echoed Diana in surprise. \"Is he married?\"\n\n\"_Mais oui_, Madame. He has two wives.\"\n\nAt Diana's exclamation he shrugged deprecatingly. \"_Que\nvoulez-vous?_ It is the custom of the country,\" he said tolerantly,\nwith the air of conceding a melancholy fact with the best grace\npossible.\n\nThe customs of the country was dangerous ground, and Diana changed the\nsubject hastily. \"Where did you learn to ride, Gaston?\"\n\n\"In a racing-stable at Auteuil, Madame, when I was a boy. Then I was\nfive years in the French cavalry. After that I came to Monseigneur.\"\n\n\"And you have been with him--how long?\"\n\n\"Fifteen years, Madame.\"\n\n\"Fifteen years,\" she repeated wonderingly. \"Fifteen years here, in the\ndesert?\"\n\n\"Here and elsewhere, Madame,\" he answered rather more shortly than\nusual, and with a murmur of excuse left the tent.\n\nDiana leaned back against the cushions with a little sigh. Gaston need\nnot have been afraid that she was trying to learn his master's secrets\nfrom him. She had not fallen as low as that. The mystery of the man\nwhose path had crossed hers so terribly seemed to augment instead of\nlessen as the time went on. What was the power in him that compelled\nthe devotion of his wild followers and the little French ex-cavalryman?\nShe knit her forehead in perplexity and was still puzzling over it when\nhe came back. Immaculate and well-groomed he was very different from\nthe dishevelled, bloodstained savage of half-an-hour before. She shot a\nnervous glance at him, remembering her outburst, but he was not angry.\nHe looked grave, but his gravity seemed centred in himself as he passed\nhis lean fingers tenderly over his smooth chin. She had seen Aubrey do\nsimilarly hundreds of times. Occidental or Oriental, men seemed very\nalike. She waited for him to speak and waited vainly. One of the\ntaciturn fits to which she had grown accustomed had come over\nhim--hours sometimes in which he simply ignored her altogether. The\nevening meal was silent. He spoke once to Gaston, but he spoke in\nArabic, and the servant replied only with a nod of compliance. And\nafter Gaston was gone he did not speak for a long time, but sat on the\ndivan, apparently absorbed in his thoughts.\n\nRestless, Diana moved about the tent, listlessly examining objects that\nshe knew by heart, and flirting over the pages of the French magazines\nshe had read a dozen times. Usually she was thankful for his silent\nmoods. To-night with a woman's perversity she wanted him to speak. She\nwas unstrung, and the utter silence oppressed her. She glanced over her\nshoulder at him once or twice, but his back looked unapproachable. Yet\nwhen he called her, with a swift revulsion of feeling, she wished he\nhad kept silent. She went to him slowly. She was too unnerved to-night\nto struggle against him. What would be the use? she thought wearily; it\nwould only end in defeat as it always did. He pulled her down on the\ndivan beside him, and before she realised what he was doing slipped a\nlong jade necklace over her head. For a moment she looked stupidly at\nthe wonderful thing, almost unique in the purity of its colour and the\nmarvellous carving on the uniform square pieces of which it was\ncomposed, and then with a low cry she tore it off and flung it on the\nground.\n\n\"How dare you?\" she gasped.\n\n\"You don't like it?\" he asked in his low, unruffled voice, his eyebrows\nraised in real or assumed surprise. \"Yet it matches your dress,\" and\nlightly his long fingers touched the folds of green silk swathed across\nthe youthful curve of her breast. He glanced at an open box filled with\nshimmering stones on a low stool beside him.\n\n\"Pearls are too cold and diamonds too banal for you,\" he said slowly.\n\"You should wear nothing but jade. It is the colour of the evening sky\nagainst the sunset of your hair.\"\n\nHe had never spoken like that to her before, or used that tone of\nvoice. His methods had been more fierce than tender. She glanced up\nswiftly at his face, but it baffled her. There was no love in his eyes\nor even desire, nothing but an unusual gentleness. \"Perhaps you would\nprefer the diamonds and the pearls,\" he went on, pointing disdainfully\nat the box.\n\n\"No, no. I hate them! I hate them all! I will not wear your jewels. You\nhave no right to think that I am that kind of woman,\" she cried\nhysterically.\n\n\"You do not like them? _Bon Dieu!_ None of the other women ever\nrefused them. On the contrary, they could never get enough,\" he said\nwith a laugh.\n\nDiana looked up with a startled glance, a look of horror dawning in her\neyes. \"Other women?\" she repeated blankly.\n\n\"You didn't suppose you were the first, did you?\" he asked with brutal\ncandour. \"Don't look at me like that. They were not like you, they came\nto me willingly enough--too willingly. Allah! How they bored me! I\ntired of them before they tired of me.\"\n\nShe flung her arm across her eyes with a dry sob, straining away from\nhim. She had never thought of that. In the purity of her mind it had\nnever occurred to her. She was only one of many, one of a succession of\nmistresses, taken and discarded at his whim. She writhed with the shame\nthat filled her. \"Oh, you hurt me!\" she whispered very low, and then\nanger killed all other feeling. He had loosened his arm about her and\nshe wrenched herself free and sprang to her feet. \"I hate you, do you\nunderstand? I hate you! I hate you!\"\n\nHe lit a cigarette leisurely before answering and moved into a more\ncomfortable position on the divan. \"So you have already told me this\nafternoon,\" he said at length coolly, \"and with reiteration your remark\nbecomes less convincing, _ma cherie_.\"\n\nHer anger ebbed away. She was too tired to be angry. She was humiliated\nand hurt, and the man before her had it in his power to hurt her more,\nbut she was at his mercy and to-night she could not fight. She pushed\nthe hair off her forehead with a heavy sigh and looked at the Sheik's\nlong length stretched out on the couch, the steely strength of his\nlimbs patent even in the indolent attitude in which he was lying, at\nhis brown handsome face, inscrutable as it always was to her, and the\nfeeling of helplessness came back with renewed force and with it the\nsense of her own pitiful weakness against his force, compelling her to\nspeak. \"Have you never felt pity for a thing that was weaker than\nyourself? Have you never spared anything or any one in all your life?\nHave you nothing in your nature but cruelty? Are all Arabs hard like\nyou?\" she said shakily. \"Has love never even made you merciful?\"\n\nHe glanced up at her with a harsh laugh, and shook his head. \"Love?\n_Connais pas!_ Yes, I do,\" he added with swift mockery, \"I love my\nhorses.\"\n\n\"When you don't kill them,\" she retorted.\n\n\"I am corrected. When I don't kill them.\"\n\nThere was something in his voice that made her reckless, that made her\nwant to hurt him. \"If you give no love to the--the women whom you bring\nhere, do you give love to the women of your harem? You have a harem, I\nsuppose, somewhere?\" she braved him with curling lip and scornful\nvoice, but as she spoke she knew that she had only hurt herself and her\nvoice faltered.\n\nHis hand reached out suddenly and he dragged her down into his arms\nagain with a laugh. \"And if I have, are you jealous? What if the nights\nI spent away from you were passed in my harem--what then?\"\n\n\"Then may Allah put it into the heart of one of your wives to poison\nyou so that you never come back,\" she said fiercely.\n\n\"Allah! So beautiful and so bloodthirsty,\" he said in bantering\nreproof. Then he turned her face up to his, smiling into her angry eyes\nwith amusement. \"I have no harem and, thanks be to Allah, no wives,\n_cherie._ Does that please you?\"\n\n\"Why should I care? It is nothing to me,\" she replied sharply, with a\nvivid blush.\n\nHe held her closer, looking deeply into her eyes, holding them as he\ncould when he liked, in spite of her efforts to turn them away--a\nmesmerism she could not resist.\n\n\"Shall I make you care? Shall I make you love me? I can make women love\nme when I choose.\"\n\nShe went very white and her eyes flickered. She knew that he was only\namusing himself, that he was utterly indifferent to her feelings, that\nhe did not care if she hated or loved him, but it was a new form of\ntorture that was more detestable than anything that had gone before it.\nIt infuriated her that he could even suggest that she could come to\ncare for him, that she could ever look on him as anything but a brutal\nsavage who had committed a hideous outrage, that she could ever have\nany feeling for him except hatred and loathing. That he should class\nher with the other women he spoke of revolted her, she felt degraded,\nsoiled as she had never done before, and she had thought that she had\nfelt the utmost humiliation of her position.\n\nThe colour rushed back into her face. \"I would rather you killed me,\"\nshe cried passionately.\n\n\"So would I,\" he said drily, \"for if you loved me you would bore me and\nI should have to let you go. While as it is\"--he laughed softly--\"as it\nis I do not regret the chance that took me into Biskra that day.\"\n\nHe let her go and got up with a yawn, watching her approvingly as she\ncrossed the tent. The easy swing of her boyish figure and the defiant\ncarriage of her head reminded him of one of his own thoroughbred\nhorses. She was as beautiful and as wild as they were. And as he broke\nthem so would he break her. She was nearly tamed now, but not quite,\nand by Allah! it should be quite! As he turned his foot struck against\nthe jade necklace lying on the rug where she had thrown it. He picked\nit up and called her back. She came reluctantly, slowly, with mutinous\neyes.\n\nHe held out the necklace silently, and silently she stared not at it\nbut at him. Her heart began to beat faster, and the colour slowly left\nher face. \"Take it. I wish it,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"No.\" It was little more than a gasp.\n\n\"You will wear it to please me,\" he went on in the same soft voice, and\nthe old hateful mockery crept into his eyes, \"to please my artistic\nsoul. I have an artistic soul even though I am only an Arab.\"\n\n\"I will not!\"\n\nThe mockery was wiped out of his eyes in a flash, giving place to the\nusual ferocity, and his forehead knit in the dreaded heavy scowl.\n\"Diane, obey me!\"\n\nShe clenched her teeth on her lower lip until a rim of blood stained\ntheir whiteness. If he would only shout or bluster like the average\nangry man she felt that she could brave him longer, but the cold quiet\nrage that characterised him always was infinitely more sinister, and\nparalysed her with its silent force. She had never heard him raise his\nvoice in anger or quicken his usual slow, soft tone, but there was an\ninflection that came into his voice and a look that came into his eyes\nthat was more terrible than any outburst. She had seen his men shrink\nwhen, standing near him, she had barely been able to hear what he had\nsaid. She had seen a look from him silence a clamorous quarrel that had\nbroken out among his followers too close to his own tent for his\npleasure. And that inflection was in his voice and that look was in his\neyes now. It was no longer use to resist. The fear of him was an agony.\nShe would have to obey, as in the end he always forced her to obey. She\nwrenched her eyes away from his compelling stare, her bosom heaving\nunder the soft silk, her chin quivering, and reached out blindly and\ntook it from him. But the sudden chill of it against her bare breast\nseemed to revive the courage that was not yet dead in her. She flung up\nher head, the transient colour flaming into her cheeks, and her lips\nsprang open, but he drew her to him swiftly, and laid his hand over her\nmouth. \"I know, I know,\" he said coldly. \"I am a brute and a beast and\na devil. You need not tell me again. It commences to grow tedious.\" His\nhand slipped to her shoulder, his fingers gripping the delicate,\nrounded arm. \"How much longer are you going to fight? Would it not be\nwiser after what you have seen to-day to recognise that I am master?\"\n\n\"You mean that you will treat me as you treated the colt this\nafternoon?\" she whispered, her eyes drawn back irresistibly to his in\nspite of all her efforts.\n\n\"I mean that you must realise that my will is law.\"\n\n\"And if I do not?\" He guessed rather than heard the words.\n\n\"Then I will teach you, and I think that you will learn--soon.\"\n\nShe quivered in his hands. It was a threat, but how much of it he meant\nto be taken literally she did not know. Again every ghastly detail of\nthe afternoon passed with lightning speed through her mind. When he\npunished he punished mercilessly. To what lengths would he go? The Arab\nstandards were not those of the men amongst whom she had lived. The\nposition of a woman in the desert was a very precarious one. There were\ntimes when she forgot altogether that he was an Arab until some chance,\nas now, drove the hard fact home indisputably. He was an Arab, and as a\nwoman she need expect no mercy at his hands. His hands! She looked down\nfor a second sideways at the fingers gripping her shoulder and she saw\nthem again stained with blood, saw them clenched round the dripping\nthong. She knew already by bitter experience the iron grip of his lean\nfingers and the compelling strength of his arms. Her quick imagination\nleaped ahead. What she had already suffered would be nothing compared\nwith what would be. The remembrance of the stained, huddled figure of\nthe servant he had chastised rose before her. And as she battled with\nherself, still torn in her passionate desire to make her strong will\nand courageous spirit triumph over her coward woman's body that shrank\ninstinctively from physical torture, his arm tightened around her and\nshe felt the hard muscles pressing against her shoulders and soft, bare\nneck, a suggestion of the force lying dormant beside her. She looked up\nat him slowly.\n\nHis expression was unchanged, his forehead was still drawn together in\nthe heavy frown and there was no softening in his eyes. The cruel lines\nabout his mouth were accentuated and the tiger-look in his face was\nmore marked than ever. He was not threatening idly; he meant what he\nsaid.\n\n\"You had better kill me,\" she said drearily.\n\n\"That would be to admit my own defeat,\" he replied coolly. \"I do not\nkill a horse until I have proved beyond all possible doubt that I\ncannot tame it. With you I have no such proof. I can tame you and I\nwill. But it is for you to choose and to choose to-night if you will\nobey me willingly or if I must make you. I have been very patient--for\nme,\" he added, with an odd smile flitting across his face, \"but my\npatience is exhausted. Choose quickly.\" Insensibly he drew her closer\nto him till his arm felt like an inflexible steel band about her, and\nshe thought with a shudder of the coils of a great serpent closing\nround its victim. She made a final effort to conquer herself, but\nbetween her and the broad chest so close to her she seemed to see a\nhorse's head held low in agony, blood and foam dripping from his\nlacerated mouth, and a horse's flanks heaving piteously, torn with the\ncruel punishment he had undergone. A sudden nausea came over her,\neverything seemed to swim before her eyes, and she swayed against the\nman who was holding her. Her bodily fear overruled her mind. She could\nnot bear any more.\n\n\"I will obey you,\" she whispered heavily.\n\nHe took her chin in his fingers and jerked her head up sharply, staring\nat her intently until she felt he was looking into her very soul. The\nheavy scowl smoothed away but the fierceness lingered in his eyes.\n\"Good!\" he said at length briefly. \"You are wise,\" he added\nsignificantly. He tilted her head further back, bending his own down\nuntil his lips were nearly touching hers. She shivered involuntarily,\nan anguished appeal leaping into her eyes. He smiled ironically. \"Do\nyou hate them so much, my kisses?\"\n\nShe swallowed convulsively.\n\n\"You are at least candid if you are not complimentary;\" and with that\nhe released her and turned away.\n\nShe reached the curtain that divided the two rooms, her heart beating\nwildly, giddy with the strain that she had gone through. She paused a\nmoment and looked back at him, amazed at her own temerity. He had\nunbuttoned the flap of the tent and was standing in the entrance\nlooking out into the night. The scent of the peculiar tobacco he used\ndrifted to her with the draught from the open door. Her eyes grew\npuzzled. Would she ever understand him? To-night he had given her a\nchoice instead of simply enforcing his will, he had made her choose to\nsave herself, he had proved his determination and his mastery over her.\nAnd with his last words the unexpected gentleness had come into his\nvoice again and the cruel lines about his mouth had relaxed in a smile\nof amusement. It was the swift transition from ferocity to gentleness\nthat she could never fathom. His complex nature was beyond her\nunderstanding. She would not try to understand him; she could never\nknow the depths of his baffling personality. She only knew that for\nsome reason of his own he had spared her, and she feared him more than\never.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nUnder the awning of the tent Diana was waiting for Gaston and the\nhorses, pulling on her thick riding-gloves nervously. She was wrought\nup to the utmost pitch of excitement. Ahmed Ben Hassan had been away\nsince the previous day and it was uncertain if he would return that\nnight or the next. He had been vague as to how long he would be\nabsent. There had been a constant coming and going amongst his\nfollowers--messengers arriving on exhausted horses at all hours of the\nday and night, and the Sheik himself had seemed unusually preoccupied.\nHe had not condescended to give any reason for the special activity of\nhis people and she had not asked him.\n\nIn the four weeks that had elapsed since she had promised him her\nobedience she had been very silent. The fear and hatred of him grew\ndaily. She had learned to stifle the wild fits of rage and the angry\nwords that leaped to her lips. She had learned to obey--a reluctant\nobedience given with compressed lips and defiant eyes, but given, and\nwith a silence that surprised even herself. Day after day she had\nfollowed the usual routine, dumb unless he spoke to her; and with his\nown attention occupied with matters beyond the four walls of his tent\nhe had not noticed or did not trouble to heed her silence. Lately he\nhad left her very much alone; she had ridden with him almost daily\nuntil the last week, when he had announced curtly that in the meantime\nthe length of her rides must be curtailed and that Gaston would\naccompany her. He had not offered any explanation, and she had not\nsought one. She had chosen to see in it merely another act of tyranny\nimposed on her by the man whose arbitrary exercise of power over her\nand whose tacit possession of her galled her continually. And under the\nsullen submission a wild fury of revolt was raging. She searched\nfeverishly for means of flight, and now the Sheik's absence seemed to\nhave given her the chance she had been waiting for. In the solitude of\nthe previous night she had tossed impatiently from side to side of the\nbig couch, vainly trying to find some means of taking advantage of her\ncomparative freedom to effect her escape. Surely she could find some\nway of avoiding Gaston's vigilance. Excitement had kept her awake half\nthe night, and in the morning she had had hard work to keep her\nagitation hidden and to appear as usual. She had even been afraid to\norder the horses any earlier in her nervous terror lest the valet\nshould suspect there was any reason behind the simple request. After\nher _petit dejeuner_ she had paced the tent, unable to sit still,\ndreading lest any moment might bring the return of the Sheik and\nfrustrate her hopes. She looked back into the room with a shudder as\nher eyes travelled over the luxurious appointments and different\nobjects that had become so curiously familiar in the last two months.\nThe unexpected equipments and the man's own baffling personality would\nremain in her recollection always as an enigma that she would never be\nable to solve. So much had been so inexplicable in himself and in his\nmode of life. She drew a long breath and went out hastily into the\nsunshine.\n\nThe horses were waiting, and Gaston was standing ready to hold her\nstirrup. She fondled the beautiful grey horse's soft nose and patted\nhis satiny neck with a hand that trembled a little. She loved the horse\nand to-day he should be the means of saving her. He responded to her\ncaresses, gentling her with slobbering mouth and whinnying softly. With\none last look at the big double tent and the rest of the camp behind it\nshe mounted and rode away without another backward glance. She had to\nexercise a rigid control over herself. She longed to put Silver Star\ninto a hand gallop at once and shake off Gaston, but she was still too\nnear the camp. She must be patient and put a certain number of miles\nbetween herself and the possibility of pursuit before she attempted\nanything. Too early an endeavour would only bring the whole horde in\nwild chase at her heels. The thought of the promise she had given to\nthe man from whom she was flying came back to her. She had promised\nobedience, but she had not promised that she would not try to escape,\nand, if she had, no promise wrung from her by fear was valid in her\nopinion.\n\nShe rode steadily forward at a slow, swinging canter, instinctively\nsaving her horse, plan after plan passing through her brain to be\nrejected as impracticable. Silver Star fretted continually at the\nmoderate pace, tossing his head and catching at his bit. She took no\nheed of the time beyond the fact that it was passing quickly, and that\nif anything was to be done it must be done as soon as possible. But\nGaston, riding a few paces behind her, was very much alive to the hour\nand had looked several times at his watch. He ranged alongside of her\nnow with a murmured apology. \"Pardon, Madame. It grows late,\" and\nsubmitted his wrist watch for her inspection.\n\nDiana glanced mechanically at her own wrist and then remembered that\nshe had broken her watch the day before. She pulled up, and tilting her\nhelmet back mopped her hot forehead, and, as she did so, a sharp breeze\nsprang up, the curious wind that comes and goes so rapidly in the\ndesert. An idea flashed into her mind. It was a poor chance, but it\nmight succeed. She shot a glance at Gaston. He was looking in the\nopposite direction, and, raising her hand, she fluttered her\nhandkerchief a moment in the breeze and then let it go. The wind\ncarried it some distance away. She gave a little cry and caught at the\nbridle of the valet's horse.\n\n\"Oh, Gaston, my handkerchief!\" and pointed to where the morsel of\ncambric lay white against a rock. With a comical exclamation of dismay\nhe slipped to the ground and started to run across the sand.\n\nShe waited until he had got well on his way, sitting tense with shining\neyes and thumping heart, then, snatching off her helmet, she brought it\ndown with a resounding smack on the hindquarters of the servant's\nhorse, stampeding it in the direction of the camp, and, wheeling Silver\nStar, headed for the north, deaf to Gaston's cries.\n\nWild with excitement and free to go his own pace at last her mount\ngalloped swiftly and the wind whistled past Diana's ears. To the\npossible fate of the little Frenchman left on foot so far from the\nencampment she gave no heed. For the moment she did not even think of\nhim, she had no thought for anybody but herself. Her ruse by its very\nsimplicity had succeeded. She was free and she did not care about\nanything else. She had no plans or ideas what she should do or where\nshe should go beyond the fact that she would keep riding northward. She\nhad vague hopes that she might fall in with friendly Arabs who, for a\npromised reward, would guide her to civilisation. Most of them could\nspeak a little French, and for the rest her small stock of Arabic must\ndo. She knew that she was mad to attempt to ride across the desert\nalone, but she did not mind. She was free. She was too excited to think\ncoherently. She laughed and shouted like a mad thing and her madness\ncommunicated itself to the grey, who was going at racing speed. Diana\nknew that he was out of control, that she could not stop him if she\ntried, but she did not want to try, the faster the better. In time he\nwould tire himself, but until then let him go as he pleased. She was\nfast putting miles between herself and the camp that had been a prison,\nbetween herself and the brute who had dared to do what he had done. At\nthe thought of the Sheik a sick feeling of fear ran through her. If\nanything should happen? If he should catch her again? She shuddered,\nand a cry burst from her lips, but she gripped herself at once. She was\nidiotic, contemptible; it was impossible. It would be hours, perhaps\neven the next day, before the alarm was given; he would not know in\nwhat direction she had gone. She would have miles of start on one of\nthe fleetest of his horses. She tried to put him out of her mind. She\nhad escaped from him and his cruelty, it was a nightmare that was over.\nThe effects would remain with her always, nothing would ever be the\nsame again, but the daily dread, the daily contamination would be gone,\nthe helpless tortured feeling, the shame of submission that had filled\nher with an acute self-loathing that was as intense as her passionate\nhatred of the man who had forced her to endure his will. The memory of\nit would live with her for ever. He had made her a vile thing. Her\ncheeks scorched with the thought and she shivered at the remembrance of\nall that she had gone through. She had been down into the depths and\nshe would carry the scars all her life. The girl who had started out so\ntriumphantly from Biskra had become a woman through bitter knowledge\nand humiliating experience.\n\nThe pace was less killing now. Silver Star had settled down into the\nsteady tireless gallop for which Ahmed Ben Hassan's horses were famous.\nThe little breeze had died away as quickly as it had sprung up, and it\nwas very hot. Diana looked about her with glowing eyes. Everything\nseemed different. From the first she had loved the desert, but back of\neverything and mingled with everything had been the feeling of fear,\nthe continual restraint, the perpetual subservience to the whims of her\ncaptor which had dominated everything. But now the whole aspect was\nchanged. She loved the endless, undulating expanse stretching out\nbefore her, and as the grey topped each rise her interest grew keener.\nWhat might not be behind the next one? For an hour or more the ground\nrose and fell in monotonous succession, and then the desert grew level\nagain and quite suddenly she could see for miles. About two miles away\na few palm trees showed clustering together, and Diana turned in their\ndirection. They probably meant a well, and it was time she rested her\nhorse and herself. It was the tiniest little oasis, and she drew rein\nand dismounted with fears for the well she had hoped to find. But there\nwas one, very much silted up, and she set to work to clear it as well\nas she could to procure enough for herself and Silver Star, who was\nfrantically trying to get to the water. It was exhausting work, but she\nmanaged to satisfy the grey, and, having unloosed his girths, she flung\nherself down on the ground in a small patch of shade. She lit a\ncigarette and lay flat on her back with her helmet over her eyes.\n\nFor the first time since she had shaken off Gaston she began to think\nseriously. What she had done was madness. She had no food for herself\nor her horse, no water, and Heaven alone knew where the next well might\nbe. She was alone in an uncivilised country among a savage people with\nno protection of any kind. She might fall in with friendly Arabs or she\nmight not. She might come across an encampment, or she might wander for\ndays and see no one, in which case death from hunger and thirst stared\nher in the face. What would she do when night came? With a sharp cry\nshe leaped to her feet. What was she to do? She looked all around the\nlittle oasis with startled eyes, at the few palm trees and clumps of\ncamel thorn, the broken well and the grey horse still snuffing about\nits mouth. She felt frightened for the first time; she was alone and\nabout her was unending space, and she felt an atom, insignificant, the\nleast of all things. She looked up into the clear sky and the blue\nvastness appalled her.\n\nThen the sudden panic to which she had given way subsided and her\ncourage rose with a bound. It was only midday, anything might happen\nbetween then and nightfall. Of one thing only she was sure, she did not\nrepent of what she had done. Behind her was Ahmed Ben Hassan and before\nher was possibly death, and death was preferable. She was quite calm\nagain and lay down in the patch of shade once more with a resolute\ndetermination to mind. Time to think of them when they came. For the\nnext hour or two she must rest and escape the intense heat. She rolled\nover on her face with her head in her arms and tried to sleep, but she\nwas too excited, and soon gave up the attempt. And in any case, she\nargued with herself, she might sleep too long and lose precious time.\nShe stretched luxuriously on the soft ground, thankful for the shade\nfrom the burning sun. The grey, tired of nosing round the well and\nblowing disdainfully at the thorn bushes, wandered over to her side and\nnuzzled her gently. She caught at his velvety nose and drew it down\nbeside her face. He was a very affectionate beast and gentler than most\nof the other horses, and he pressed close up to her, whinnying softly\nand looking at her with large expressive eyes. \"I haven't anything to\ngive you, poor old boy,\" she said regretfully, kissing his muzzle and\nthen pushing him away from her. She looked up again into the sky, a\ndark speck sailed overhead, the slow heavy flight of a vulture. In a\nfew hours he might be picking her bones! Merciful Heavens! Why did such\nthoughts come into her head? Had she nothing left of the courage that\nhad once been second nature? If she let her nerves get the upper hand\nshe might as well make no further effort, but lie down and die at once.\nWith shaking fingers she took another cigarette; smoking would soothe\nher. Yet she hesitated before she lit it; there were only a few left\nand her need might still be greater. But with a reckless laugh she\nsnapped the thin case to, and carefully scraped the evil-smelling\nsulphur match torn from a flat wood strip. She settled herself\ncomfortably again full length. All around her were the innumerable tiny\nnoises of the desert, the hum of countless insect life, the rustling of\nthe sand and the occasional dry crackle of the camel thorns made by the\nslipping of a twig or the displacing of a branch, sounds that would\nhave been incomprehensible some weeks before. For a few minutes a sand\nspider attracted her attention and she watched his hurried painstaking\noperations with wondering interest. Gradually a drowsy feeling stole\nover her and she realised suddenly that the air was impregnated with\nthe scent of the tobacco that was always associated with the Sheik. It\nwas one of his cigarettes that she was smoking. She had always been\npowerfully affected by the influence of smell, which induced\nrecollection with her to an extraordinary degree, and now the uncommon\npenetrating odour of the Arab's cigarettes brought back all that she\nhad been trying to put out of her mind. With a groan she flung it away\nand buried her face in her arms. The past rose up, and rushed,\nuncontrolled, through her brain. Incidents crowded into her\nrecollection, memories of headlong gallops across the desert riding\nbeside the man who, while she hated him, compelled her admiration,\nmemories of him schooling the horses that he loved, sitting them like a\ncentaur, memories of him amongst his men, memories more intimately\nconnected with herself, of his varying moods, his swift changes from\nsavage cruelty to amazing gentleness, from brutal intolerance to sudden\nconsideration. There had even been times when he had interested her\ndespite herself, and she had forgotten the relationship in which they\nstood towards each other in listening to his deep, slow voice, till a\nword or a gesture brought back the fact vividly. Memories of moments\nwhen she had struggled against his caresses, and he had mocked her\nhelplessness with his great strength, when she had lain in his arms\npanting and exhausted, cold with fear and shrinking from his fierce\nkisses. She had feared him as she had never believed it possible to\nfear. His face rose before her clearly with all the expressions she had\nlearned to know and dread. She tried to banish it, striving with all\nher might to put him from her mind, twisting this way and that,\nwrithing on the soft sand as she struggled with the obsession that held\nher. She saw him all the time plainly, as though he were there before\nher. Would he pursue her always, phantom-like? Would the recollection\nof the handsome brown face haunt her for ever with its fierce eyes and\ncruel mouth? She buried her head deeper in her arms, but the vision\npersisted until with a scream she started up with heaving chest and\nwild eyes, standing rigid, staring towards the south with a desperate\nfixedness that made her eyeballs ache. The sense of his presence had\nbeen terribly real. She dropped on to the ground again with an\nhysterical laugh, and pushed the thick hair off her forehead wearily.\nSilver Star laying his muzzle suddenly on her shoulder made her start\nagain violently with heavy, beating heart. A frightened look went\nacross her face. \"I'm nervous,\" she muttered, looking round with a\nlittle shiver. \"I shall go mad if I stay here much longer.\" The little\noasis that she had hailed so joyfully had become utterly repugnant and\nshe was impatient to get away from it. She climbed eagerly into the\nsaddle, and, with the rapid motion, she regained her calm and her\nspirits rose quickly.\n\nShe shook off the feeling of apprehension that had taken hold of her\nand her nervous fears died away. A reckless feeling, like the\nexcitement of the morning, came over her, and she urged the grey on\nwith coaxing words, and responding to her voice, and hardly feeling her\nlight weight, he raced on untiringly. All around was silence and a\nsolitude that was stupendous. The vast emptiness was awe-inspiring. The\nafternoon was wearing away; already it was growing cooler. Diana had\nseen no sign of human life since she had left Gaston hours before and a\nlittle feeling of anxiety stirred faintly deep down in her heart.\nTraces of caravans she passed several times, and from the whitening\nbones of dead camels she turned her head in aversion--they were too\nintimately suggestive. She had seen a few jackals, and once a hyena\nlumbered away clumsily among some rocks as she passed. She had got away\nfrom the level desert, and was threading her way in and out of some low\nhills, which she felt were taking her out of her right course. She was\nsteering by the setting sun, which had turned the sky into a glory of\ngolden crimson, but the intricate turnings amongst the rocky hills were\nbewildering. The low, narrow defile seemed hemming her in, menacing her\non all sides, and she was beginning to despair of finding her way out\nof the labyrinth, when, on rounding a particularly sharp turn, the\nrocks fell away suddenly and she rode out into open country. She\nbreathed a sigh of relief and called out cheerily to the grey, but, as\nshe looked ahead, her voice died away, and she reined him in sharply\nwith a quickening heart-beat. Across the desert about a mile away she\nsaw a party of Arabs coming towards her. There were about fifty of\nthem, the leader riding a big, black horse some little distance in\nfront of his followers. In the clear atmosphere they seemed nearer than\nthey were. It was not what she wished. She had hoped for an encampment,\nwhere there would be women or a caravan of traders whose constant\ncommunication with the towns would make them realise the importance of\nguiding her to civilisation unharmed. This band of fighting men, for\nshe could see their rifles clearly, and their close and orderly\nformation was anything but peaceful, filled her with the greatest\nmisgivings. Only the worst might be expected from the wild, lawless\ntribesmen towards a woman alone amongst them. She had fled from one\nhideousness to another which would be ten times more horrible. Her face\nblanched and she set her teeth in desperation. The human beings she had\nprayed for were now a deadly menace, and she prayed as fervently that\nthey might pass on and not notice her. Perhaps it was not too late,\nperhaps they had not yet seen her and she might still slip away and\nhide in the twisting turnings of the defile. She backed Silver Star\nfurther into the shadow of the rock, but as she did so she saw that she\nhad been seen. The leader turned in his saddle and raised his hand high\nabove his head, and with a wild shout and a great cloud of dust and\nsand his men checked their horses, dragging them back on to their\nhaunches, while he galloped towards her alone. And at the same moment\nan icy hand clutched at Diana's heart and a moan burst from her lips.\nThere was no mistaking him or the big black horse he rode. For a moment\nshe reeled with a sudden faintness, and then with a tremendous effort\nshe pulled herself together, dragging her horse's head round and urged\nhim back along the track which she had just left, and behind her raced\nAhmed Ben Hassan, spurring the great, black stallion as he had never\ndone before. With ashy face and wild, hunted eyes Diana crouched\nforward on the grey's neck, saving him all she could and riding as she\nhad never ridden in her life. Utterly reckless, she urged the horse to\nhis utmost pace, regardless of the rough, dangerous track. Perhaps she\ncould still shake off her pursuer among the tortuous paths of the\nhills. Nothing mattered but that. Better even an ugly toss and a broken\nneck than that he should take her again. Panic-stricken she wanted to\nshriek and clenched her teeth on her lips to keep back the scream that\nrose in her throat. She dared not look behind, but straight ahead\nbefore her, riding with all her skill, hauling the grey round perilous\ncorners and bending lower and lower in the saddle to aid him. In her\nterror she had forgotten what a little distance the hills stretched\nfrom where she had entered them, and blindly she turned into the track\nby which she had come, leaving the main hills on her right hand and\nemerging on to the open desert on the south side of the range. There\nwas nothing now but the sheer speed of her horse to save her, and how\nlong could she count on it? Then with a little glimmer of hope she\nremembered that the Sheik was riding The Hawk, own brother to the grey,\nand she knew that neither had ever outpaced the other. She had ridden\nhard all day, but it was probable that Ahmed Ben Hassan had ridden\nharder; he never spared his horses, and his weight was considerably\ngreater than hers. Would it not be possible for Silver Star, carrying\nthe lighter burden, to outdistance The Hawk? It was a chance. She would\ntake it, but she would never give in. The perspiration was rolling down\nher face and her breath was coming laboriously. Suddenly, a few minutes\nafter she had left the hills behind, the Sheik's deep voice came\nclearly across the space between them.\n\n\"If you do not stop I will shoot your horse. I give you one minute.\"\n\nShe swayed a little in the saddle, clutching the grey's neck to steady\nherself and for a moment she closed her eyes, but she did not falter\nfor an instant. She would not stop; nothing on earth should make her\nstop now. Only, because she knew the man, she kicked her feet clear of\nthe stirrups. He had said he would shoot and he would shoot, and if the\ngrey shied or swerved a hair's breadth she would probably receive the\nbullet that was meant for him. Better that! Yes, even better that!\n\nSilver Star tore on headlong and the minute seemed a lifetime. Then\nbefore even she heard the report he bounded in the air and fell with a\ncrash. Diana was flung far forward and landed on some soft sand. For a\nmoment she was stunned by the fall, then she staggered dizzily to her\nfeet and stumbled back to the prostrate horse. He was lashing out\nwildly with his heels, making desperate efforts to rise. And as she\nreached him the black horse dashed up alongside, stopping suddenly, and\nrearing straight up. The Sheik leaped to the ground and ran towards\nher. He caught her wrist and flung her out of his way, and she lay\nwhere she had fallen, every nerve in her body quivering. She was beaten\nand with the extinguishing of her last hope all her courage failed her.\nShe gave way to sheer, overwhelming terror, utterly cowed. Every\nfaculty was suspended, swallowed up in the one dominating force, the\ndread of his voice and the dread of the touch of his hands. She heard a\nsecond report and knew that he had put Silver Star out of his misery,\nand then, in a few seconds, his voice beside her. She got up\nunsteadily, shrinking from him.\n\n\"Why are you here, and where is Gaston?\"\n\nIn a stifled voice she told him everything. What did it matter? If she\ntried to be silent he would force her to speak.\n\nHe made no comment, and bringing The Hawk nearer tossed her up roughly\ninto the saddle and swung up behind her, the black breaking at once\ninto the usual headlong gallop. She made no kind of resistance, a\ncomplete apathy seemed to have come over her. She did not look at the\nbody of Silver Star, she looked at nothing, clinging to the front of\nthe saddle, and staring ahead of her unseeingly. She had dropped her\nhelmet when she fell and she had left it, thankful to be relieved of\nthe pressure on her aching head. Her mental collapse had affected her\nphysically, and it needed a real effort of will-power to enable her to\nsit up right. Very soon they would join the horsemen, who were waiting\nfor them, and for her pride's sake she must concentrate all her energy\nto avoid betraying her weakness.\n\nAhmed Ben Hassan did not go back through the defile, he turned into a\nlittle path that Diana had overlooked and which skirted the hills. In\nabout half-an-hour the troop met them, riding slowly from the opposite\ndirection. She did not raise her eyes as they approached, but she heard\nYusef's clear tenor voice calling out to the Sheik, who answered\nshortly as the men fell in behind him. Back over the ground that she\nhad traversed so differently. She knew that it had been madness from\nthe first. She should have known that it could never succeed, that she\ncould never reach civilisation alone. She had been a fool ever to\nimagine that she could win through. The chance that had thrown her\nagain into the Sheik's power might just as easily have thrown her into\nthe hands of any other Arab. Luck had helped Ahmed Ben Hassan even as\nshe herself had unknowingly played into his hands when he had captured\nher first. Fate was with him. It was useless to try and struggle\nagainst him any more. Her brain was a confused medley of thoughts that\nshe was too tired to unravel, strange, conflicting ideas chasing wildly\nthrough her mind. She did not understand them, she did not try. The\neffort of thinking made her head ache agonisingly. She was conscious of\na great unrest, a dull aching in her heart and a terrible depression\nthat was altogether apart from the fear she felt of the Sheik. She gave\nup trying to think; she was concerned only with trying to keep her\nbalance.\n\nShe lifted her head for the first time and looked at the magnificent\nsky. The sun had almost set, going down in a ball of molten fire, and\nthe heavens on either side were a riot of gold and crimson and palest\ngreen, shading off into vivid blue that grew blacker and blacker as the\nglory of the sunset died away. The scattered palm trees and the far-off\nhills stood out in strong relief. It was a country of marvellous\nbeauty, and Diana's heart gave a sudden throb as she realised that she\nwas going back to it all. She was drooping wearily, unable to sit\nupright any longer, and once or twice she jolted heavily against the\nman who rode behind her. His nearness had ceased to revolt her; she\nthought of it with a dull feeling of wonder. She had even a sense of\nrelief at the thought of the strength so close to her. Her eyes rested\non his hands, showing brown and muscular under the folds of his white\nrobes. She knew the power of the long, lean fingers that could, when he\nliked, be gentle enough. Her eyes filled with sudden tears, but she\nblinked them back before they fell. She wanted desperately to cry. A\nwave of terrible loneliness went over her, a feeling of desolation, and\na strange, incomprehensible yearning for what she did not know. As the\nsunset faded and it grew rapidly dusk a chill wind sprang up and she\nshivered from time to time, drooping more and more with fatigue, at\ntimes only half conscious. She had drifted into complete oblivion, when\nshe was awakened with a jerk that threw her back violently against the\nSheik, but she was too tired to more than barely understand that they\nhad stopped for something, and that there were palm trees near her. She\nfelt herself lifted down and a cloak wrapped round her, and then she\nremembered nothing more. She awoke slowly, shaking off a persistent\ndrowsiness by degrees. She was still tired, but the desperate weariness\nwas gone, and she was conscious of a feeling of well-being and\nsecurity. The cool, night air blew in her face, dissipating her\nsleepiness. She became aware that night had fallen, and that they were\nstill steadily galloping southward. In a few moments she was wide\nawake, and found that she was lying across the saddle in front of the\nSheik, and that he was holding her in the crook of his arm. Her head\nwas resting just over his heart, and she could feel the regular beat\nbeneath her cheek. Wrapped warmly in the cloak and held securely by his\nstrong arm at first she was content to give way only to the sensation\nof bodily rest. It was enough for the moment to lie with relaxed\nmuscles, to have to make no effort of any kind, to feel the soothing\nrush of the wind against her face, and the swift, easy gallop of The\nHawk as he carried them on through the night. Them! With a start of\nrecollection she realised fully whose arm was round her, and whose\nbreast her head was resting on. Her heart beat with sudden violence.\nWhat was the matter with her? Why did she not shrink from the pressure\nof his arm and the contact of his warm, strong body? What had happened\nto her? Quite suddenly she knew--knew that she loved him, that she had\nloved him for a long time, even when she thought she hated him and when\nshe had fled from him. She knew now why his face had haunted her in the\nlittle oasis at midday--that it was love calling to her subconsciously.\nAll the confusion of mind that had assailed her when they started on\nthe homeward journey, the conflicting thoughts and contrary emotions,\nwere explained. But she knew herself at last and knew the love that\nfilled her, an overwhelming, passionate love that almost frightened her\nwith its immensity and with the sudden hold it had laid upon her. Love\nhad come to her at last who had scorned it so fiercely. The men who had\nloved her had not had the power to touch her, she had given love to no\none, she had thought that she could not love, that she was devoid of\nall natural affection and that she would never know what love meant.\nBut she knew now--a love of such complete surrender that she had never\nconceived. Her heart was given for all time to the fierce desert man\nwho was so different from all other men whom she had met, a lawless\nsavage who had taken her to satisfy a passing fancy and who had treated\nher with merciless cruelty. He was a brute, but she loved him, loved\nhim for his very brutality and superb animal strength. And he was an\nArab! A man of different race and colour, a native; Aubrey would\nindiscriminately class him as a \"damned nigger.\" She did not care. It\nmade no difference. A year ago, a few weeks even, she would have\nshuddered with repulsion at the bare idea, the thought that a native\ncould even touch her had been revolting, but all that was swept away\nand was nothing in the face of the love that filled her heart so\ncompletely. She did not care if he was an Arab, she did not care what\nhe was, he was the man she loved. She was deliriously, insanely happy.\nShe was lying against his heart, and the clasp of his arm was joy\nunspeakable. She was utterly content; for the moment all life narrowed\ndown to the immediate surroundings, and she wished childishly that they\ncould ride so for ever through eternity. The night was brilliant. The\nstars blazed against the inky blackness of the sky, and the light of\nthe full moon was startlingly clear and white. The discordant yelling\nof a pack of hunting jackals came from a little distance, breaking the\nperfect stillness. The men were riding in unusual silence, though a low\nexclamation or the subdued jingle of accoutrements was heard\noccasionally, once some one fired at a night creature that bounded out\nfrom almost under his horse's feet. But the Sheik flung a word of\nsavage command over his shoulder and there were no more shots. Diana\nstirred slightly, moving her head so that she could see his face\nshowing clearly in the bright moonlight, which threw some features into\nhigh relief and left the rest in dark shadow. She looked at him with\nquickening breath. He was peering intently ahead, his eyes flashing in\nthe cold light, his brows drawn together in the characteristic heavy\nscowl, and the firm chin, so near her face, was pushed out more\ndoggedly than usual.\n\nHe felt her move and glanced down. For a moment she looked straight\ninto his eyes, and then with a low, inarticulate murmur she hid her\nface against him. He did not speak, but he shifted her weight a little,\ndrawing her closer into the curve of his arm.\n\nIt was very late when they reached the camp. Lights flashed up in the\nbig tent and on all sides, and they were surrounded by a crowd of\nexcited tribesmen and servants. In spite of the hard day's work The\nHawk started plunging and rearing, his invariable habit on stopping,\nwhich nothing could break, and at a word from the Sheik two men leaped\nto his head while he transferred Diana to Yusef's outstretched arms.\nShe was stiff and giddy, and the young man helped her to the door of\nthe tent, and then vanished again into the throng of men and horses.\n\nDiana sank wearily on to the divan and covered her face with her hands.\nShe was trembling with fatigue and apprehension. What would he do to\nher? She asked herself the question over and over again, with shaking,\nsoundless lips, praying for courage, nerving herself to meet him. At\nlast she heard his voice and, looking up, saw him standing in the\ndoorway. His back was turned, and he was giving orders to a number of\nmen who stood near him, for she could hear their several voices; and\nshortly afterwards half-a-dozen small bands of men rode quickly away in\ndifferent directions. For a few moments he stood talking to Yusef and\nthen came in. At the sight of him Diana shrank back among the soft\ncushions, but he took no notice of her, and, lighting a cigarette,\nbegan walking up and down the tent. She dared not speak to him, the\nexpression on his face was terrible.\n\nTwo soft-footed Arab servants brought a hastily prepared supper. It was\na ghastly meal. He never spoke or showed in any way that he was\nconscious of her presence. She had had nothing to eat all day, but the\nfood nearly choked her and she could hardly swallow it, but she forced\nherself to eat a little. It seemed interminable until the servants\nfinally withdrew, after bringing two little gold-cased cups of native\ncoffee. She gulped it down with difficulty. The Sheik had resumed his\nrestless pacing, smoking cigarette after cigarette in endless\nsuccession. The monotonous tramp to and fro worked on Diana's nerves\nuntil she winced each time he passed her, and, huddled on the divan,\nshe watched him continually, fascinated, fearful.\n\nHe never looked at her. From time to time he glanced at the watch on\nhis wrist and each time his face grew blacker. If he would only speak!\nHis silence was worse than anything he could say. What was he going to\ndo? He was capable of doing anything. The suspense was torture. Her\nhands grew clammy and she wrenched at the soft open collar of her\nriding-shirt with a feeling of suffocation.\n\nTwice Yusef came to report, and the second time the Sheik came back\nslowly from the door where he had been speaking to him and stopped in\nfront of Diana, looking at her strangely.\n\nShe flung out her hands instinctively, shrinking further back among the\ncushions, her eyes wavering under his. \"What are you going to do to\nme?\" she whispered involuntarily, with dry lips.\n\nHe looked at her without answering for a while, as if to prolong the\ntorture she was enduring, and a cruel look crept into his eyes. \"That\ndepends on what happens to Gaston,\" he said at length slowly.\n\n\"Gaston?\" she repeated stupidly. She had forgotten the valet, in all\nthat had occurred since the morning she had forgotten his very\nexistence.\n\n\"Yes--Gaston,\" he said sternly. \"You do not seem to have thought of\nwhat might happen to him.\"\n\nShe sat up slowly, a puzzled look coming into her face. \"What could\nhappen to him?\" she asked wonderingly.\n\nHe dragged back the flap of the tent and pointed out into the darkness.\n\"Over there in the south-west, there is an old Sheik whose name is\nIbraheim Omair. His tribe and mine have been at feud for generations.\nLately I have learned that he has been venturing nearer than he has\never before dared. He hates me. To capture my personal servant would be\nmore luck than he could have hoped for.\"\n\nHe dropped the flap and began walking up and down again. There was a\nsinister tone in his voice that made Diana suddenly comprehend the\nlittle Frenchman's peril. Ahmed Ben Hassan was not the man to be easily\nalarmed on any one's behalf. That he was anxious about Gaston was\napparent, and with her knowledge of him she understood his anxiety\nargued a very real danger. She had heard tales before she left Biskra,\nand since then she had been living in an Arab camp, and she knew\nsomething of the fiendish cruelty and callous indifference to suffering\nof the Arabs. Ghastly mental pictures with appalling details crowded\nnow into her mind. She shuddered.\n\n\"What would they do to him?\" she asked shakily, with a look of horror.\n\nThe Sheik paused beside her. He looked at her curiously and the cruelty\ndeepened in his eyes. \"Shall I tell you what they would do to him?\" he\nsaid meaningly, with a terrible smile.\n\nShe gave a cry and flung her arms over her head, hiding her face. \"Oh,\ndo not! Do not!\" she wailed.\n\nHe jerked the ash from his cigarette. \"Bah!\" he said contemptuously.\n\"You are squeamish.\"\n\nShe felt sick with the realisation of what could result to Gaston from\nher action. She had had no personal feeling with regard to him. On the\ncontrary, she liked him--she had not thought of him, the man, when she\nhad stampeded his horse and left him on foot so far from camp. She had\nlooked upon him only as a jailer, his master's deputy.\n\nThe near presence of this hostile Sheik explained many things she had\nnot understood: Gaston's evident desire daring their ride not to go\nbeyond a certain distance, the special activity that had prevailed of\nlate amongst the Sheik's immediate followers, and the speed and silence\nthat had been maintained during the headlong gallop across the desert\nthat evening. She had known all along the Arab's obvious affection for\nhis French servant, and it was confirmed now by the anxiety that he did\nnot take the trouble to conceal--so unlike his usual complete\nindifference to suffering or danger.\n\nShe looked at him thoughtfully. There were still depths that she had\nnot fathomed in his strange character. Would she ever arrive at even a\ndistant understanding of his complex nature? There was a misty yearning\nin her eyes as they followed his tall figure up and down the tent. His\nfeet made no sound on the thick rugs, and he moved with the long,\ngraceful stride that always reminded her of the walk of a wild animal.\nHer new-found love longed for expression as she watched him. If she\ncould only tell him! If she had only the right to go to him and in his\narms to kiss away the cruel lines from his mouth! But she had not. She\nmust wait until she was called, until he should choose to notice the\nwoman whom he had taken for his pleasure, until the baser part of him\nhad need of her again. He was an Arab, and to him a woman was a slave,\nand as a slave she must give everything and ask for nothing.\n\nAnd when he did turn to her again the joy she would feel in his embrace\nwould be an agony for the love that was not there. His careless kisses\nwould scorch her and the strength of his arms would be a mockery. But\nwould he ever turn to her again? If anything happened to Gaston--if\nwhat he had suggested became a fact and the servant fell a victim to\nthe blood feud between the two tribes? She knew he would be terribly\navenged, and what would her part be? She wondered dully if he would\nkill her, and how. If the long, brown fingers with their steely\nstrength would choke the life out of her. Her hands went up to her\nthroat mechanically. He stopped near her to light a fresh cigarette,\nand she was trying to summon up courage to speak to him of Gaston when\nthe covering of the doorway was flung open and Gaston himself stood in\nthe entrance.\n\n\"Monseigneur--\" he stammered, and with his two hands outstretched, palm\nuppermost, he made an appealing gesture.\n\nThe Sheik's hand shot out and gripped the man's shoulder. \"Gaston!\n_Enfin, mon ami!_\" he said slowly, but there was a ring in his low\nvoice that Diana had never heard before.\n\nFor a moment the two men stared at each other, and then Ahmed Ben\nHassan gave a little laugh of great relief. \"Praise be to Allah, the\nMerciful, the Compassionate,\" he murmured.\n\n\"To his name praise!\" rejoined Gaston softly, then his eyes roved\naround the tent towards Diana, and there was no resentment in them, but\nonly anxiety.\n\n\"Madame is----\" he hesitated, but the Sheik cut him short.\n\n\"Madame is quite safe,\" he said dryly, and pushed him gently towards\nthe door with a few words in rapid Arabic. He stood some time after\nGaston had gone to his own quarters looking out into the night, and\nwhen he came in, lingered unusually over closing the flap. Diana stood\nhesitating. She was worn out and her long riding-boots felt like lead.\nShe was afraid to go and afraid to stay. He seemed purposely ignoring\nher. The relief of Gaston's return was enormous, but she had still to\nreckon with him for her attempted flight. That he said no word about it\nat the moment meant nothing; she knew him too well for that. And there\nwas Silver Star, the finest of all his magnificent horses--she had yet\nto pay for his death. The strain that she had gone through since the\nmorning was tremendous, she could not bear much more. His silence\naggravated her breaking nerves until she felt that her nerves would go.\nHe had moved over to the writing-table and was tearing the wrapping off\na box of cartridges preparatory to refilling the magazine of his\nrevolver. The little operation seemed to take centuries. She started at\neach separate click. She gripped her hands and passed her tongue over\nher dry lips. If he would not speak she must, she could endure it no\nlonger.\n\n\"I am sorry about Silver Star,\" she faltered, and even to herself her\nvoice sounded hoarse and strange. He did not answer, but only shrugged\nhis shoulders as he dropped the last cartridge into its place.\n\nThe gesture and his uncompromising attitude exasperated her. \"You had\nbetter have shot me,\" she said bitterly.\n\n\"Perhaps. You would have been easier replaced. There are plenty of\nwomen, but Silver Star was almost unique,\" he retorted quickly, and she\nwinced at the cold brutality of his tone.\n\nA little sad smile curved her lips. \"Yet you shot your horse to get me\nback,\" she said in a barely audible voice.\n\nHe flung round with an oath. \"You little fool! Do you know so little of\nme yet? Do you think that I will let anything stand between me and what\nI want? Do you think that by running away from me you will make me want\nyou less? By Allah! I would have found you if you had got as far as\nFrance. What I have I keep, until I tire of it--and I have not tired of\nyou yet.\" He jerked her to him, staring down at her passionately, and\nfor a moment his face was the face of a devil. \"How shall I punish\nyou?\" He felt the shudder he expected go through her and laughed as she\nshrank in his arms and hid her face. He forced her head up with\nmerciless fingers. \"What do you hate most?--my kisses?\" and with\nanother mocking laugh he crushed his mouth to hers in a long\nsuffocating embrace.\n\nThen he let her go suddenly, and, blind and dizzy, she reeled from him\nand staggered. He caught her as she swayed and swept her into his arms.\nHer head fell back against his shoulder and his face changed at the\nsight of her quivering features. He carried her into the adjoining room\nand laid her on the couch, his hands lingering as he drew them from\nher. For a moment he stood looking down with smouldering eyes on the\nslight, boyish figure lying on the bed, the ferocity dying out of his\nface. \"Take care you do not wake the devil in me again, _ma\nbelle,\"_ he said sombrely.\n\nAlone Diana turned her face into the pillows with a moan of anguish.\nBack in the desert a few hours ago, under the shining stars, when the\ntruth had first come to her, she had thought that she was happy, but\nshe knew now that without his love she would never be happy. She had\ntasted the bitterness of his loveless kisses and she knew that a worse\nbitterness was to come, and she writhed at the thought of what her life\nwith him would be.\n\n\"I love him! I love him! And I want his love more than anything in\nHeaven and earth.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nDiana was sitting on the divan in the living-room of the tent lingering\nover her _petit dejeuner_, a cup of coffee poised in one hand and\nher bright head bent over a magazine on her knee. It was a French\nperiodical of fairly recent date, left a few days before by a Dutchman\nwho was touring through the desert, and who had asked a night's\nhospitality. Diana had not seen him, and it was not until the traveller\nhad been served with dinner in his own tent that the Sheik had sent the\nusual flowery message conveying what, though wrapped in honeyed words,\namounted practically to a command that he should come to drink coffee\nand let himself be seen. Only native servants had been in attendance,\nand it was an Arab untinged by any Western influence who had received\nhim, talking only Arabic, which the Dutchman spoke fluently, and\nplacing at his disposal himself, his servants and all his belongings\nwith the perfunctory Oriental insincerity which the traveller knew\nmeant nothing and accepted at its own value, returning to the usual set\nphrases the customary answers that were expected of him. Once or twice\nas they talked a woman's subdued voice had reached the Dutchman's ears\nfrom behind the thick curtains, but he knew too much to let any\nexpression betray him, and he smiled grimly to himself at the thought\nof the change that an indiscreet question would bring to the stern face\nof his grave and impassive host. He was an elderly man with a tender\nheart, and he wondered speculatively what the girl in the next room\nwould have to pay for her own indiscretion in allowing her voice to be\nheard. He left the next morning early without seeing the Sheik again,\nescorted for some little distance by Yusef and a few men.\n\nDiana read eagerly. Anything fresh to read was precious. She looked\nlike a slender boy in the soft riding-shirt and smart-cut breeches, one\nslim foot in a long brown boot drawn up under her, and the other\nswinging idly against the side of the divan. She finished her coffee\nhastily, and, lighting a cigarette, leaned back with a sigh of content\nover the magazine.\n\nTwo months had slipped away since her mad flight, since her dash for\nfreedom that had ended in tragedy for the beautiful Silver Star and so\nunexpectedly for herself. Weeks of vivid happiness that had been mixed\nwith poignant suffering, for the perfect joy of being with him was\nmarred by the passionate longing for his love. Even her surroundings\nhad taken on a new aspect, her happiness coloured everything. The\nEastern luxury of the tent and its appointments no longer seemed\ntheatrical, but the natural setting of the magnificent specimen of\nmanhood who surrounded himself by all the display dear to the heart of\nthe native. How much was for his own pleasure and how much was for the\nsake of his followers she had never been able to determine. The\nbeauties and attractions of the desert had multiplied a hundred times.\nThe wild tribesmen, with their primitive ways and savagery, had ceased\nto disgust her, and the free life with its constant exercise and simple\nroutine was becoming indefinitely dear to her. The camp had been moved\nseveral times--always towards the south--and each change had been a\nsource of greater interest.\n\nAnd since the night that he had carried her back in triumph he had been\nkind to her--kind beyond anything that she had expected. He had never\nmade any reference to her fight or to the death of the horse that he\nhad valued so highly; in that he had been generous. The episode over,\nhe wished no further allusion to it. But there was nothing beyond\nkindness. The passion that smouldered in his dark eyes often was not\nthe love she craved, it was only the desire that her uncommon type and\nher utter dissimilarity from all the other women who had passed through\nhis hands had awakened in him. The perpetual remembrance of those other\nwoman brought her a constant burning shame that grew stronger every\nday, a shame that was only less strong than her ardent love, and a wild\njealousy that tortured her with doubts and fears, an ever-present demon\nof suggestion reminding her of the past when it was not she who lay in\nhis arms, nor her lips that received his kisses. The knowledge that the\nembraces she panted for had been shared by _les autres_ was an\nopen wound that would not heal. She tried to shut her mind to the past.\nShe knew that she was a fool to expect the abstinence of a monk in the\nstrong, virile desert man. And she was afraid for the future. She\nwanted him for herself alone, wanted his undivided love, and that he\nwas an Arab with Oriental instincts filled her with continual dread,\ndread of the real future about which she never dared to think, dread of\nthe passing of his transient desire. She loved him so passionately, so\ncompletely, that beyond him was nothing. He was all the world. She gave\nherself to him gladly, triumphantly, as she would give her life for him\nif need be. But she had schooled herself to hide her love, to yield\napathetically to his caresses, and to conceal the longing that\npossessed her. She was afraid that the knowledge that she loved him\nwould bring about the disaster she dreaded. The words that he had once\nused remained continually in her mind: \"If you loved me you would bore\nme, and I should have to let you go.\" And she hid her love closely in\nher heart. It was difficult, and it hurt her to hide it from him and to\nassume indifference. It was difficult to remember that she must make a\nshow of reluctance when she was longing to give unreservedly. She\ndropped the end of the cigarette hissing into the dregs of the coffee\nand turned a page, and, as she did so, she looked up suddenly, the\nmagazine dropping unheeded on the floor. Close outside the tent the\nsame low, vibrating baritone was singing the Kashmiri love song that\nshe had heard last the night before she left Biskra. She sat tense, her\neyes growing puzzled.\n\n_\"Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar. Where are you now? Who lies\nbeneath your spell?\"_\n\nThe voice came nearer and he swept in, still singing, and came to her.\n_\"Pale hands, pink tipped,\"_ he sang, stopping in front of her and\ncatching her fingers in his up to his lips, but she tore them away\nbefore he kissed them.\n\n\"You do know English?\" she cried sharply, her eyes searching his.\n\nHe flung himself on the divan beside her with a laugh. \"Because I sing\nan English song?\" he replied in French. \"_La! la!_ I heard a\nSpanish boy singing in 'Carmen' once in Paris who did not know a word\nof French beside the score. He learned it parrot-like, as I learn your\nEnglish songs,\" he added, smiling.\n\nShe watched him light a cigarette, and her forehead wrinkled\nthoughtfully. \"It was you who sang outside the hotel in Biskra that\nnight?\" she asked at last, more statement than question.\n\n\"One is mad sometimes, especially when the moon is high,\" he replied\nteasingly.\n\n\"And was it you who came into my bedroom and put the blank cartridges\nin my revolver?\"\n\nHis arm stole round her, drawing her to him, and he lifted her head up\nso that he could look into her eyes. \"Do you think that--I would have\nallowed anybody else to go to your room at night?--I, an Arab, when I\nmeant you for myself?\"\n\n\"You were so sure?\"\n\nHe laughed softly, as if the suggestion that any plan of his could be\nliable to miscarriage amused him infinitely, and the smouldering\npassion flamed up in his dark eyes. He strained her to him hungrily, as\nif her slim body lying against his had awakened the sleeping fires\nwithin him. She struggled against the pressure of his arm, averting her\nhead.\n\n\"Always cold?\" he chided. \"Kiss me, little piece of ice.\"\n\nShe longed to, and it almost broke her heart to persevere in her\nefforts to repulse him. A wild desire seized her to tell him that she\nloved him, to make an end once and for all of the misery of doubt and\nfear that was sapping her strength from her, and abide by the issue.\nBut the spark of hope that lived in her heart gave her courage, and she\nfought down the burning words that sought utterance, forcing\nindifference into her eyes and a mutinous pout to her lips.\n\nHis black brows drew together slowly. \"Still disobedient? You said you\nwould obey me. I loathe the English, but I thought their word----\"\n\nShe interrupted him with a quick gesture, and, turning her face to his,\nfor the first time kissed him voluntarily, brushing his tanned cheek\nwith swift, cold lips.\n\nHe laughed disdainfully. \"_Bon Dieu_! Has the hot sun of the\ndesert taught you no better than that? Have you learned so little from\nme? Has the vile climate of your detestable country frozen you so\nthoroughly that nothing can melt you? Or is there some man in England\nwho has the power to turn you from a statue to a woman?\" he added, with\nan angry snarl.\n\nShe clenched her hands with the pain of his words. \"There is no one,\"\nshe muttered, \"but I--I don't feel like that.\"\n\n\"You had better learn,\" he said thickly. \"I am tired of holding an\nicicle in my arms,\" and sweeping her completely into his masterful\ngrasp he covered her face with fierce, burning kisses.\n\nAnd for the first time she surrendered to him wholly, clinging to him\npassionately, and giving him kiss for kiss with an absolute abandon of\nall resistance. At last he let her go, panting and breathless, and\nleaped up, drawing his hand across his eyes.\n\n\"You go to my head, Diane,\" he said, with a laugh that was half anger,\nand shrugging his shoulders moved across the tent to the chest where\nthe spare arms were kept, and unlocking it took out a revolver and\nbegan to clean it.\n\nShe looked at him bewildered. What had he meant? How could she\nreconcile what he said with the advice that he had given her before?\nWas he totally inconsistent? Did he, after all, want the satisfaction\nof knowing that he had made her love him--of flattering himself on the\npower he exercised over her? Did he care that he was able to torture\nher heart with a refinement of cruelty that took all and gave nothing?\nDid he wish her to crawl abjectly to his feet to give him the pleasure\nof spurning her contemptuously, or was it only that he wanted her\nsenses merely to respond to his ardent, Eastern temperament? Her face\ngrew hot and shamed. She knew the fiery nature that was hidden under\nhis impassive exterior and knew the control he exercised over himself,\nknew, too, that the strain he put upon himself was liable to be broken\nwith unexpected suddenness. It was an easy thing to rule his wild\nfollowers, and she guessed that the relaxation that he looked for in\nthe privacy of his own tent meant more to him than he would ever have\nadmitted, than perhaps he even know. The hatred and defiance with which\nshe had repelled him had provoked and amused him, but it had also at\ntimes angered him.\n\nHe was very human, and there must have been moments when he wanted a\nwilling mate rather than a rebellious prisoner. She gave a quick sigh\nas she looked at him. He was so strong, so vigorous, so intensely\nalive. It was going to be very difficult to anticipate his moods and be\nsubservient to his temper. She sighed again wearily. If she could but\nmake him and keep him happy. She ruffled her loose curls, tugging them\nwith a puzzled frown, a trick that was a survival of her nursery days,\nwhen she clutched frantically at her red-gold mop to help her settle\nany childish difficulty.\n\nShe knelt up suddenly on the cushions of the divan. \"Why do you hate\nthe English so bitterly, Monseigneur?\" She had dropped almost\nunconsciously into Gaston's mode of address for some time; it was often\nawkward to give him no name, and she shrank from using his own; and the\ntitle fitted him.\n\nHe looked up from his work, and, gathering the materials together,\nbrought them over to the divan. \"Light me a cigarette, _cherie_,\nmy hands are busy,\" he replied irrelevantly.\n\nShe complied with a little laugh. \"You haven't answered my question.\"\n\nHe polished the gleaming little weapon in his hand for some time\nwithout speaking. \"_Ma petite_ Diane, your lips are of an adorable\nredness and your voice is music in my ears, but--I detest questions.\nThey bore me to a point of exasperation,\" he said at last lightly, and\nstarted humming the Kashmiri song again.\n\nShe knew him well enough to know that all questions did not bore him,\nbut that she must have touched some point connected with the past of\nwhich she was ignorant that affected him, and to prove her knowledge\nshe asked another question. \"Why do you sing? You have never sung\nbefore.\"\n\nHe looked at her with a smile of amusement at her pertinacity.\n\"Inquisitive one! I sing because I am glad. Because my friend is\ncoming.\"\n\n\"Your friend?\"\n\n\"Yes, by Allah! The best friend a man ever had. Raoul de Saint Hubert.\"\n\nShe flashed a look at the bookcase with a jerk of her head, and he\nnodded. \"Coming here?\" she queried, and the dismay she felt sounded in\nher voice.\n\nHe frowned in quick annoyance at her tone. \"Why not?\" he said\nhaughtily.\n\n\"No reason,\" she murmured, sinking down among the cushions again and\npicking up the magazine from the floor. The advent of a stranger--a\nEuropean--was a shock, but she felt that the Sheik's eyes were on her\nand she determined to show no feeling in his presence. \"What time will\nyou be ready to ride?\" she asked indifferently, with a simulated yawn,\nflirting over the pages.\n\n\"I can't ride with you to-day. I am going to meet Saint Hubert. His\ncourier only came an hour ago. It is two years since I have seen him.\"\n\nDiana slipped off the couch and went to the open doorway. A detachment\nof men were already waiting for him, and, close by the tent, Shaitan of\nthe ugly temper was biting and fidgeting in the hands of the grooms.\nShe scowled at the beautiful, wicked creature's flat-laid ears and\nrolling eyes. She would have backed him fearlessly herself if the Sheik\nhad let her, but she was nervous for him every time he rode the vicious\nbeast. No one but the Sheik could manage him, and though she knew that\nhe had perfect mastery over the horse, she never lost the feeling of\nnervousness, a sensation the old Diana had never, never experienced,\nand she wished to-day that it had been any other horse but Shaitan\nwaiting for him.\n\nShe went back to him slowly. \"It makes my head ache, to stay in all\nday. May Gaston not ride with me?\" she asked diffidently, her eyes\nanywhere but on his face. He had not allowed her to ride with any one\nexcept himself since her attempted escape, and to her tentative\nsuggestions that the rides with the valet might be resumed he had given\na prompt refusal. He hesitated now, and she was afraid he was going to\nrefuse again, and she looked up wistfully. \"Please, Monseigneur,\" she\nwhispered humbly.\n\nHe looked at her for a moment with his chin squarer than usual. \"Are\nyou going to run away again?\" he asked bluntly.\n\nHer eyes filled slowly with tears, and she turned her head away to hide\nthem. \"No, I am not going to run away again,\" she said very low.\n\n\"Very well, I will tell him. He will be delighted, _le bon_\nGaston. He is your very willing slave in spite of the trick you played\nhim. He has a beautiful nature, _le pauvre diable_. He is not an\nArab, eh, little Diane?\" The mocking smile was back in his eyes as he\nturned her face up to his in the usual peremptory way. Then he held out\nthe revolver he had been cleaning with sudden seriousness. \"I want you\nto carry this always now when you ride. Ibraheim Omair is still in the\nneighbourhood.\"\n\nShe looked at it blankly.\n\n\"But----\" she stammered.\n\nHe knew what was in her mind, and he stooped and kissed her lightly. \"I\ntrust you,\" he said quietly, and went out.\n\nShe followed him to the door, the revolver dangling from her hand, and\nwatched him mount and ride away. His horsemanship was superb and her\neyes glowed as they followed him. She went back into the tent and\nslipped the revolver into the holster he had left lying on a stool,\nand, tucking it and Saint Hubert's novel, which she took from the\nbookcase, under her arm, went into the bed-room and, calling to Zilah\nto pull off her riding-boots, threw herself on the bed to laze away the\nmorning, and to try and picture the author from the book he had\nwritten.\n\nShe hated him in advance; she was jealous of him and of his coming. The\nSheik's sudden new tenderness had given rise to a hope she hardly dared\nallow herself to dwell upon. Might not the power that she had exercised\nover other men be still extended to him in spite of the months that he\nhad been indifferent to anything except the mere physical attraction\nshe had for him? Was it not possible that out of that attraction might\ndevelop something finer and better than the primitive desire she had\naroused? Oriental though he was, might he not be capable of a deep and\nlasting affection? He might have loved her if no outside influence had\ncome to interrupt the routine that had become so intimately a part of\nhis life. Those other episodes to which he had referred so lightly had\nbeen a matter of days or weeks, not months, as in her case. He might\nhave cared but for the coming of this Frenchman. She hurled Saint\nHubert's book across the room in a fit of girlish rage and buried her\nhead in her arms. He would be odious--a smirking, conceited egotist!\nShe had met several French writers and she visualised him\ncontemptuously. His books were undoubtedly clever. So much the worse;\nhe would be correspondingly inflated. His novel revealed a passionate,\nemotional temperament that promised to complicate the situation if he\nshould be pleased to cast an eye of favour on her. She writhed at the\nvery thought. And that he was to see her was evident; the Sheik had\nleft no orders to the contrary. It was not to be the case of the Dutch\ntraveller, when the fact that she belonged to an Arab had been brought\nhome to her effectually by Ahmed Ben Hassan's peremptory commands, and\nshe had experienced for the first time the sensation of a woman kept in\nseclusion.\n\nThe emotions of the morning and the disappointment of the intended\nride, together with the dismay produced by the unexpected visitor, all\ncombined to agitate her powerfully, and she worked herself up into a\nfever of self-torture and unhappiness. She ended by falling asleep and\nslept heavily for some hours. Zilah waked her with a shy hand on her\narm and a soft announcement of lunch, and Diana sat up, rubbing her\neyes, flushed and drowsy. She stared uncomprehendingly for a moment at\nthe Arab girl, and then waved her away imperiously and buried her head\nin the pillows again. Lunch, when her heart was breaking!\n\nMindful of her lord's deputy, who was waiting in the next room, and\nwhom she regarded with awe, Zilah held her ground with a timid\ninsistence until Diana started up wrathfully and bade her go in tones\nthat she had never used before to the little waiting-girl. Zilah fled\nprecipitately, and, thoroughly awakened, Diana swung her heels to the\nground and with her elbows on her knees rested her hot head in her\nhands. She felt giddy, her head ached and her mouth was parched and\ndry. She got up languidly, and going to the table studied her face in\nthe mirror intently. She frowned at the reflection. She had never been\nproud of her own beauty; she had lived with it always and it had seemed\nto her a thing of no consequence, and now that it had failed to arouse\nthe love she wanted in Ahmed Ben Hassan she almost hated it.\n\n\"Are you going to have fever or are you merely bad-tempered?\" she asked\nout loud, and the sound of her own voice made her laugh in spite of her\nheavy heart. She went into the bathroom and soused her head in cold\nwater. When she came back a frightened Zilah was putting a small tray\non the brass-topped table by the bed.\n\n\"M'sieur Gaston,\" she stammered, almost crying.\n\nDiana looked at the tray, arranged with all the dainty neatness dear to\nthe valet's heart, and then at the travelling clock on the table beside\nit, and realised that it was an hour past her usual lunch-time and that\nshe was extremely hungry, after all. A little piece of paper on the\ntray caught her eye, and, picking it up, she read in Gaston's clear\nthough minute handwriting, \"At what hour does Madame desire to ride?\"\n\nThe servant clearly had no intention of giving up the programme for the\nafternoon without a struggle. She smiled as she added a figure to the\nend of the note, and went to the curtains that divided the rooms.\n\"Gaston!\"\n\n\"Madame!\"\n\nShe passed the paper silently through the curtains and went back to her\nlunch. When she sent Zilah away with the empty tray she rescued the\nVicomte de Saint Hubert's book from the floor where she had thrown it\nand tried to read it dispassionately. She turned to the title-page and\nstudied the pencilled scrawl \"Souvenir de Raoul\" closely. It did not\nlook like the handwriting of a small-minded man, but handwriting was\nnothing to go by, she argued obstinately. Aubrey, who was the essence\nof selfishness, wrote beautifully, and had once been told by an expert\nthat his writing denoted a generous love of his fellow-men, which\ndeduction had aroused no enthusiasm in the baronet, and had given his\nsister over to helpless mirth. She turned the pages, dipping here and\nthere, finally forgetting the author altogether in the book. It was a\nwonderful story of a man's love and faithfulness, and Diana pushed it\naside at last with a very bitter sigh. Things happened so in books. In\nreal life they happened very differently. She looked round the room\nwith pain-filled eyes, at the medley of her own and the Sheik's\nbelongings, her ivory toilet appointments jostling indiscriminately\namong his brushes and his razors on the dressing-table, and then at the\npillow beside her where his head rested every night. She stooped and\nkissed it with a little quivering breath. \"Ahmed. Oh, Monseigneur!\" she\nmurmured longingly. Then, with an impatient jerk of the head, she\nsprang up and dragged on her boots. She pulled a soft felt hat down\nover her eyes and picked up the revolver the Sheik had given her. She\npaused a moment, looking at it with an odd smile before buckling it\nround her slim waist. Gaston's face lit up with genuine pleasure when\nshe came out to the horses. She had felt a momentary embarrassment\nbefore she left the tent, thinking of the last time he had ridden with\nher, but she had known from the moment he came back that night that he\nbore no malice, and the look on his face and his stammered words to the\nSheik had indicated that the fear he felt for her was not for what\nmight have happened in the desert, but for what might yet happen to her\nat the hands of his master and hers.\n\nThe horse that she rode always now was pure white, not so fast as\nSilver Star and very tricky, called The Dancer, from a nervous habit of\ndancing on his hind-legs at starting and stopping, like a circus-horse.\nHe was difficult to mount, and edged away shyly as Diana tried to get\nher foot into the stirrup. But she swung up at last, and by the time\nThe Dancer had finished his display of _haute ecole_ Gaston was\nmounted. \"After riding The Dancer I feel confident to enter for the\n_Concours Hippique_,\" she laughed over her shoulder, and touched\nthe horse with her heel.\n\nShe wanted exercise primarily, hard physical exercise that would tire\nher out and keep her mind occupied and prevent her from thinking, and\nthe horse she rode supplied both needs. He required watching all the\ntime. She let him out to his full pace for his own sake and hers, and\nthe air and the movement banished her headache, and a kind of\nexhilaration came over her, making her almost happy. After a while she\nreined in her horse and waved to Gaston to come alongside. \"Tell me of\nthis Vicomte de Saint Hubert who is coming. You know him, I suppose, as\nyou have been so long with Monseigneur?\"\n\nGaston smiled. \"I knew him before Monseigneur did. I was born on the\nestate of Monsieur le Comte de Saint Hubert, the father of Monsieur le\nVicomte. I and my twin brother Henri. We both went into Monsieur's le\nComte's training stables, and then after our time in the Cavalry Henri\nbecame valet to Monsieur le Vicomte, and I came to Monseigneur.\"\n\nDiana took off her hat and rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. Fifteen\nyears ago Ahmed must have been about twenty. Why should an Arab chief\nof that age, or any age, indulge in such an anomaly as a French valet,\nor for that matter why should a French valet attach himself to an Arab\nSheik and exile himself in the wilds of the desert? Whichever way she\nturned, the mystery of the man she loved seemed to crop up. She started\narguing with herself in a circle--why should the Sheik have a European\nservant or why should he not, until she gave it up in hopeless\nconfusion.\n\nShe turned to Gaston with the intention of asking further of the coming\nvisitor, and, keeping The Dancer as still as she could, sat looking at\nthe valet with great, questioning eyes, fanning her hot face with her\nhat. Gaston, whose own horse stood like a rock, was frankly mopping his\nforehead. Dianna decided against any more questions. Gaston would\nnaturally be hopelessly biased, having been born and brought up in the\nshadow of the family, and after all she would rather judge for herself.\nOne inquiry only she permitted herself: \"The family of Saint Hubert,\nare they of the old or the new _noblesse?\"_\n\n\"Of the old, Madame,\" replied Gaston quickly.\n\nDiana coaxed her nervous mount close beside his steadier companion,\nand, thrusting his bridle and her hat into Gaston's hands, slipped to\nthe ground and walked away a little distance to the top of a small\nmound. She sat down on the summit with her back to the horses and her\narms clasped round her knees. All that the coming of this strange man\nmeant to her rushed suddenly over her. He was a man, obviously, who\nmoved in the world, her world, since he apparently travelled\nextensively and his father was wealthy enough to run a racing stable as\na hobby and was a member of the dwindling class of _ancienne\nnoblesse_. It was characteristic of her that she put first what she\ndid. How could she bear to meet one of her own order in the position in\nwhich she was? She who had been proud Diana Mayo and now--the mistress\nof an Arab Sheik? She laid her face on her knees with a shudder. The\nordeal before her cut like a knife into her heart. The pride that Ahmed\nBen Hassan had not yet killed flamed up and racked her with humiliation\nand shame, the shame that still seared her soul like a hot iron, so\nthat there were moments she could not bear even the presence of the man\nwho had made her what she was, in spite of the love she bore him, and,\npleading fever, prayed to be alone. Not that he ever granted her\nprayer, for he knew fever when he saw it, but would pull her down\nbeside him with a mocking laugh that still had the power to hurt so\nmuch. The thought of what it would be to her to meet his friend had\npresumably never entered his mind, or if it had it had made no\nimpression and been dismissed as negligible. It was the point of view,\nshe supposed drearily; the standpoint from which he looked at things\nwas fundamentally different from her own--racially and temperamentally\nthey were poles apart. To him she was only the woman held in bondage, a\nthing of no account. She sat very still for a while with her face\nhidden, until a discreet cough from Gaston warned her that time was\nflying. She went back to the horses slowly with white face and\ncompressed lips. There was the usual trouble in mounting, and her\nstrained nerves made her impatient of The Dancer's idiosyncrasies, and\nshe checked him sharply, making him rear dangerously.\n\n\"Careful, Madame,\" cried Gaston warningly.\n\n\"For whom--me or Monseigneur's horse?\" she retorted bitterly, and\nignoring her hat, which Gaston held out to her with reproachful eyes,\nshe spurred the horse viciously, making him break into a headlong\ngallop. It had got to be gone through, so get it over as soon as\npossible. And behind her, Gaston, for the first time in all his long\nservice, cursed the master he would cheerfully have died for.\n\nThe horse's nerves, like her own, were on edge, and he pulled badly,\nhis smooth satiny neck growing dark and seamed with sweat; Diana needed\nall her knowledge to control him, and she began to wonder if when they\ncame to the camp she would be able to stop him. She topped an\nundulation that was some little distance from the tents with\nmisgivings, and wrapped the reins round her hands to prevent them\nslipping through her fingers. As they neared she saw the Sheik standing\noutside his tent, with a tall, thin man beside him. She had only a\nglimpse of dark, unruly hair and a close-cut beard as she shot past,\nunable to pull up The Dancer. But just beyond the tent, with the reins\ncutting into her hands, she managed to haul him round and bring him\nback. A couple of grooms jumped to his head, but, owing to his peculiar\ntactics, landed short, and he pranced to his own satisfaction and\nDiana's rage, until the amusement of it passed and he let himself be\ncaught. Diana had done nothing to stop him once she had managed to turn\nhim. If the horse chose to behave like a fool she was not going to be\nmade to look foolish by fighting him when she knew that it was useless.\nIn the hands of the men he sidled and snorted, and, dropping the reins,\nDiana pulled off her gloves and sat for a moment rubbing her sore\nhands. Then the Sheik came forward and she slid down. Before looking at\nhim she turned and, catching at The Dancer's head, struck him angrily\nover the nose with her thick riding-gloves and watched him led away,\nplunging and protesting, pulling the gloves through her fingers\nnervously, until Ahmed Ben Hassan's voice made her turn.\n\n\"Diane, the Vicomte de Saint Hubert waits to be presented to you.\"\n\nShe drew herself up and the colour that had come into her face drained\nout of it again. Slowly she glanced up at the man standing before her,\nand looked straight into the most sympathetic eyes that her own sad,\ndefiant ones had ever seen. Only for a moment, then he bowed with a\nconventional murmur that was barely audible.\n\nHis lack of words gave her courage. \"Monsieur,\" she said coldly in\nresponse to his greeting, then turned to the Sheik without looking at\nhim. \"The Dancer has behaved abominably. Gaston, my hat, please!\nThanks.\" And vanished into the tent without a further look at any one.\n\nIt was late, but she lingered over her bath and changed with slow\nreluctance into the green dress that the Sheik preferred--a concession\nthat she despised herself for making. She had taken up the jade\nnecklace when he joined her.\n\nHe turned her to him roughly, with his hands on her shoulders, and the\nmerciless pressure of his fingers was indication enough without the\nblack scowl on his face that he was angry. \"You are not very cordial to\nmy guest.\"\n\n\"Is it required of a slave to be cordial towards her master's friends?\"\nshe replied in a stifled voice.\n\n\"What is required is obedience to my wishes,\" he said harshly.\n\n\"And is it your wish that I should please this Frenchman?\"\n\n\"It is my wish.\"\n\n\"If I were a woman of your own race----\" she began bitterly, but he\ninterrupted her.\n\n\"If you were a woman of my own race there would be no question of it,\"\nhe said coldly. \"You would be for the eyes of no other man than me. But\nsince you are not----\" He broke off with an enigmatical jerk of the\nhead.\n\n\"Since I am not you are less merciful than if I was,\" she cried\nmiserably. \"I could wish that I was an Arab woman.\"\n\n\"I doubt it,\" he said grimly. \"The life of an Arab woman would hardly\nbe to your taste. We teach our women obedience with a whip.\"\n\n\"Why have you changed so since this morning,\" she whispered, \"when you\ntold me that you trusted no one to climb to my balcony in the hotel but\nyourself? Are you not an Arab now as then? Have I become of so little\nvalue to you that you are not even jealous any more?\"\n\n\"I can trust my friend, and--I do not propose to share you with him,\"\nhe said brutally.\n\nShe winced as if he had struck her, and hid her face in her hands with\na low cry.\n\nHis fingers gripped her shoulder cruelly. \"You will do as I wish?\" The\nwords were a question, but the intonation was a command.\n\n\"I have no choice,\" she murmured faintly.\n\nHis hands dropped to his sides and he turned to leave the room, but she\ncaught his arm. \"Monseigneur! Have you no pity? Will you not spare me\nthis ordeal?\"\n\nHe made a gesture of refusal. \"You exaggerate,\" he said impatiently,\nbrushing her hand from his arm.\n\n\"If you will be merciful this once----.\" she pleaded breathlessly, but\nhe cut her short with a fierce oath. \"If?\" he echoed. \"Do you make\nbargains with me? Have you so much yet to learn?\"\n\nShe looked at him with a little weary sigh. The changing mood that she\nhad set herself to watch for had come upon him suddenly and found her\nunprepared. The gentleness of the morning had vanished and he had\nreverted to the tyrannical, arbitrary despot of two months ago. She\nknew that it was her own fault. She knew him well enough to know that\nhe was intolerant of any interference with his wishes. She had learned\nthe futility of setting her determination against his. There was one\nmaster in his camp, whose orders, however difficult, must be obeyed.\n\nHis attention had concentrated on a broken fingernail, and he turned to\nthe dressing-table for a knife. She followed him with her eyes and\nwatched him carefully trimming the nail. She had often, amongst the\nmany things that puzzled her, wondered at the fastidious care he took\nof his well-manicured hands. The light of the lamp fell full on his\nface, and there was a dull ache in her heart as she looked at him. He\ndemanded implicit obedience, and only a few hours before she had made\nup her mind to unreserved submission, and she had broken down at the\nfirst test. The proof of her obedience was a hard one, from which she\nshrank, but it was harder far to see the look of anger she had provoked\non the face of the man she loved. For two months of wild happiness it\nhad been absent, the black scowl she had learned to dread had not been\ndirected at her, and the fierce eyes had looked at her with only\nkindness or amusement shining in their dark depths. Anything could be\nborne but a continuance of his displeasure. No sacrifice was too great\nto gain his forgiveness. She could not bear his anger. She longed so\ndesperately for happiness, and she loved him so passionately, so\nutterly, that she was content to give up everything to his will. If she\ncould only get back the man of the last few weeks, if she had not\nangered him too far. She was at his feet, tamed thoroughly at last, all\nher proud, angry self-will swamped in the love that was consuming her\nwith an intensity that was an agony. Love was a bitter pain, a torment\nthat was almost unendurable, a happiness that mocked her with its\nhollowness, a misery that tortured her with visions of what might have\nbeen. She went to him slowly, and he turned to her abruptly.\n\n\"Well?\" His voice was hard and uncompromising, and the flash of his\neyes was like the tiger's in the Indian jungle.\n\nShe set her teeth to keep down the old paralysing fear.\n\n\"I will do what you want. I will do anything you want, only be kind to\nme, Ahmed,\" she whispered unsteadily. She had never called him by his\nname before; she did not even know that she had done so now, but at the\nsound of it a curious look crossed his face, and he drew her into his\narms with hands that were as gentle as they had been cruel before. She\nlet him lift her face to his, and met his searching gaze bravely.\nHolding her look with the mesmerism that he could exert when he chose,\nhe read in her face her final surrender, and knew that while it pleased\nhim to keep her he had broken her utterly to his hand. A strange\nexpression grew in his eyes as they travelled slowly over her. She was\nlike a fragile reed in his strong grasp that he could crush without an\neffort, and yet for four months she had fought him, matching his\ndetermination with a courage that had won his admiration even while it\nhad exasperated him. He knew she feared him, he had seen terror leap\ninto her flickering eyes when she had defied him most. Her defiance and\nher hatred, which had piqued him by contrast with the fawning adulation\nto which he had been accustomed and which had wearied him infinitely,\nhad provoked in him a fixed resolve to master her. Before he tired of\nher she must yield her will to him absolutely. And to-night he knew\nthat the last struggle had been made, that she would never oppose him\nagain, that she was clay in his hands to do with as he would. And the\nknowledge that he had won gave him no feeling of exultation, instead a\nvague, indefinite sense of irritation swept over him and made him swear\nsoftly under his breath. The satisfaction he had expected in his\ntriumph was lacking and the unaccountable dissatisfaction that filled\nhim seemed inexplicable. He did not understand himself, and he looked\ndown at her again with a touch of impatience. She was very lovely, he\nthought, with a strange new appreciation of the beauty he had\nappropriated, and very womanly in the soft, clinging green dress. The\nslim, boyish figure that rode with him had a charm all its own, but it\nwas the woman in her that sent the hot blood racing through his veins\nand made his heart beat as it was beating now. His eyes lingered a\nmoment on her bright curls, on her dark-fringed, pleading eyes and on\nher bare neck, startlingly white against the jade green of her gown,\nthen he put her from him.\n\n\"_Va_,\" he said gently, \"_depeche-toi_.\"\n\nShe looked after him as he went through the curtains with a long,\nsobbing sigh. She was paying a heavy price for her happiness, but she\nwould have paid a heavier one willingly. Nothing mattered now that he\nwas not angry any more. She knew what her total submission meant: it\nwas an end to all individualism, a complete self-abnegation, an\nabsolute surrender to his wishes, his moods and his temper. And she was\ncontent that it should be so, her love was prepared to endure whatever\nhe might put upon her. Nothing that he could do could alter that, and\nnothing should make her own her love. She had hidden it from him, and\nshe would hide it from him--cost what it might. Though he did not love\nher he wanted her still; she had read that in his eyes five minutes\nago, and she was happy even for that.\n\nShe turned to the glass suddenly and wrenched the silk folds off her\nshoulder. She looked at the marks of his fingers on the delicate skin\nwith a twist of the lips, then shut her eyes with a little gasp and hid\nher bruised arm hastily, her mouth quivering. But she did not blame\nhim, she had brought it on herself; she knew his mood, and he did not\nknow his own strength.\n\n\"If he killed me he could not kill my love,\" she murmured, with a\nlittle pitiful smile.\n\nThe men were waiting for her, and with a murmured apology for her\nlateness she took her place. The Sheik and his guest resumed the\nconversation that her entrance had interrupted. Diana's thoughts were\nin confusion. She felt as if she were in some wild, improbable dream.\nAn Arab Sheik, a French explorer, and herself playing the conventional\nhostess in the midst of lawless unconventionalism. She looked around\nthe tent that had become so familiar, so dear. It seemed different\nto-night, as if the advent of the stranger had introduced a foreign\natmosphere. She had grown so accustomed to the routine that had been\nimposed upon her that even the Vicomte's servant standing behind his\nmaster seemed strange. The man's likeness to his twin brother was\nstriking, the only difference being that while Gaston's face was\nclean-shaven, Henri's upper lip was hidden by a neat, dark moustache.\nThe service was, as always, perfect, silent and quick.\n\nShe glanced at the Sheik covertly. There was a look on his face that\nshe had never seen and a ring in his voice that was different even from\nthe tone she had heard when Gaston had come back on the night of her\nflight. That had been relief and the affection of a man for a valued\nservant, this was the deep affection of a man for the one chosen\nfriend, the love passing the love of women. And the jealousy she had\nfelt in the morning welled up uncontrollably. She looked from the Sheik\nto the man who was absorbing all his attention, but in his pale, clever\nface, half hidden by the close beard, she saw no trace of the\nconceited, smirking egotist she had imagined, and his voice, as low as\nthe Sheik's, but more animated, was not the voice of a man unduly\nelated or conscious of himself. And as she looked her eyes met his. A\nsmile that was extraordinarily sweet and half-sad lit up his face.\n\n\"Is it permitted to admire Madame's horsemanship?\" he asked, with a\nlittle bow.\n\nDiana coloured faintly and twisted the jade necklace round her fingers\nnervously. \"It is nothing,\" she said, with a shy smile that his\nsympathetic personality evoked in spite of herself. \"With The Dancer it\nis all foolishness and not vice. One has to hold on very tightly. It\nwould have been humiliating to precipitate myself at the feet of a\nstranger. Monseigneur would not have approved of the concession to The\nDancer's peculiarities. It is an education to ride his horses,\nMonsieur.\"\n\n\"It is a strain to the nerves to ride _beside_ some of them,\"\nreplied the Vicomte pointedly.\n\nDiana laughed with pure amusement. The man whose coming she had loathed\nwas making the dreadful ordeal very easy for her. \"I sympathise,\nMonsieur. Was Shaitan very vile?\"\n\n\"If Monsieur de Saint Hubert is trying to suggest to you that he\nsuffers from nerves, Diane,\" broke in the Sheik, with a laugh,\n\"disabuse yourself at once. He has none.\"\n\nSaint Hubert turned to him with a quick smile. _\"Et toi,_ Ahmed,\neh? Do you remember----?\" and he plunged into a flood of reminiscences\nthat lasted until the end of dinner.\n\nThe Vicomte had brought with him a pile of newspapers and magazines,\nand Diana curled up on the divan with an armful, hungry for news, but,\nsomehow, as she dipped into the batch of papers her interest waned.\nAfter four months of complete isolation it was difficult to pick up the\nthreads of current events, allusions were incomprehensible, and\ncontroversies seemed pointless. The happenings of the world appeared\ntame beside the great adventure that was carrying her on irresistibly\nand whose end she could not see and dared not think of. She pushed them\naside carelessly and kept only on her knee a magazine that served as a\npretext for her silence.\n\nWhen Gaston brought coffee the Vicomte hailed him with a gay laugh.\n\"_Enfin,_ Gaston, after two years the nectar of the gods again!\nThere is a new machine for you amongst my things, _mon ami,_\nproviding it has survived Henri's packing.\"\n\nHe brought a cup to Diana and set it on a stool beside her. \"Ahmed\nflatters himself I come to see him, Madame. I do not. I come to drink\nGaston's coffee. It has become proverbial, the coffee of Gaston. I\npropitiate him every time I come with a new apparatus for making it.\nThe last is a marvel of ingenuity. Excuse me, I go to drink it with the\nreverence it inspires. It is a rite, Madame, not a gastronomic\nindulgence.\"\n\nOnce more the sympathetic eyes looked straight into hers, and the quick\nblood rushed into her face as she bent her head again hurriedly over\nthe magazine. She knew instinctively that he was trying to help her,\ntalking nonsense with a tact that ignored her equivocal position. She\nwas grateful to him, but even his chivalry hurt. She watched him under\nher thick lashes as he went back to the Sheik and sat down beside him,\nrefusing his host's proffered cigarettes with a wry face of disgust and\na laughing reference to a \"perverted palate,\" as he searched for his\nown. The hatred she had been prepared to give him had died away during\ndinner--only the jealousy remained, and even that had changed from its\nfirst intensity to an envy that brought a sob into her throat. She\nenvied him the light that shone in the Arab's dark eyes, she envied him\nthe intonation of the soft slow voice she loved. Her eyes turned to the\nSheik. He was leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head,\ntalking with a cigarette between his teeth. His attitude towards his\nEuropean friend was that of an equal, the haughty, peremptory accent\nthat was noticeable when he spoke to his followers was gone, and a flat\ncontradiction from Saint Hubert provoked only a laugh and a gesture of\nacceptance.\n\nAs they sat talking the contrast between the two men was strongly\nmarked. Beside the Frenchman's thin, spare frame and pale face, which\ngave him an air of delicacy, the Sheik looked like a magnificent animal\nin superb condition, and his quiet repose accentuated the Vicomte's\nquick, nervous manner. Under the screen of her thick lashes Diana\nwatched them unheeded. Their voices rose and fell continuously; they\nseemed to have a great deal to say to each other, and they talked\nindiscriminately French and Arabic so that much that they said was\nincomprehensible to her. She was glad that it should be so, she did not\nwant to know what they were saying. It seemed as if they had forgotten\nher presence with the accumulated conversation of two years. She was\nthankful to be left alone, happy for the rare chance of studying the\nbeloved face unnoticed. It was seldom she had the opportunity, for when\nthey were alone she was afraid to look at him much lest her secret\nshould be betrayed in her eyes. But she looked at him now unobserved,\nwith passionate longing. She was so intent that she did not notice\nGaston come in until he seemed suddenly to appear from nowhere beside\nhis master. He murmured something softly and the Sheik got up. He\nturned to Saint Hubert.\n\n\"Trouble with one of the horses. Will you come? It may interest you.\"\n\nThey went out together, leaving her alone, and she slipped away to the\ninner room. In half-an-hour they came back, and for a few minutes\nlonger stayed chatting, then the Vicomte yawned and held out his watch\nwith a laugh. The Sheik went with him to his tent and sat down on the\nside of his guest's camp-bed. Saint Hubert dismissed the waiting Henri\nwith a nod and started to undress silently. The flow of talk and ready\nlaugh seemed to have deserted him, and he frowned as he wrenched his\nthings off with nervous irritability.\n\nThe Sheik watched him for a while, and then took the cigarette out of\nhis mouth with a faint smile. \"_Eh, bien!_ Raoul, say it,\" he said\nquietly.\n\nSaint Hubert swung round. \"You might have spared her,\" he cried.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"What? Good God, man! Me!\"\n\nThe Sheik flicked the ash from his cigarette with a gesture of\nindifference. \"Your courier was delayed, he only came this morning. It\nwas too late then to make other arrangements.\"\n\nSaint Hubert took a hasty turn up and down the tent and stopped in\nfront of the Sheik with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his\nshoulders hunched up about his ears. \"It is abominable,\" he burst out.\n\"You go too far, Ahmed.\"\n\nThe Sheik laughed cynically. \"What do you expect of a savage? When an\nArab sees a woman that he wants he takes her. I only follow the customs\nof my people.\"\n\nSaint Hubert clicked his tongue impatiently. \"Your people!--which\npeople?\" he asked in a low voice.\n\nThe Sheik sprang to his feet with flashing eyes, his hand dropping\nheavily on Saint Hubert's shoulder.\n\n\"Stop, Raoul! Not even from you----!\" he cried passionately, and then\nbroke off abruptly, and the anger died out of his face. He sat down\nagain quietly, with a little amused laugh. \"Why this sudden access of\nmorality, _mon ami?_ You know me and the life I lead. You have\nseen women in my camp before now.\"\n\nSaint Hubert dismissed the remark with a contemptuous wave of the hand.\n\"There is to comparison. You know it as well as I,\" he said succinctly.\nHe moved over slowly to the camp table, where his toilet things had\nbeen laid out, and began removing the links from the cuffs of his\nshirt. \"She is English, surely that is reason enough,\" he flung over\nhis shoulder.\n\n\"You ask me, _me_ to spare a woman because she is English? My good\nRaoul, you amuse me,\" replied the Sheik, with an ugly sneer.\n\n\"Where did you see her?\" asked Saint Hubert curiously.\n\n\"In the streets of Biskra, for five minutes, four months ago.\"\n\nThe Vicomte turned quickly. \"You love her?\" he shot out, with all the\nsuddenness of an American third degree.\n\nThe Sheik exhaled a long, thin cloud of blue smoke and watched it\neddying towards the top of the tent. \"Have I ever loved a woman? And\nthis woman is English,\" he said in a voice as hard as steel.\n\n\"If you loved her you would not care for her nationality.\"\n\nThe Sheik spat the end of his cigarette on to the floor contemptuously.\n\"By Allah! Her cursed race sticks in my throat. But for that----\" He\nshrugged his shoulders impatiently and got up from the bed on which he\nwas sitting.\n\n\"Let her go then,\" said Saint Hubert quickly. \"I can take her back to\nBiskra.\"\n\nThe Sheik turned to him slowly, a sudden flame of fierce jealousy\nleaping into his eyes. \"Has she bewitched you, too? Do you want her for\nyourself, Raoul?\" His voice was as low as ever, but there was a\ndangerous ring in it.\n\nSaint Hubert flung his hands out in a gesture of despair. \"Ahmed! Are\nyou mad? Are you going to quarrel with me after all these years on such\na pretext? _Bon Dieu!_ What do you take me for? There has been too\nmuch in our lives together ever to let a woman come between us. What is\na woman or any one to me where you are concerned? It is for quite a\ndifferent reason that I ask you, that I beg you to let this girl go.\"\n\n\"Forgive me, Raoul. You know my devilish temper,\" muttered the Sheik,\nand for a moment his hand rested on Saint Hubert's arm.\n\n\"You have not answered me, Ahmed.\"\n\nThe Sheik turned away. \"She is content,\" he said evasively.\n\n\"She has courage,\" amended the Vicomte significantly.\n\n\"As you say, she has courage,\" agreed the Sheik, without a particle of\nexpression in his voice.\n\n_\"Bon sang----\"_ quoted Saint Hubert softly.\n\nThe Sheik swung round quickly. \"How do you know she has good blood in\nher?\"\n\n\"It is very evident,\" replied Saint Hubert drily.\n\n\"That is not what you mean. What do you know?\"\n\nThe Vicomte shrugged his shoulders, and, going to his suit-case, took\nfrom it an English illustrated paper, and opening it at the central\npage handed it to the Sheik silently.\n\nAhmed Ben Hassan moved closer to the hanging lamp so that the light\nfell directly on the paper in his hands. There were two large\nfull-length photographs of Diana, one in evening dress and the other as\nthe Vicomte had first seen her, in riding breeches and short jacket,\nher hat and whip lying at her feet, and the bridle of the horse that\nwas standing beside her over her arm.\n\nUnder the photographs was written: \"Miss Diana Mayo, whose protracted\njourney in the desert is causing anxiety to a large circle of friends.\nMiss Mayo left Biskra under the guidance of a reputable caravan-leader\nfour months ago, with the intention of journeying for four weeks in the\ndesert and returning to Oran. Since the first camp nothing has been\nheard of Miss Mayo or her caravan. Further anxiety is occasioned by the\nfact that considerable unrest is reported amongst the tribes in the\nlocality towards which Miss Mayo was travelling. Her brother, Sir\nAubrey Mayo, who is detained in America as the result of an accident,\nis in constant cable communication with the French authorities. Miss\nMayo is a well-known sports-woman and has travelled widely.\"\n\nFor a long time the Sheik studied the photographs silently, then with\nslow deliberation he tore the page out of the paper and rolled it up.\n\"With your permission,\" he said coolly, and held it over the flame of\nthe little lamp by the bedside. He held it until the burning paper\ncharred to nothing in his hand and then flicked the ashes from his long\nfingers. \"Henri has seen this?\"\n\n\"Unquestionably. Henri reads all my papers,\" replied Saint Hubert, with\na touch of impatience.\n\n\"Then Henri can hold his tongue,\" said the Sheik nonchalantly,\nsearching in the folds of his waist-cloth for his case and lighting\nanother cigarette with elaborate carelessness.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" asked Saint Hubert pointedly.\n\n\"I? Nothing! The French authorities have too many affairs on hand and\ntoo high an appreciation of Ahmed Ben Hassan's horses to prosecute\ninquiries in my direction. Besides, they are not responsible.\nMademoiselle Mayo was warned of the risks she ran before she left\nBiskra. She chose to take the risks, _et voila!\"_\n\n\"Will nothing make you change your mind?\"\n\n\"I am not given to changing my mind. You know that. And, besides, why\nshould I? As I told you before, she is content.\"\n\nSaint Hubert looked him full in the face. \"Content! Cowed is the better\nword, Ahmed.\"\n\nThe Sheik laughed softly. \"You flatter me, Raoul. Do not let us speak\nany more about it. It is an unfortunate contretemps, and I regret that\nit distresses you,\" he said lightly; then with a sudden change of\nmanner he laid his hands on the Vicomte's shoulders. \"But this can make\nno difference to our friendship, _mon ami;_ that is too big a\nthing to break down over a difference of opinion. You are a French\nnobleman, and I----!\" He gave a little bitter laugh. \"I am an\nuncivilised Arab. We cannot see things in the same way.\"\n\n\"You could, but you will not, Ahmed,\" replied the Vicomte, with an\naccent of regret. \"It is not worthy of you.\" He paused and then looked\nup again with a little crooked smile and a shrug of defeat. \"Nothing\ncan ever make any difference with us, Ahmed. I can disagree with you,\nbut I can't wipe out the recollection of the last twenty years.\"\n\nA few minutes later the Sheik left him and went out into the night. He\ntraversed the short distance between the tents slowly, stopping to\nspeak to a sentry, and then pausing outside his own tent to look up at\nthe stars. The Persian hound that always slept across the entrance\nuncurled himself and got up, thrusting a wet nose into his hand. The\nSheik fondled the huge creature absently, stroking the dog's shaggy\nhead mechanically, hardly conscious of what he was doing. A great\nrestlessness that was utterly foreign to his nature had taken\npossession of him. He had been aware of it growing within him for some\ntime, becoming stronger daily, and now the coming of Raoul de Saint\nHubert seemed to have put the crowning touch to a state of mind that he\nwas unable to understand. He had never been given to thinking of\nhimself, or criticising or analysing his passing whims and fancies. All\nhis life he had taken what he wanted; nothing on which he had ever laid\neyes of desire had been denied him. His wealth had brought him\neverything he had ever wished. His passionate temper had been\ncharacteristic even when he was a child, but these strange fits of\nunreasonable irritability were new, and he searched for a cause vainly.\nHis keen eyes looked through the darkness towards the south. Was it the\nnearness of his hereditary enemy, who had presumed to come closer than\nhe had ever done before to the border of the country that Ahmed Ben\nHassan regarded as his own, that was causing this great unrest? He\nlaughed contemptuously. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than\ncoming into actual collision with the man whom he had been trained from\nboyhood to hate. As long as Ibraheim Omair remained within his own\nterritory Ahmed Ben Hassan held his hand and kept in check his fierce\nfollowers, whose eyes were turned longingly towards the debatable land,\nbut once let the robber Sheik step an inch over the border, and it was\nwar, and war until one or both of the chiefs were dead. And if he died\nwho had no son to succeed him; the huge tribe would split up in\nnumerous little families for want of a leader to keep them together,\nand it would be left to the French Government to take over, if they\ncould, the vast district that he had governed despotically. And at the\nthought he laughed again. No, it was not Ibraheim Omair who was\ntroubling him. He pushed the hound aside and went into the tent. The\ndivan where Diana had been sitting was strewn with magazines and\npapers, the imprint of her slender body still showed in the soft,\nheaped-up cushions, and a tiny, lace-edged handkerchief peeped out\nunder one of them. He picked it up and looked at it curiously, and his\nforehead contracted slowly in the heavy black scowl. He turned his\nburning eyes toward the curtains that divided the rooms. Saint Hubert's\nwords rang in his ears. \"English!\" he muttered with a terrible oath.\n\"And I have made her suffer as I swore any of that damned race should\nif they fell into my hands. Merciful Allah! Why does it give me so\nlittle pleasure?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nDiana came into the living-room one morning about a week after the\narrival of the Vicomte de Saint Hubert. She had expected to find the\nroom empty, for the Sheik had risen at dawn and ridden away on one of\nthe distant expeditions that had become so frequent, and she thought\nhis friend had accompanied him, but as she parted the curtains between\nthe two rooms she saw the Frenchman sitting at the little writing-table\nsurrounded by papers and writing quickly, loose sheets of manuscript\nlittering the floor around him. It was the first time that they had\nchanced to be alone, and she hesitated with a sudden shyness. But Saint\nHubert had heard the rustle of the curtain, and he sprang to his feet\nwith the courteous bow that proclaimed his nationality.\n\n\"Your pardon, Madame. Do I disturb you? Tell me if I am in the way. I\nam afraid I have been very untidy,\" he added, laughing apologetically,\nand looking at the heap of closely-written sheets strewing the rug.\n\nDiana came forward slowly, a faint colour rising in her face. \"I\nthought you had gone with Monseigneur.\"\n\n\"I had some work to do--some notes that I wanted to transcribe before I\nforgot myself what they meant; I write vilely. I have had a hard week,\ntoo, so I begged a day off. I may stay? You are sure I do not disturb\nyou?\"\n\nHis sympathetic eyes and the deference in his voice brought an\nunexpected lump into her throat. She signed to him to resume his work\nand passed out under the awning. Behind the tent the usual camp hubbub\nfilled the air. A knot of Arabs at a little distance were watching one\nof the rough-riders schooling a young horse, noisily critical and\noffering advice freely, undeterred by the indifference with which it\nwas received. Others lounged past engaged on the various duties\nconnected with the camp, with the Eastern disregard for time that\nrelegated till to-morrow everything that could possibly be neglected\nto-day. Near her one of the older men, more rigid in his observances\nthan the generality of Ahmed Ben Hassan's followers, was placidly\nabsorbed in his devotions, prostrating himself and fulfilling his\nritual with the sublime lack of self-consciousness of the Mohammedan\ndevotee.\n\nOutside his own tent the valet and Henri were sitting in the sun,\nGaston on an upturned bucket, cleaning a rifle, and his brother\nstretched full length on the ground, idly flapping at the flies with\nthe duster with which he had been polishing the Vicomte's riding-boots.\nBoth men were talking rapidly with frequent little bursts of gay\nlaughter. The Persian hound was lying at their feet. He raised his head\nas Diana appeared, and, rising, went to her slowly, rearing up against\nher with a paw on each shoulder, making clumsy efforts to lick her\nface, and she pushed him down with difficulty, stooping to kiss his\nshaggy head.\n\nShe looked away across the desert beyond the last palms of the oasis. A\nhaze hung round about, shimmering in the heat and blurring the outline\nof the distant hills. A tiny breeze brought the acrid smell of camels\ncloser to her, and the creaking whine of the tackling over the well\nsounded not very far away. Diana gave a little sigh. It had all grown\nso familiar. She seemed to have lived no other life beside this nomad\nexistence. The years that had gone before faded into a kind of dim\nremembrance, the time when she had travelled ceaselessly round the\nworld with her brother seemed very remote. She had existed then,\nfilling her life with sport, unconscious of the something that was\nlacking in her nature, and now she was alive at last, and the heart\nwhose existence she had doubted was burning and throbbing with a\npassion that was consuming her. Her eyes swept lingeringly around the\ncamp with a very tender light in them. Everything she saw was connected\nwith and bound up in the man who was lord of it all. She was very proud\nof him, proud of his magnificent physical abilities, proud of his hold\nover his wild turbulent followers, proud with the pride of primeval\nwoman in the dominant man ruling his fellow-men by force and fear.\n\nThe old Arab had finished his prayers and rose leisurely from his\nknees, salaaming with a broad smile. All the tribesmen smiled on her,\nand would go out of their way to win a nod of recognition from her. She\nfaltered a few words in stumbling Arabic in reply to his long, flowery\nspeech, and with a little laugh beat a hasty retreat into the tent.\n\nShe paused beside the Vicomte. \"Is it another novel?\" she asked shyly,\nindicating the steadily increasing pile of manuscript.\n\nHe turned on his chair, resting his arms on the rail, twirling a\nfountain pen between his fingers, and smiled at her as she curled up on\nthe divan with Kopec, who had followed her into the tent. \"No, Madame,\nSomething more serious this time. It is a history of this very curious\ntribe of Ahmed's. They are different in so many ways from ordinary\nArabs. They have been a race apart for generations. They have beliefs\nand customs peculiarly their own. You may, for instance, have noticed\nthe singular absence among them of the strict religious practices that\nhold among other Mohammedans. Ahmed Ben Hassan's tribe worship first\nand foremost their Sheik, then the famous horses for which they are\nrenowned, and then and then only--Allah.\"\n\n\"Is Monseigneur a Mohammedan?\"\n\nSaint Hubert shrugged. \"He believes in a God,\" he said evasively,\nturning back to his writing.\n\nDiana studied him curiously as he bent over his work. She smiled\nwhen she thought of the mental picture she had drawn of Saint Hubert\nbefore he came, and contrasted it with the real man under her eyes.\nDuring the week that he had been in the camp he had forced her\nliking and compelled her confidence by the sympathetic charm of his\nmanner. He had carried off a difficult position with a delicacy and\n_savoir-faire_ that had earned him her gratitude. He had saved her\na hundred humiliations with a tact that had been as spontaneous as it\nhad been unobtrusive. And they had the bond between them of the common\nlove they had for this strange leader of a strange tribe. What had been\nthe origin of the friendship between these utterly dissimilar men--a\nfriendship that seemed to go back to the days of their boyhood? The\nquestion intrigued her and she pondered over it, lying quietly on the\ndivan, smoothing the hound's huge head resting on her knee.\n\nThe Vicomte wrote rapidly for some time and then flung down his pen\nwith an exclamation of relief, gathered up the loose sheets from the\nfloor and, stacking them in an orderly heap on the table, swung round\non his chair again. He looked at the girl's slender little figure lying\nwith the unconsciously graceful attitude of a child against the\nheaped-up cushions, her face bent over the dog's rough, grey head, and\nhe felt an unwonted emotion stirring in him. The quick sympathy that\nshe had aroused from the first moment of seeing her had given place to\na deeper feeling that moved him profoundly, and with it a chivalrous\ndesire to protect, a longing to stand between her and the irremediable\ndisaster that loomed inevitably ahead of her.\n\nShe felt his concentrated gaze and looked up. \"You have done your\nwork?\"\n\n\"All I can do at the moment. Henri must unravel the rest; he has a\npassion for hieroglyphics. He is an invaluable person; I could never\nget on without him. He bullied me when we were boys together--at least\nthat is what I called it. He called it 'amusing Monsieur le Vicomte,'\nand for the last fifteen years he has tyrannised over me\nwholeheartedly.\" He laughed and snapped his fingers at Kopec, who\nwhined and rolled his eyes in his direction, but did not lift his head\nfrom Diana's knee.\n\nThere was a pause, and Diana continued fondling the hound absently. \"I\nhave read your books, Monsieur--all that Monseigneur has here,\" she\nsaid at last, looking up gravely.\n\nHe gave a little bow with a few murmured words that she did not catch.\n\n\"Your novel interested me,\" she went on, still stroking the hound, as\nif the nearness of the great beast helped her.\n\n\"As a rule novels bore me, the subjects they deal with have been of no\ninterest to me, but this one gripped me. It is unusual, it is\nwonderful, but--is it real?\" She had spoken dispassionately with the\nboyish candour that was characteristic, not complimenting an author on\na masterpiece, but stating a fact simply, as it appeared to her.\n\nSaint Hubert leaned forward over the back of his chair. \"In what\nway--real?\" he asked.\n\nShe looked at him squarely. \"Do you think there really exists such a\nman as you have drawn--a man who could be as tender, as unselfish, as\nfaithful as your hero?\"\n\nSaint Hubert looked away, and, picking up his pen, stabbed idly at the\nblotting-pad, drawing meaningless circles and dots, with a slow shrug.\nThe scorn in her voice and the sudden pain in her eyes hurt him.\n\n\"Do you know such a man, Monsieur, or is he wholly a creature of your\nimagination?\" she persisted.\n\nHe completed a complicated diagram on the sheet of blotting-paper\nbefore answering. \"I do know a man who, given certain circumstances,\nhas the ability to develop into such a character,\" he said eventually\nin a low voice.\n\nShe laughed bitterly. \"Then you are luckier than I. I am not very old,\nbut during the last five years I have met many men of many\nnationalities, and I have never known one who in any degree resembles\nthe _preux chevalier_ of your book. The men who have most\nintimately touched my life have not known the meaning of the word\ntenderness, and have never had a thought for any one beyond themselves.\nYou have been more fortunate in your acquaintances, Monsieur.\"\n\nA dull red crept into the Vicomte's face, and he continued looking at\nthe pen in his fingers. \"Beautiful women, Madame,\" he said slowly,\n\"unfortunately provoke in some men all that is basest and vilest in\ntheir natures. No man knows to what depths of infamy he may stoop under\nthe stress of a sudden temptation.\"\n\n\"And the woman pays,\" cried Diana vehemently. \"Pays for the beauty God\ncurses her with--the beauty she may hate herself; pays until the beauty\nfades. How much----\" She pulled herself up short, biting her lips.\nMoved by the sense of the sympathy that had unconsciously been\ninfluencing her during the past week and which had shaken the\nself-suppression that she had imposed upon herself, her tongue had run\naway with her. She was afraid of the confidence that his manner was\nalmost demanding of her. Her pride restrained her from the compassion\nthat her loneliness had nearly yielded to.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" she said coldly, \"my ideas cannot possibly interest you.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, you interest me profoundly,\" he corrected quickly.\n\nShe noticed the slight difference in his words and laughed more\nbitterly than before. \"As what?--a subject for vivisection? Get on your\noperating coat and bring your instruments without delay. The victim is\nall ready for you. It will be 'copy' for your next book!\"\n\n\"Madame!\"\n\nHe had sprung to his feet, and she looked up at him miserably, her hand\nheld out in swift contrition. \"Oh, forgive me! I shouldn't have said\nthat. You haven't deserved it. You have been--kind. I am grateful.\nForgive me and my rudeness. It must be the heat, it makes one very\nirritable, don't you think?\"\n\nHe ignored her pitiful little subterfuge and raised her outstretched,\nquivering fingers to his lips. \"If you will honour me with your\nfriendship,\" he said, with a touch of the old-world chivalry that was\noften noticeable in him, \"my life is at your service.\"\n\nBut as he spoke his voice changed. The touch of her cold fingers sent a\nrush of feeling through him that for an instant overpowered him.\n\nShe let her hand lie in his, and for a few moments she avoided his eyes\nand looked down at the rough head in her lap. Then she met his gaze\nfrankly. \"Your offer is too rare a thing to put on one side. If you\nwill be my friend, as you are Monseigneur's friend----\" she faltered,\nturning her head away, and her fingers lying in his trembled slightly.\n\nHe started and crushed the hand he was holding unknowingly, as the\nthought was forced on him. Monseigneur's friend! He realized that in\nthe last few moments he had forgotten the Sheik, had forgotten\neverything, swept off his feet by an intense emotion that staggered him\nwith its unexpectedness, except the loveliness and helplessness of the\ngirl beside him. His head was reeling; his calmness, his loyalty, his\nearlier feelings of dispassionate pity had given way to an extreme\nagitation that was rushing him headlong and threatening to overwhelm\nhim. His heart beat furiously and he clenched his teeth, fighting to\nregain his usual _sang-froid_. The emotional temperament that\nDiana had divined from his novel had sprung uppermost with a bound,\noverthrowing the rigid repression of years. The blood beat in his ears\nas he strove to master himself, to crush the madness that had come upon\nhim.\n\nHe had closed his eyes with the shock of self-revelation, he opened\nthem now and looked down at her hesitatingly, almost fearfully,\nclasping her hand closer in his and leaning nearer to her, drawn\nirresistibly by the intoxication of her nearness. He saw her through a\nmist that cleared gradually, saw that she was ignorant of the emotion\nshe had awakened in him, and, conscious only of his sympathy, had left\nher hand in his as she would have left it in her brother's. She was\nbent low over the hound, her face almost touching his big head, and as\nSaint Hubert looked a glistening tear dropped on Kopec's rough, grey\nneck. She had forgotten him, forgotten even that he was standing beside\nher, in the one predominant thought that filled her mind. With an\nimmense effort he got command of himself. Somehow he must conquer this\nsudden insanity. The loyalty that had hung trembling in the balance\nreasserted itself and a self-disgust seized him. He had been within an\nace of betraying the man who had been for twenty years nearer to him\nthan a brother. She belonged to his friend, and now he had not even the\nright to question the ethics of the Sheik's possession of her. The calm\nthat he had lost came back to him. The wound would heal though it might\nalways throb, but he was strong enough to hide its existence even from\nthe jealous eyes that had watched him ceaselessly since his outburst on\nthe night of his arrival. He had been conscious of them daily. Even\nthis morning the Sheik had made every effort short of a direct command\nto induce him to go with him on the expedition that had taken him away\nso early. Sure of himself now, he lifted her fingers to his lips again\nreverently with a kind of renunciation in his kiss, and laid her hand\ndown gently. He turned away with a smothered sigh and a little pang at\nher complete absorption, and, as he did so, Henri came in quickly.\n\n\"Monsieur le Vicomte! Will you come? There has been an accident.\"\n\nWith a cry that Saint Hubert never forgot Diana leaped to her feet, her\nface colourless, and her lips framed the word \"Ahmed,\" though no sound\ncame from them. She was shaking all over, and the Vicomte put his arm\nround her instinctively. She clung to him, and he knew with a bitter\ncertainty that the support of a table or a chair would have meant no\nless to her.\n\n\"What is it, Henri?\" he said sharply, with a slight movement that\ninterposed himself between Diana and his servant.\n\n\"One of the men, Monsieur le Vicomte. His gun burst, and his hand is\nshattered.\"\n\nSaint Hubert nodded curtly towards the door and turned his attention to\nDiana. She sank down on the divan and, gathering the hound's head in\nher arm, buried her face in his neck. \"Forgive me,\" she murmured, her\nvoice muffled in the rough, grey hair. \"It is stupid of me, but he is\nriding that brute Shaitan to-day. I am always nervous. Please go. I\nwill come in a minute.\"\n\nHe went without a word. \"I am always nervous.\" The tales he had heard\nof Diana Mayo as he passed through Biskra did not include nerves. His\nface was set as he ran hurriedly across the camp.\n\nDiana sat quite still after he had gone until the nervous shuddering\nceased, until Kopec twisted his head free of her arms and licked her\nface with an uneasy whine. She brushed her hand across her eyes with a\ngasp of relief, and went out into the bright sunlight with the hound at\nher heels.\n\nThe noisy clamour of excited voices guided her to the scene of the\naccident, and the surrounding crowd opened to let her pass through. The\nwounded man was sitting holding up his hand stoically for Saint\nHubert's ministrations with a look of mild interest on his face. In\nresponse to Diana's smile and cheery word he grinned sheepishly with a\nroll of his fine eyes. Saint Hubert looked up quickly. \"It is not a\npleasant sight,\" he said doubtfully.\n\n\"I don't mind. Let me hold that,\" she said quietly, rolling up her\nsleeves and taking a crimson-spattered basin from Henri. Saint Hubert\nflashed another look at her, marvelling at her steady voice and even\ncolour when he thought of the white-faced girl who had clung trembling\nto him ten minutes earlier. Outside of Ahmed Ben Hassan she still\nretained the fearless courage that she had always had; it was only when\nanything touched him nearly that the new Diana, with the coward anxiety\nof love, rose paramount.\n\nShe watched the Vicomte's skilful treatment of the maimed hand with\ninterest. There was a precision in his movement and a deft touch that\nindicated both knowledge and practise. \"You are a doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, without looking up from his work, \"I studied when I was\na young man and passed all the necessary examinations. It is\nindispensable when one travels as I do. I have found it invaluable.\"\n\nHe took up some dressing that Henri held ready for him, and Diana\nhanded the now unwanted bowl to Gaston. She looked again at the Arab,\nwhose impassive face showed no sign of any feeling. \"Does he feel it\nvery much, do you think?\" she asked the valet.\n\nHe laughed and shrugged his shoulders. \"Less than I should, Madame.\nWhat is really troubling him is the thought of what Monseigneur will\nsay when he hears that Selim was fool enough to buy a worthless gun\nfrom one of the servants of the Dutchman who passed here last week,\"\nand he added a few teasing words in Arabic which made Selim look up\nwith a grimace.\n\nSaint Hubert finished adjusting the bandages and stood up, wiping the\nperspiration from his forehead.\n\n\"Will he do all right now?\" asked Diana anxiously.\n\n\"I think so. The thumb is gone, as you saw, but I think I can save the\nrest of the hand. I will watch him carefully, but these men of Ahmed's\nare in such excellent condition that I do not think there will be any\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"I am going to ride,\" said Diana, turning away. \"It is rather late, but\nthere is just time. Will you come?\"\n\nIt was a temptation and he hesitated, gathering together the\ninstruments he had been using, but prudence prevailed.\n\n\"I should like to, but I ought to keep an eye on Selim,\" he said\nquietly, snatching at the plausible excuse that offered. He found her\nlater before the big tent as she was ready to start, and waited while\nshe mounted.\n\n\"If I am late don't wait for me. Tell Henri to give you your lunch,\"\nshe called out between The Dancer's idiotic prancings.\n\nHe watched her ride away, with Gaston a few paces behind and followed\nby the escort of six men that the Sheik had lately insisted upon. The\ncontinual presence of these six men riding at her heels irked her\nconsiderably. The wild, free gallops that she had loved became quite\ndifferent with the thought of the armed guard behind her. They seemed\nto hamper her and put a period to her enjoyment. The loneliness of her\nrides had been to her half their charm; she had grown accustomed to and\noblivious of Gaston, but she was acutely conscious of the six pairs of\neyes watching her every movement. She did not see the necessity for\nthem. She had never been aware of anything any time when she was riding\nthat seemed to justify the Sheik's order. The oasis was not on a\ncaravan route, and if she ever saw Arabs at any distance from the camp\nthey always proved to be Ahmed Ben Hassan's own men. She had thought of\nremonstrating with him, but her courage had failed her. His mood, since\nthe coming of Saint Hubert, had been of the coldest--almost repellant.\nThe weeks of happiness that had gone before had developed the intimacy\nbetween them almost into a feeling of camaraderie. He had been more\nhumane, more Western, more considerate than he had ever been, and the\nfear that she had of him had lain quiescent. She could have asked him\nthen. But since the morning of Raoul's arrival, when the unexpected\nfervour of his embrace had given new birth to the hope that had almost\ndied within her, he had changed completely into a cold reserve that\nchilled her. His caresses had been careless and infrequent, and his\nindifference so great that she had wondered miserably if the flame of\nhis passion for her was burning out and if this was the end. And yet\nthroughout his indifference she had been conscious, like Saint Hubert,\nof the surveillance of constant jealous eyes that watched them both\nwith a fierce scrutiny that was felt rather than actually seen. But the\nspark of hope that the knowledge of this jealousy still fanned was not\ngreat enough to overcome the barrier that his new mood had raised\nbetween them. She dared ask no favour of him now. Her heart tightened\nat the thought of his indifference. It hurt so. This morning he had\nleft her without a word when he had gone out into the early dawn, and\nshe was hungry for the kisses he withheld. She was used to his taciturn\nfits, but her starved heart ached perpetually for tangible recognition.\nLove, the capacity for which she had so long denied, had become a force\nthat, predominating everything, held her irresistibly. The accumulated\naffection that, for want of an outlet, had been stemmed within her, had\nburst all restraint, and the love that she gave to the man to whom she\nhad surrendered her proud heart was immeasurable--a love of infinite\ntenderness and complete unselfishness, a love that had made her\nstrangely humble. She had yielded up everything to him, he dominated\nher wholly. Her imperious will had bent before his greater\ndetermination, and his mastery over her had provoked a love that craved\nfor recompense. She only lived for him and for the hope of his love,\nengulfed in the passion that enthralled her. Her surrender had been no\ncommon one. The feminine weakness that she had despised and fought\nagainst had triumphed over her unexpectedly without humiliating\nthoroughness. Sex had supervened to overthrow all her preconceived\nnotions. The womanly instincts that under Aubrey's training had been\nsuppressed and undeveloped had, in contact with the Sheik's vivid\nmasculinity and compelling personality, risen to the surface with\nstartling completeness.\n\nTo-day she was almost desperate. His callousness of the morning had\nwounded her deeply, and a wave of rebellion welled up in her. She would\nnot be thrown aside without making any effort to fight for his love.\nShe would use every art that her beauty and her woman's instinct gave\nher. Her cheek burned as she thought of the role she was setting\nherself. She would be no better than \"those others\" whose remembrance\nstill made her shiver. But she crushed down the repugnant feeling\nresolutely, flinging up her head with the old haughty gesture and\ndrawing herself straighter in the saddle with compressed lips. She had\nendured so much already that she could even bear this further outrage\nto her feelings. At no matter what cost she must make him care for her.\nThough she loathed the means she would make him love her. But even as\nshe planned the doubt of her ability to succeed crept into her mind,\ntorturing her with insidious recollections.\n\nAhmed Ben Hassan was no ordinary man to succumb to the fascinations of\na woman. She had experienced his obstinacy, and knew the inflexibility\nof his nature. His determination was a rock against which she had been\nbroken too many times not to know its strength. For a moment she\ndespaired, then courage came to her again, thrusting away the doubts\nthat crowded in upon her and leaving the hope that still lingered in\nher heart. A faint tremulous smile curved her lips, and she looked up,\nforcing her thoughts back to the present with an effort.\n\nAt the beginning of the ride they had passed several vedettes sitting\nmotionless on their impatient horses. The men had swung their rifles\nhigh in the air in salute as she passed, and once or twice Gaston had\nshouted a question as he galloped after her. But for the last hour they\nhad seen no one. The desert was undulating here, rising and falling in\nshort, sharp declivities that made a wide outlook impossible.\n\nGaston spurred to Diana's side. \"Will Madame please to turn?\" he said\nrespectfully. \"It is late, and it is not safe riding amongst these\nslopes. One cannot see what is coming and I am afraid.\"\n\n\"Afraid, Gaston?\" she rallied laughingly.\n\n\"For you, Madame,\" he answered gravely.\n\nShe reined in The Dancer as she spoke; but it was too late. Even as she\nturned her horse's head innumerable Arabs seemed to spring up on all\nsides of them. Before she realised what was happening her escort\nflashed past and wheeled in behind her, shooting steadily at the horde\nof men who poured in upon them, and, with a groan, Gaston seized her\nbridle and urged the horses back in the direction from which they had\ncome. The noise was deafening, the raucous shouting of the Arabs and\nthe continuous sharp crack of the rifles. Bullets began to whizz past\nher.\n\nGaston tucked his reins under his knee, and with one hand grasping The\nDancer's bridle and his revolver in the other, rode looking back over\nhis shoulder. Diana, too, glanced behind her, and mechanically her\nfingers closed over the shining little weapon that the Sheik had given\nher the previous week. She saw with a sudden sickening the six men who\nhad formed her escort beaten back by the superior numbers that enclosed\nthem on every side. Already two were down and the rest were on foot,\nand, as she watched, they were swallowed up in the mass of men that\npoured over them, and, at the same time, a party of about twenty\nhorsemen detached themselves from the main body and galloped towards\nher and Gaston.\n\nShe seized his arm. \"Can't we do something? Can't we help them? We\ncan't leave them like that,\" she gasped, wrenching the revolver from\nthe holster at her waist.\n\n\"No, no, Madame, it is impossible. It is a hundred to six. You must\nthink of yourself. Go on, Madame. For God's sake, ride on. We may have\na chance.\" He loosed her bridle and dropped behind her, interposing\nhimself between her and the pursuing Arabs. A fierce yelling and a hail\nof bullets that went wide made Diana turn her head as she crouched low\nin the saddle. She realised the meaning of Gaston's tactics and checked\nher horse deliberately.\n\n\"I won't go first. You must ride with me,\" she cried, wincing as a\nbullet went close by her.\n\n\"_Mon Dieu!_ What are you stopping for? Do you think I can face\nMonseigneur if anything happens to you, Madame?\" replied Gaston\nfiercely. \"Do as I tell you. Go on!\" Deference was gone in the fear\nthat roughened his voice.\n\nHe looked back and his face grew grey. For himself he had no fear, but\nfor the girl beside him he dared not even think. They were Ibraheim\nOmair's men who had trapped them, and he cursed his folly in allowing\nDiana to come so far. Yet it had seemed safe enough. The scout's\nreports had lately proved that the robber Sheik had up to now respected\nthe boundary line between the two territories. This must be a sudden\ntentative raid which had met with unlooked-for success. The bait would\nbe too tempting to allow of any slackening on the part of the raiders.\nThe white woman, who was Ahmed Ben Hassan's latest toy, and his\nservant, whom he was known to value so highly, would be a prize that\nwould not be lightly let go. For himself it would be probably torture,\ncertainly death, and for her----! He set his teeth as he looked at her\nand the perspiration poured down his face. He would kill her himself\nbefore it came to that. And as he looked she turned her head, and met\nhis agonised eyes for a moment, smiling bravely. He had refrained up\ntill now from shooting, trying to reserve his ammunition for a last\nresource, but he saw that he must delay no longer. He fired slowly and\nsteadily, picking his men with careful precision. It was a forlorn\nhope, but by checking the leaders even for a few moments he might gain\ntime. The accuracy of his aim, that every time proved effectual, might\nkeep back the onrush until they got clear of the undulating country,\nuntil they got out into the open where the sounds of the firing might\nreach some of the outpost sentinels, until they got too near to the\nSheik's camp for pursuit to be possible. The bullets pattered\ncontinuously round them, but the men who fired them were not Ahmed Ben\nHassan's carefully trained marksmen. But still Gaston knew that their\nposition was almost hopeless. Any moment a bullet might reach one of\nthem.\n\nTheir pursuers, too, seemed to guess his thoughts and opened out into\nan irregular, extended line, swerving and manoeuvring continually,\nmaking accurate shooting impossible, while they urged their horses to a\nterrific pace trying to outflank them. Diana was shooting now. The\nthought of her escort's annihilation and her own and Gaston's peril had\novercome the reluctance she had had at first, and she had even a moment\nto wonder at her coolness. She did not feel afraid, the death of\nAhmed's men had made her angry, a fierce revengeful anger that made her\nsee red and filled her with a desire to retaliate in kind. She fired\nrapidly, emptying her revolver, and she had just reloaded with steady\nfingers when The Dancer stumbled, recovering himself for a few steps,\nand then lurched slowly over on to his side, blood pouring from his\nmouth. Diana sprang clear, and in a moment Gaston was beside her,\nthrusting her behind him, shielding her with his own body, and firing\nsteadily at the oncoming Arabs.\n\nThe same feeling of unreality that she had experienced once before the\nfirst day in the Sheik's camp came over her. The intense stillness--for\nthe Arabs had ceased shouting--the hot, dry sand with the shimmering\nheat haze rising like mist from its whispering surface, the cloudless\ndeep blue sky overhead, the band of menacing horsemen circling nearer\nand nearer, the dead Dancer, with Gaston's horse standing quietly\nbeside his prostrate companion, and lastly, the man beside her, brave\nand devoted to the end, all seemed fantastic and unreal. She viewed it\ndispassionately, as if she were a spectator rather than a participant\nin the scene. But for a moment only, then the reality of the situation\ncame clearly to her again. Any minute might mean death for one or other\nor both of them, and with an instinctive movement she pressed closer to\nGaston. They were both silent, there seemed nothing to say. The valet's\nleft hand clenched over hers at the involuntary appeal for\ncompanionship that she made, and she felt it contract as a bullet\ngashed his forehead, blinding him for a moment with the blood that\ndripped into his eyes. He let go her hand to brush his arm across his\nface, and as he did so the Arabs with suddenly renewed shouting bore\ndown upon them.\n\nGaston turned sharply and Diana read his purpose in the horror in his\neyes. She held up her head with a little nod and the same brave smile\non her white lips. \"Please,\" she whispered, \"quickly!\" A spasm crossed\nhis face, \"Turn your head,\" he muttered desperately. \"I cannot do it if\nyou----\"\n\nThere was a rattle of shots, and with a gasp he crumpled up against\nher. For a moment it was pandemonium. Standing over Gaston's body she\nfired her last shot and flung the empty revolver in the face of a man\nwho sprang forward to seize her. She turned with a desperate hope of\nreaching Gaston's horse, but she was hemmed in, and for a second she\nstood at bay, hands clenched and teeth set, braving the wild faces that\nsurrounded her, and were closing in upon her, with flashing defiant\neyes. Then she was conscious of a crashing blow on her head, the ground\nheaved up under her feet, everything went black before her eyes, and\nwithout a sound she fell senseless.\n\nLate in the afternoon Saint Hubert was still writing in the big tent.\nHenri had deciphered the notes that had baffled his master in the\nmorning, and the Vicomte had taken advantage of the solitude to do some\nlong-neglected work. He had forgotten the time, forgotten to be\nsurprised at Diana's continued absence, immersed in the interesting\nsubject he was dealing with, and not realising the significance of her\ndelayed return. Ahmed had spoken of the proximity of his hereditary\nenemy, but Saint Hubert had not grasped how near the robber Sheik had\nventured.\n\nHe was too engrossed to notice the usual noise in the camp that\nheralded the Sheik's arrival, and he looked up with a start when Ahmed\nBen Hassan swept in. The Sheik's dark eyes glanced sombrely around the\ntent and without a word he went through into the inner room. In a\nmoment he came hack.\n\n\"Where is Diane?\"\n\nSaint Hubert got up, puzzled at his tone. He looked at his watch. \"She\nwent for a ride this morning. _Dieu!_ I had no idea it was so\nlate.\"\n\n\"This morning!--and not back yet?\" repeated the Sheik slowly. \"What\ntime this morning?\"\n\n\"About ten, I think,\" replied Saint Hubert uneasily. \"I'm not sure. I\ndidn't look. There was an accident, and she delayed to watch me tie up\none of your foolish children who had been playing with a worthless\ngun.\"\n\nThe Sheik moved over to the doorway. \"She had an escort?\" he asked\ncurtly.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAhmed Ben Hassan's face hardened and the heavy scowl contracted his\nblack brows. Had she all these weeks been tricking him--feigning a\ncontent she did not feel, lulling his suspicions to enable her to seize\nanother opportunity to attempt to get away? For a moment his face grew\ndark, then he put the thought from him. He trusted her. Only a week\nbefore she had given him her word, and he knew she would not lie to\nhim. And, besides, the thing was impossible. Gaston would never be\ncaught napping a second time, and there were also the six men who\nformed her guard. She would never be able to escape the vigilance of\nseven men. But it was the trust he had in her that weighed most with\nhim. He had never trusted a woman before, but this woman had been\ndifferent. The others who had come and gone so lightly had not even\nleft a recollection behind them; they had faded into one concrete cause\nof utter boredom. There had never been any reason to trust or mistrust\nthem, or to care if they came or went. Satiety had come with possession\nand with it indifference. But the emotion that this girl's uncommon\nbeauty and slender boyishness had aroused in him had not diminished\nduring the months she had been living in his camp. Her varying moods,\nher antagonism, her fits of furious rage, and, lastly, her unexpected\nsurrender, had kept his interest alive. He had grown accustomed to her.\nHe had come to looking forward with a vague, indefinite pleasure, on\nreturning from his long expeditions, to seeing the dainty little figure\ncurled up among the cushions on the big divan. Her presence seemed to\npervade the atmosphere of the whole tent, changing it utterly. She had\nbecome necessary to him as he had never believed it possible that a\nwoman could be. And with the change that she had made in his camp there\nhad come a change in himself also.\n\nFor the first time a shadow had risen between him and the man whose\nfriendship had meant everything to him since, as a lad of fifteen, he\nhad come under the influence of the young Frenchman, who was three\nyears his senior. He realized that since the night of Raoul's arrival\nhe had been seething with insensate jealousy. He had relied on the\nWestern tendencies that prompted him to carry off the difficult\nsituation, but his ingrained Orientalism had broken through the\nsuperficial veneer. He was jealous of every word, every look she gave\nSaint Hubert. Pride had prevented an open rupture with the Vicomte this\nmorning, but he had ridden away filled with a cold rage that had\naugmented every hour and finally driven him back earlier than he had\nintended, riding with a recklessness that had been apparent even to his\nmen. The sight of Raoul sitting alone absorbed in his work had in part\nallayed his suspicions, and he had gone on into the other room with a\nfeeling of new expectancy that had changed to a sudden chill at its\nemptiness. The vacant room had brought home to him abruptly all that\nthe girl meant to him. A latent anxiety crept into his eyes.\n\nHe went out under the awning and clapped his hands, and a servant\nanswered the summons almost immediately. He gave an order and waited,\nhis hands thrust into the folds of his waist-cloth and his teeth\nclenched on a cigarette that he had forgotten to light.\n\nSaint Hubert joined him. \"What do you think?\" he asked, with a touch of\ndiffidence.\n\n\"I don't know what to think,\" replied the Sheik shortly.\n\n\"But is there any real danger?\"\n\n\"There is always danger in the desert, particularly when that devil is\nabroad.\" He motioned to the south with an impatient jerk of his head.\n\nSaint Hubert's breath whistled sharply through his teeth. \"My God! You\ndon't imagine----\"\n\nBut the Sheik only shrugged his shoulders and turned to Yusef, who had\ncome up with half-a-dozen men. There was a rapid interchange of\nquestions and answers, some brief orders, and the men hurried away in\ndifferent directions, while Ahmed Ben Hassan turned again to Saint\nHubert.\n\n\"They were seen by three of the southern patrols this morning, but of\ncourse it was nobody's business to find out if they had come back or\nnot. I will start at once--in about ten minutes. You will come with me?\nGood! I have sent for reinforcements, who are to follow us if we are\nnot back in twelve hours.\" His voice was expressionless, and only Raoul\nde Saint Hubert, who had known him since boyhood, could and did\nappreciate the significance of a fleeting look that crossed his face as\nhe went back into the tent.\n\nFor a moment the Vicomte hesitated, but he knew that not even he was\nwanted inside that empty tent, and a half-bitter, half-sad feeling that\nthe perfect friendship and confidence that had existed between them for\ntwenty years would never again be the same came to them, the regretful\nsense of inevitable change, the consciousness of personal relegation.\nThen fear for Diana drove out every other consideration, and he went to\nhis own quarters with a heavy heart.\n\nWhen he came back in a few minutes with Henri following him the camp\nhad undergone a transformation. With the promptness of perfect\ndiscipline the hundred men who had been chosen to go on the expedition\nwere already waiting, each man standing by his horse, and the Sheik,\nquiet and impassive as usual, was superintending the distribution of\nextra ammunition. A groom was walking The Hawk slowly up and down, and\nYusef, whose gloomy eyes had been fixed reproachfully on his chief,\nchafing against the order to remain behind to take command of the\nreinforcements should they be needed, went to him and took the horse's\nbridle from him and brought him to the Sheik. Even as he held the\nstirrup Saint Hubert could see that he was expostulating with an\nunusual insistence, begging for permission to accompany them. But the\nSheik shook his head, and the young man stood sullenly aside to avoid\nThe Hawk's hoofs as he reared impatiently.\n\nAhmed Ben Hassan motioned Saint Hubert to his side and in silence the\ncavalcade started at the usual swift gallop. The silence impressed\nRaoul, who was accustomed to the Arab's usual clamour. It affected his\nsensitive temperaments, filling him with a sinister foreboding. The\nsilent band of stern-faced horsemen riding in close and orderly\nformation behind them suggested something more than a mere relief\nparty. The tradition of reckless courage and organised fighting\nefficiency that had made the tribe known and feared for generations had\nbeen always maintained, and under the leadership of the last two\nholders of the hereditary name to so high a degree that the respect in\nwhich it was held was such that no other tribe had ventured to dispute\nits supremacy, and for many years its serious fighting capacities had\nnot been tested.\n\nEven Ibraheim Omair had inherited a feud that was largely traditional.\nOnly once during the lifetime of the last Ahmed Ben Hassan had he dared\nto come into open conflict, and the memory of it had lasted until now.\nSkirmishes there had been and would always be inevitably sufficient to\nkeep the tribesmen in a state of perpetual expectancy, and for this\nAhmed Ben Hassan preserved the rigid discipline that prevailed in his\ntribe, insisting on the high standard that had kept them famous. The\nlife-work that his predecessor had taken over from his father the\npresent Ahmed Ben Hassan had carried on and developed with autocratic\nperseverance. The inborn love of fighting had been carefully fostered\nin the tribe, the weapons with which they were armed were of the newest\npattern. Raoul knew with perfect certainty that to the picked men\nfollowing them this hasty expedition meant only one thing--war, the war\nthat they had looked forward to all their lives, precipitated now by an\naccident that gave to a handful of them the chance that hundreds of\ntheir fellow-tribesmen were longing for, a chance that sent them\njoyfully behind their chief, careless whether the reinforcements that\nhad been sent for arrived in time or not. The smallness of their\nnumbers was a source of pleasure rather than otherwise; if they won\nthrough to them would be the glory of victory; if they were annihilated\nwith them would rest the honour of dying with the leader whom they\nworshipped, for not one of them doubted that Ahmed Ben Hassan would not\nsurvive his bodyguard, the flower of his tribe, the carefully chosen\nmen from whose ranks his personal escort was always drawn. With them he\nwould crush his hereditary enemy or with them he would die.\n\nThe short twilight had gone and a brilliant moon shone high in the\nheavens, illuminating the surrounding country with a clear white light.\nAt any other time the beauty of the scene, the glamour of the Eastern\nnight, the head-long gallop in company with this band of fierce\nfighting men would have stirred Saint Hubert profoundly. His artistic\ntemperament and his own absolute fearlessness and love of adventure\nwould have combined to make the expedition an exciting experience that\nhe would not willingly have foregone. But the reason for it all, the\nperil of the girl whom he loved so unexpectedly, changed the whole\ncolour of the affair, tinging it with a gravity and a suspense that\nleft a cold fear in his heart. And if to him, what then to the man\nbeside him? The question that Ahmed Ben Hassan had negatived so\nscornfully a week before had been answered differently in the swift\nlook that had crossed his face this evening. He had not spoken since\nthey started, and Saint Hubert had not felt able to break the silence.\nThey had left the level country and were in amongst the long,\nsuccessive ranges of undulating ground, the summits standing out silver\nwhite in the gleaming moonlight, the hollows filled with dark shadow,\nlike black pools of deep, still water. And at the bottom of one of the\nslopes the Sheik pulled up suddenly with a low, hissing exclamation. A\nwhite shape was lying face downwards, spread-eagled on the sand, almost\nunder The Hawk's feet, and at their approach two lean, slinking forms\ncantered away into the night. The Sheik and Henri reached the still\nfigure simultaneously and Saint Hubert almost as quickly. He made a\nhurried examination. The bullet that had stunned Gaston had glanced\noff, leaving an ugly cut, and others that had hit him at the same time\nhad ploughed through his shoulder, breaking the bone and causing\nbesides wounds that had bled freely. He had staggered more than a mile\nbefore he had fainted again from loss of blood. He came to under Saint\nHubert's handling, and lifted his heavy eyes to the Sheik, who was\nkneeling beside him.\n\n\"Monseigneur--Madame--Ibraheim Omair,\" he whispered weakly, and\nrelapsed into unconsciousness.\n\nFor a moment the Sheik's eyes met Raoul's across his body, and then\nAhmed Ben Hassan rose to his feet. \"Be as quick as you can,\" he said,\nand went back to his horse. He leaned against The Hawk, his fingers\nmechanically searching for and lighting a cigarette, his eyes fixed\nunseeingly on the group around Gaston. The valet's broken words had\nconfirmed the fear that he had striven to crush since he discovered\nDiana's absence.\n\nHe had only seen Ibraheim Omair once when, ten years before, he had\ngone with the elder Ahmed Ben Hassan to a meeting of the more powerful\nchiefs at Algiers, arranged under the auspices of the French\nGovernment, to confer on a complicated boundary question that had\nthreatened an upheaval amongst the tribes which the nominal protectors\nof the country were afraid would be prejudicial to their own prestige,\nas it would have been beyond their power to quell. He had chafed at\nhaving to meet his hereditary enemy on equal terms, and only the\nrestraining influence of the old Sheik, who exacted an unquestioning\nobedience that extended even to his heir, had prevented a catastrophe\nthat might have nullified the meeting and caused infinitely more\ncomplications than the original boundary dispute. But the memory of the\nrobber Sheik remained with him always, and the recollection of his\nbloated, vicious face and gross, unwieldy body rose clearly before him\nnow.\n\nIbraheim Omair and the slender daintiness that he had prized so\nlightly. Diane! His teeth met through the cigarette in his mouth. His\nsenseless jealousy and the rage provoked by Raoul's outspoken criticism\nhad recoiled on the innocent cause. She, not Saint Hubert, had felt the\nbrunt of his anger. In the innate cruelty of his nature it had given\nhim a subtle pleasure to watch the bewilderment, alternating with\nflickering fear, that had come back into the deep blue eyes that for\ntwo months had looked into his with frank confidence. He had made her\nacutely conscious of his displeasure. Only last night, when his lack of\nconsideration and his unwonted irritability had made her wince several\ntimes during the evening and after Saint Hubert had gone to his own\ntent, he, had looked up to find her eyes fixed on him with an\nexpression that, in his dangerous mood, had excited all the brutality\nof which he was capable, and had filled him with a desire to torture\nher. The dumb reproach in her eyes had exasperated him, rousing the\nfiendish temper that had been hardly kept in check all the previous\nweek. And yet, when he held her helpless in his arms, quivering and\nshrinking from the embrace that was no caress, but merely the medium of\nhis anger, and the reproach in her wavering eyes changed to mute\nentreaty, the pleasure he had anticipated in her fear had failed him as\nit had before, and had irritated him further. The wild beating of her\nheart, the sobbing intake of her breath, the knowledge of his power\nover her, gave him no gratification, and he had flung her from him\ncursing her savagely, till she had fled into the other room with her\nhands over her ears to shut out the sound of his slow, deliberate\nvoice. And this morning he had left her without a sign of any kind, no\nword or gesture that might have effaced the memory of the previous\nnight. He had not meant to, he had intended to go back to her before he\nfinally rode away, but Saint Hubert's refusal to accompany him had\nkilled the softer feelings that prompted him, and his rage had flamed\nup again.\n\nAnd now? The longing to hold her in his arms, to kiss the tears from\nher eyes and the colour into her pale lips, was almost unbearable. He\nwould give his life to keep even a shadow from her path, and she was in\nthe hands of Ibraheim Omair! The thought and all that it implied was\ntorture, but no sign escaped him of the hell he was enduring. The\nunavoidable delay seemed interminable, and he swung into the saddle,\nhoping that the waiting would seem less with The Hawk's restless,\nnervous body gripped between his knees, for though the horse would\nstand quietly with his master beside him, he fretted continually at\nwaiting once the Sheik was mounted, and the necessity for soothing him\nwas preferable to complete inaction.\n\nSaint Hubert rose to his feet at last, and, leaving behind Henri and\ntwo Arabs, who were detailed to take the wounded man back to the camp,\nthe swift gallop southward was resumed. On, over the rising and falling\nground along which Gaston had stumbled, blind and faint with loss of\nblood and the pain of his wounds, past the dead body of The Dancer,\nghostly white in the moonlight, lying a little apart from the\nsemicircle of Arabs that proved the efficiency of Gaston's shooting\nwhere Diana and he had made their last stand. The Sheik made no sign\nand did not check the headlong gallop, but continued on, The Hawk\ntaking the fallen bodies that lay in his path in his stride, with only\na quiver of repugnance and a snort of disgust. Still on, past the\nhuddled bundles of tumbled draperies that marked the way significantly,\navoiding them where the moonlight illuminated brightly, and riding over\nthem in the deep hollows, where once Raoul's horse stumbled badly and\nnearly fell, recovering himself with a wild scramble, and the Vicomte\nheard the dead man's skull crack under the horse's slipping hoof.\n\nThe distant howling of jackals came closer and closer until, topping\none long rise and descending into a hollow that was long enough and\nwide enough to be fully lit by the moon, they came to the place where\nthe ambush had been laid. Instinctively Ahmed Ben Hassan knew that\namongst the jostling heaps of corpses and dead horses lay the bodies of\nhis own men. Perhaps amongst the still forms from which the jackals,\nwhose hideous yelling they had heard, had slunk away, there might be\none left with life enough to give some news. One of his own men who\nwould speak willingly, or one of Ibraheim Omair's who would be made to\nspeak. His lips curled back from his white teeth in a grin of pure\ncruelty.\n\nThe silence that had prevailed amongst his men broke suddenly as they\nsearched quickly among the dead. The Sheik waited impassively, silent\namidst the muttered imprecations and threats of vengeance of his\nfollowers as they laid beside him the six remains of what had been\nDiana's escort, slashed and mutilated almost beyond recognition. But it\nwas he who noticed that the last terrible figure stirred slightly as it\nwas laid down, and it was into his face, grown suddenly strangely\ngentle, that the dying Arab looked with fast-filming eyes. The man\nsmiled, the happy smile of a child that had obtained an unexpected\nreward, and raised his hand painfully in salute, then pointed mutely to\nthe south.\n\nThe Sheik caught his follower's nerveless fingers as they fell in his\nown strong grasp, and with a last effort the Arab drew his chief's hand\nto his forehead and fell back dead.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nSlowly and painfully, through waves of deadly nausea and with the\nsurging of deep waters in her ears, Diana struggled back to\nconsciousness. The agony in her head was excruciating, and her limbs\nfelt cramped and bruised. Recollection was dulled in bodily pain, and,\nat first, thought was merged in physical suffering. But gradually the\nfog cleared from her brain and memory supervened hesitatingly. She\nremembered fragmentary incidents of what had gone before the oblivion\nfrom which she had just emerged. Gaston, and the horror and resolution\nin his eyes, the convulsive working of his mouth as he faced her at the\nlast moment. Her own dread--not of the death that was imminent, but\nlest the mercy it offered should be snatched from her. Then before the\nvalet could effect his supreme devotion had come the hail of bullets,\nand he had fallen against her, the blood that poured from his wounds\nsaturating her linen coat, and rolled over across her feet. She\nremembered vaguely the wild figures hemming her in, but nothing more.\n\nHer eyes were still shut; a leaden weight seemed fixed on them, and the\neffort to open them was beyond her strength. \"Gaston,\" she whispered\nfeebly, and stretched out her hand. But instead of his body or the dry\nhot sand her fingers had expected to encounter they closed over soft\ncushions, and with the shock she sat up with a jerk, her eyes staring\nwide, but, sick and faint, she fell back again, her arm flung across\nher face, shielding the light that pierced like daggers through her\nthrobbing eye-balls. For a while she lay still, fighting against the\nweakness that overpowered her, and by degrees the horrible nausea\npassed and the agony in her head abated, leaving only a dull ache. The\ndesire to know where she was and what had happened made her forget her\nbruised body. She moved her arm slightly from before her eyes so that\nshe could see, and looked cautiously from under thick lashes, screened\nby the sleeve of her coat. She was lying on a pile of cushions in one\ncorner of a small-tented apartment which was otherwise bare, except for\nthe rug that covered the floor. In the opposite corner of the tent an\nArab woman crouched over a little brazier, and the smell of native\ncoffee was heavy in the air. She closed her eyes again with a shudder.\nThe attempted devotion of Gaston had been useless. This must be the\ncamp of the robber Sheik, Ibraheim Omair.\n\nShe lay still, pressing closely down amongst the cushions, and\nclenching the sleeve of her jacket between her teeth to stifle the\ngroan that rose to her lips. A lump came into her throat as she thought\nof Gaston. In those last moments all inequality of rank had been swept\naway in their common peril--they had been only a white man and a white\nwoman together in their extremity. She remembered how, when she had\npressed close to him, his hand had sought and gripped hers, conveying\ncourage and sympathy. All that he could do he had done, he had shielded\nher body with his own, it must have been over his lifeless body that\nthey had taken her. He had proved his faithfulness, sacrificing his\nlife for his master's play-thing. Gaston was in all probability dead,\nbut she was alive, and she must husband her strength for her own needs.\nShe forced the threatening emotion down, and, with an effort,\ncontrolled the violent shivering in her limbs, and sat up slowly,\nlooking at the Arab woman, who, hearing her move, turned to gaze at\nher. Instantly Diana realised that there was no help or compassion to\nbe expected from her. She was a handsome woman, who must have been\npretty as a girl, but there was no sign of softness in her sullen face\nand vindictive eyes. Instinctively Diana felt that the glowing menace\nof the woman's expression was inspired by personal hatred, and that her\npresence in the lent was objectionable to her. And the feeling gave a\nnecessary spur to the courage that was fast coming back to her. She\nstared with all the haughtiness she could summon to her aid; she had\nlearned her own power among the natives of India the previous year, and\nhere in the desert there was only one Arab whose eyes did not fall\nbeneath hers, and presently with a muttered word the woman turned back\nto her coffee-making.\n\nDiana's muscles relaxed and she sat back easily on the cushions, the\nlittle passage of wills had restored her confidence in herself. She\nmoved her hand and it brushed against her jacket, coming away stained\nand sticky, and she noticed for the first time that all one side and\nsleeve were soaked with blood. She ripped it off with a shudder and\nflung it from her, rubbing the red smear from her hands with a kind of\nhorror.\n\nThe little tent was intensely hot, and there was a close, pungent smell\nthat was eminently _native_ that she never experienced in the cool\nairiness and scrupulous cleanliness of Ahmed Ben Hassan's tents. Her\nsensitive lip curled with disgust, all her innate fastidiousness in\nrevolt. The heat aggravated a burning thirst that was parching her\nthroat. She got up on to her feet slowly, and with infinite caution, to\nprevent any jar that might start again the throbbing in her head; but\nthe effects of the blow were wearing off, and, though her head\ncontinued to ache, it did no more than that, and the sick, giddy\nfeeling had gone completely. She crossed the tent to the side of the\nArab woman.\n\n\"Give me some water,\" she said in French, but the woman shook her head\nwithout looking up. Diana repeated the request in Arabic, one of the\nfew sentences she knew without stumbling. This time the woman rose up\nhastily and held out a cup of the coffee she had been making.\n\nDiana hated the sweet, thick stuff, but it would do until she could get\nthe water she wanted, and she put out her hand to take the little cup.\nBut her eyes met the other's fixed on her, and something in their\nmalignant stare made her pause. A sudden suspicion shot through her\nmind. The coffee was drugged. What beyond the woman's expression made\nher think so she did not know, but she was sure of it. She put the cup\naside impatiently.\n\n\"No. Not coffee. Water,\" she said firmly.\n\nBefore she realised what was happening the woman thrust a strong arm\nround her and forced the cup to her lips. That confirmed Diana's\nsuspicions and rage lent her additional strength. The woman was strong,\nbut Diana was stronger, younger and more active. She dashed the cup to\nthe floor, spilling its contents, and, with an effort, tore the\nclinging hands from her and sent the woman crashing on to the ground,\nrolling against the brazier, oversetting it, and scattering brass pots\nand cups over the rug. The woman scrambled to her knees and beat out\nthe glowing embers, uttering scream after scream in a shrill, piercing\nvoice. And, in answer to her cries, a curtain at the side of the tent,\nthat Diana had not noticed, slid aside and a gigantic Nubian came in.\nWith outstretched hand shaking with rage, pointing at Diana, she burst\ninto voluble abuse, punctuating every few words with the shrieks that\nhad brought the negro.\n\nDiana could understand nothing of what she said, but her expressive\ngestures told the story of the struggle plainly enough. The Nubian\nlistened with white teeth flashing in a broad grin, and shook his head\nin response to some request urged with denunciatory fist. He picked up\nthe last remaining embers that had scattered on the rug, rubbing the\nsmouldering patches till they were extinguished, and then turned to\nleave the room. But Diana called him back. She went a step forward, her\nhead high, and looked him straight in the face.\n\n\"Fetch me water!\" she said imperiously. He pointed to the coffee that\nthe woman had recommenced to make, her back turned to them, but Diana\nstamped her foot. \"Water! Bring me water!\" she said again, more\nimperiously than before. With a wider grin the negro made a gesture of\nacquiescence and went out, returning in a few moments with a\nwater-skin.\n\nThe thought of its condition made her hesitate for a moment, but only\nfor a moment. Her thirst was too great to allow niceties to interfere\nwith it. She picked up one of the clean coffee-cups that had rolled to\nher feet, rinsed it several times, and then drank. The water was warm\nand slightly brackish, but she needed it too much to mind. In spite of\nbeing tepid it relieved the dry, suffocating feeling in her throat and\nrefreshed her. The Nubian went away again, leaving the woman still\ncrouching over the brazier.\n\nDiana walked back to the cushions and dropped down on to them gladly.\nThe events of the last few moments had tried her more than she\nrealised, her legs were shaking under her, and she was thankful to sit\ndown. But her courage had risen with a bound; the fact that she was\nphysically stronger than the woman who had been put to guard her, and\nalso that she had gained her point with the burly negro, had a great\nmoral effect on her, further restoring her confidence in herself.\n\nHer position was an appalling one, but hope was strong within her. The\nfact that since she had regained consciousness she had seen only the\nwoman and the Nubian seemed to argue that Ibraheim Omair must be absent\nfrom his camp; the thought that he might purposely be delaying the\nmoment of inspecting his captive with a view to prolonging her mental\ntorture she put from her as improbable. She did not credit him with so\nmuch acumen. And from his absence her courage gained strength. If it\ncould only be prolonged until Ahmed reached her. That the Sheik would\ncome she knew, her faith in him was unbounded. If he only came in time!\nHours had passed since the ambuscade had surprised them. It had been\nearly afternoon then. Now the lighted lamp told her it was night. How\nlate she did not know. Her watch had been broken some months before,\nand she had no means of even guessing the hour, but it must be well on\nin the evening. By now the absence of herself and Gaston and their\nescort would be discovered. He would know her peril and he would come\nto her. Of that she had no doubt. Although he had changed so strangely\nin the last few days, though the wonderful gentleness of the last two\nmonths had merged again into indifference and cruelty, still she never\ndoubted. Even if desire had passed and indifference had become so great\nthat she was no longer necessary to him, still the Oriental jealousy\nwith which he was so deeply imbued would never allow him to let her\npass so lightly from his keeping. He might discard her at his own\npleasure, but no one would take her from him with impunity. Her woman's\nintuition had sensed the jealousy that had actuated him during the\nunhappy days since Saint Hubert had come. An inconsistent jealousy that\nhad been unprovoked and unjustified, but for which she had suffered.\nShe had known last night, when she winced under his sarcastic tongue,\nand later, when Saint Hubert had left them and his temper had suddenly\nboiled over, that she was paying for the unaccustomed strain that he\nwas putting on his own feelings. His curses had eaten into her heart,\nand she had fled from him to stifle the coward instinct that urged her\nto confess her love and beg his mercy. She had lain awake with\nshivering apprehension waiting for him, but when, after nearly two\nhours, he had sauntered in, the usual cigarette between his lips,\nindifference had taken the place of rage, and he had ignored her, as\nshe had grown used to being ignored. And long after she knew from his\neven breathing that he was asleep she had lain wide-eyed beside him,\ngrasping at what happiness she could, living for the moment as she had\nschooled herself to live, trying to be content with just the fact of\nhis nearness. And the indifference of the night had been maintained\nwhen he had left her at dawn, his persistent silence pointing the\ncontinuance of his displeasure. But he would come, if for no other\nreason than the same jealousy which held him in its inexorable grip. He\nwould come! He would come! She whispered it over to herself as if\nmerely the sound of the words gave her courage. He would not let\nanything happen to her. Every moment that Ibraheim Omair stayed away\nwas so much gained, every moment he would be coming nearer. The\nreversal of the role he played in her life brought a quivering smile to\nher lips. For the advent of the man who a few weeks before she had\nloathed for his brutal abduction of herself she now prayed with the\ndesperation of despair. He represented safety, salvation, everything\nthat made life worth living.\n\nA sudden noise and men's voices in the adjoining room sent her to her\nfeet with heaving breast and clenched hands. But the sharp, guttural\nvoice predominating over the other voices killed the wild hope that had\nsprung up in her by its utter dissimilarity to the soft low tones for\nwhich she longed. Ibraheim Omair! He had come first! She set her teeth\nwith a long, shuddering breath, bracing herself to meet what was\ncoming.\n\nThe Arab woman turned to look at her again with a sneering smile that\nwas full of significance, but beyond a fleeting glance of disdain Diana\npaid no attention to her. She stood rigid, one foot beating nervously\ninto the soft rug. She noticed irrelevantly at the moment that both her\nspurs and the empty holster had been removed whilst she was\nunconscious, and with the odd detachment that transfers a train of\nthought from the centre of importance even at a supreme moment, she\nwondered, with an annoyance that seemed curiously futile, why it had\nbeen done.\n\nThe voices in the next room continued, until Diana almost prayed for\nthe moment she was waiting for would come; suspense was worse than the\nordeal for which she was nerving herself, It came at last. The curtain\nslid aside again, and the same huge negro she had seen before entered.\nHe came towards her, and her breath hissed in suddenly between her set\nteeth, but before he reached her the Arab woman intercepted him,\nblocking his way, and with wild eyes and passionate gestures poured out\na stream of low, frenzied words. The Nubian turned on her impatiently\nand thrust her roughly out of his way, and, coming to Diana, put out\nhis hand as if to grasp her arm, but she stepped back with flashing\neyes and a gesture that he obeyed.\n\nHer heart was pounding, but she had herself under control. Only her\nhands twitched, her long fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically,\nand she buried them deep in her breeches' pockets to hide them. She\nwalked slowly to the curtain and nodded to the Nubian to draw it aside,\nand slower still she passed into the other room. Only a little larger\nthan the one she had left, almost as bare, but her mind took in these\nthings uncomprehendingly, for all her attention was focussed on the\ncentral figure in the room.\n\nIbraheim Omair, the robber Sheik, lolling his great bulk on a pile of\ncushions, a little inlaid stool with coffee beside him, and behind him,\nstanding motionless as if formed of bronze, two other negroes, so like\nthe one that had summoned her that they seemed like statues that had\nbeen cast from one mould.\n\nDiana paused for a moment framed in the entrance, then, with head\nthrown back and swaggering, boyish stride, she moved across the thick\nrugs leisurely and halted in front of the chief, looking straight at\nhim with haughty, curling lips and insolent, half-closed eyes. The hold\nshe was exercising over herself was tremendous, her body was rigid with\nthe effort, and her hands deep down in her pockets clenched till the\nnails bit into the palms. Every instinct was rebelling against the calm\nshe forced upon herself. She longed to scream and make a dash for the\nopening that she guessed was behind her, and to take her chance in the\ndarkness outside. But she knew that such a chance was impossible; if\nshe ever reached the open air she would never be allowed to get more\nthan a few steps from the tent. Her only course lay in the bravado that\nalone kept her from collapse. She must convey the impression of\nfearlessness, though cold terror was knocking at her heart. Masked with\nindifference her veiled eyes were watching the robber chief closely.\nThis was, indeed, the Arab of her imaginings, this gross, unwieldy\nfigure lying among the tawdry cushions, his swollen, ferocious face\nseamed and lined with every mark of vice, his full, sensual lips parted\nand showing broken, blackened teeth, his deep-set, bloodshot eyes with\na look in them that it took all her resolution to sustain, a look of\nsuch bestial evilness that the horror of it bathed her in perspiration.\nHis appearance was slovenly, his robes, originally rich, were stained\nand tumbled, the fat hands lying spread out on his knees were engrained\nwith dirt, showing even against his dark skin. His heavy face lit up\nwith a gleam of malicious satisfaction as Diana came towards him, his\nloose mouth broadened in a wicked smile. He leaned forward a little,\nweighing heavily on the hands that were on his knees, his eyes roving\nslowly over her till they rested on her face again.\n\n\"So! the white woman of my brother Ahmed Ben Hassan,\" he said slowly,\nin villainous French, with a sudden, snarling intonation as he uttered\nhis enemy's name. \"Ahmed Ben Hassan! May Allah burn his soul in hell!\"\nhe added with relish, and spat contemptuously.\n\nHe leaned back on the cushions with a grunt, and drank some coffee\nnoisily.\n\nDiana kept her eyes fixed on him, and under their unwavering stare he\nseemed to be uneasy, his own inflamed eyes wandering ceaselessly over\nher, one hand fumbling at the curved hilt of a knife stuck in his belt,\nand at last he grew exasperated, hitching himself forward once more and\nbeckoning her to come nearer to him. She hesitated, and as she paused\nuncertainly, there was a flutter of draperies behind her, and the Arab\nwoman from the inner room, evading the negro who stepped forward to\nstop her, flung herself at the feet of Ibraheim Omair, clinging to his\nknees with a low wailing cry. In a flash Diana realised the meaning of\nthe hatred that had gleamed in the woman's eyes earlier in the evening.\nTo her she was a rival, whose coming to share the favours of her lord\nhad aroused all the jealousy of the reigning favourite. A wave of\ndisgust mingled with the fear that was torturing her. She jerked her\nhead angrily, fighting against the terror that was growing on her, and\nfor a moment her lashes drooped and hid her eyes. When she looked up\nagain the woman was still crouched at the old Arab's feet, imploring\nand distraught.\n\nIbraheim Omair looked down on her curiously, his lips drawn back from\nhis blackened teeth in an evil grin, and then shook her off violently\nwith a swift blow in the mouth, but the woman clung closer, with\nupturned, desperate face, a thin trickle of blood oozing from her lips,\nand with a hoarse growl that was like the dull roar of a savage beast\nthe robber chief caught her by the throat and held her for a moment,\nher frantic, clutching hands powerless against his strong grasp, then\nslowly drew the long knife from the ample folds of his waist-cloth, and\nas slowly drove it home into the strangling woman's breast. With savage\ncallousness, before he released his hold of her, he wiped the stained\nknife carefully on her clothing and replaced it, and then flung the\ndead body from him. It rolled over on the rug midway between him and\nDiana.\n\nThere was a momentary silence in the room, and Diana became conscious\nof a muffled, rhythmical beat near her, like the ticking of a great\nclock, and realised with dull wonder that it was her own heart beating.\nShe seemed turned to stone, petrified with the horror of the last few\nmoments. Her eyes were glued to the still figure on the rug before her\nwith the gaping wound in the breast, from which the blood was welling,\nstaining the dark draperies of the woman's clothes, and creeping slowly\ndown to the rug on which the body lay. She was dazed, and odd thoughts\nflitted through her mind. It was a pity, she thought stupidly, that the\nblood should spoil the rug. It was a lovely rug. She wondered what it\nwould have cost in Biskra--less, probably, than it would in London.\nThen she forgot the rug as her eyes travelled upward to the woman's\nface. The mouth was open and the streak of blood was drying, but it was\nthe eyes, protruding, agonised, that brought Diana abruptly to herself.\nShe seemed to wake suddenly to the full realisation of what had\nhappened and to her own peril. She felt physically sick for a moment,\nbut she fought it down. Very slowly she raised her head, and, meeting\nIbraheim Omair's eyes fixed on her, she looked full at him across the\ndead woman's body and laughed! It was that or shriek. The curls were\nclinging drenched on her forehead, and she wondered if her clenched\nhands would ever unclose. She must make no sign, she must not scream or\nfaint, she must keep her nerve until Ahmed came. Oh, dear God, send him\nquickly! The laugh wavered hysterically, and she caught her lip between\nher teeth. She must do something to distract her attention from that\nawful still shape at her feet. Almost unconsciously she grasped the\ncigarette case in her pocket and took it out, dragging her eyes from\nthe horrible sight on which they were fixed, and chose and lit a\ncigarette with slow care, flicking the still-burning match on to the\ncarpet between the feet of the negro who stood near her. He had not\nmoved since he had failed to stop the woman's entrance, and the two\nstationed behind the pile of cushions had stood motionless, their eyes\nhardly following the tragedy enacted before them. At a nod from the\nchief they came now and carried away the body of the woman. One\nreturned in a moment, bringing fresh coffee, and then vanished\nnoiselessly.\n\nThen Ibraheim Omair leaned forward with a horrible leer and beckoned to\nDiana, patting the cushions beside him. Mastering the loathing that\nfilled her she sat down with all the unconcern she could assume. The\nproximity of the man nauseated her. He reeked of sweat and grease and\nill-kept horses, the pungent stench of the native. Her thoughts went\nback to the other Arab, of whose habits she had been forced into such\nan intimate knowledge. Remembering all that she had heard of the desert\npeople she had been surprised at the fastidious care he took of\nhimself, the frequent bathing, the spotless cleanliness of his robes,\nthe fresh wholesomeness that clung about him, the faint, clean smell of\nshaving-soap mingling with the perfume of the Turkish tobacco that was\nalways associated with him.\n\nThe contrast was hideous.\n\nShe refused the coffee he offered her with a shake of her head, paying\nno attention to his growl of protest, not even understanding it, for he\nspoke in Arabic. As she laid down the end of her cigarette with almost\nthe feeling of letting go a sheet anchor--for it had at least kept her\nlips from trembling--his fat hand closed about her wrist and he jerked\nher towards him.\n\n\"How many rifles did the Frenchman bring to that son of darkness?\" he\nsaid harshly.\n\nShe turned her head, surprised at the question, and met his bloodshot\neyes fixed on hers, half-menacing, half-admiring, and looked away again\nhastily. \"I do not know.\"\n\nHis fingers tightened on her wrist. \"How many men had Ahmed Ben Hassan\nin the camp in which he kept you?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\"\n\n\"I do not know! I do not know!\" he echoed with a sudden savage laugh.\n\"You will know when I have done with you.\" He crushed her wrist until\nshe winced with pain, and turned her head away further that she might\nnot see his face. Question after question relating to the Sheik and his\ntribe followed in rapid succession, but to all of them Diana remained\nsilent, with averted head and compressed lips. He should not learn\nanything from her that might injure the man she loved, though he\ntortured her, though her life paid the price of her silence, as it\nprobably would. She shivered involuntarily. \"Shall I tell you what they\nwould do to him?\" She could hear the Sheik's voice plainly as on the\nnight when she had asked him what Gaston's fate would be at the hands\nof Ibraheim Omair. She could hear the horrible meaning he had put into\nthe words, she could see the terrible smile that had accompanied them.\nHer breath came faster, but her courage still held. She clung\ndesperately to the hope that was sustaining her. Ahmed must come in\ntime. She forced down the torturing doubts that whispered that he might\nnever find her, that he might come too late, that when he came she\nmight be beyond a man's desire.\n\nIbraheim Omair ceased his questioning. \"Later you will speak,\" he said\nsignificantly, and drank more coffee. And his words revived the\nagonising thoughts she had crushed down. Her vivid imagination conjured\nup the same ghastly mental pictures that had appalled her when she had\napplied them to Gaston, but now it was herself who was the central\nfigure in all the horrors she imagined, until the shuddering she tried\nto suppress shook her from head to foot, and she clenched her teeth to\nstop them chattering.\n\nIbraheim Omair kept his hold upon her, and presently, with a horrible\nloathing, she felt his hand passing over her arm, her neck, and down\nthe soft curves of her slim young body, then with a muttered\nejaculation he forced her to face him.\n\n\"What are you listening for? You think that Ahmed Ben Hassan will come?\nLittle fool! He has forgotten you already. There are plenty more white\nwomen in Algiers and Oran that he can buy with his gold and his devil\nface. The loves of Ahmed Ben Hassan are as the stars in number. They\ncome and go like the swift wind in the desert, a hot breath--and it's\nfinished. He will not come, and if he does, he will not find you, for\nin an hour we shall be gone.\"\n\nDiana writhed in his grasp. The hateful words in the guttural voice,\npronounced in vile French, the leering, vicious face with the light of\nadmiration growing in the bloodshot eyes, were all a ghastly nightmare.\nWith a sudden desperate wrench she freed herself and fled across the\ntent--panic-stricken at last. But in her blind rush she tripped, and\nwith a swiftness that seemed incompatible with his unwieldiness\nIbraheim Omair followed her and caught her in his arms. Struggling he\ncarried her to the divan. For a moment he paused, and instinctively\nDiana lay still, reserving her strength for the final struggle.\n\n\"One hour, my little gazelle, one hour----\" he said hoarsely, and bent\nhis face to hers.\n\nWith a cry Diana flung her head aside and strained away from him,\nfighting with the strength of madness. She fought like a boy with a\nswift thought of gratitude for Aubrey's training, and twisting and\nwrithing she managed to slip through his grasp until her feet rested on\nthe ground. But his grip on her never relaxed; he dragged her back to\nhim, resisting fiercely, ripping the thin shirt from her shoulders,\nbaring her white, heaving bosom. Gasping, she struggled, until, little\nby little, his arms closed round her again. She braced her hands\nagainst his chest, fending him from her till she felt the muscles in\nher arms must crack, but the crushing force of his whole weight was\nbearing her steadily backwards, and downwards on to the soft cushions\nbeside them. His hot breath was on her face, the sickening reek of his\nclothes was in her nostrils. She felt her resistance growing weaker,\nher heart was labouring, beating with wild bounds that suffocated her,\nthe strength was going from her arms, only a moment more and her force\nwould be exhausted. Her brain was growing numbed, as it had been when\nthe man who held her had murdered the woman before her eyes. If he\nwould only kill her now. Death would be easy compared with this. The\nfaint hope that still lingered was almost extinguished. Ahmed had not\ncome, and in her agony the thought of him was a further torture. The\nsneering words of Ibraheim Omair had not shaken her faith. He would\ncome, but he would come too late. He would never know now that she\nloved him. Oh, God! How she loved him! Ahmed! Ahmed! And with the\nsoundless cry the last remnant of her strength went all at once, and\nshe fell weakly against the chief. He forced her to her knees, and,\nwith his hand twined brutally in her curls, thrust her head back. There\nwas a mad light in his eyes and a foam on his lips as he dragged the\nknife from his waistbelt and laid the keen edge against her throat. She\ndid not flinch, and after a moment he dropped it with a horrible laugh.\n\n\"No, afterwards,\" he said, and picked her up unresistingly. He flung\nher on the cushions and for one awful moment she felt his hands on her.\nThen from outside came a sudden uproar and the sharp crack of rifles.\nThen in a lull in the firing the Sheik's powerful voice: \"Diane!\nDiane!\"\n\nHis voice and the knowledge of his nearness gave her new strength. She\nleaped up in spite of Ibraheim Omair's gripping hands. \"Ahmed!\" she\nscreamed once, then the chief's hand dashed against her mouth, but,\nfrantic, she caught it in her teeth, biting it to the bone, and as he\nwrenched it away, shrieked again, \"Ahmed! Ahmed!\"\n\nBut it seemed impossible that her voice could be heard above the\ndemoniacal noise outside the tent, and she could not call again, for,\nwith a snarl of rage, the chief caught her by the throat as he had\ncaught the Arab woman. And like the Arab woman her hands tore at his\ngripping fingers vainly. Choking, stifling with the agony in her\nthroat, her lungs seemed bursting, the blood was beating in her ears\nlike the deafening roar of waves, and the room was darkening with the\nfilm that was creeping over her eyes. Her hands fell powerless to her\nsides and her knees gave way limply. He was holding her upright only by\nthe clutch on her throat. The drumming in her ears grew louder, the\ntent was fading away into blackness. Dimly, with no kind of emotion,\nshe realised that he was squeezing the life out of her and she heard\nhis voice coming, as it were, from a great distance: \"You will not\nlanguish long in Hawiyat without your lover. I will send him quickly to\nyou.\"\n\nShe was almost unconscious, but she heard the sneering voice break\nsuddenly and the deadly pressure on her throat relaxed as the chief's\nhands rapidly transferred their grip to her aching shoulders, swinging\nher away from him and in front of him. To lift her head was agony, and\nthe effort brought back the black mist that had lessened with the\nslackening of Ibraheim Omair's fingers round her neck, but it cleared\nagain sufficiently for her to see, through a blurring haze, the outline\nof the tall figure that was facing her, standing by the ripped-back\ndoorway.\n\nThere was a pause, a silence that contrasted oddly with the tumult\noutside, and Diana wondered numbly why the Sheik did nothing, why he\ndid not use the revolver that was clenched in his hand Then slowly she\nunderstood that he dared not fire, that the chief was holding her, a\nliving shield, before him, sheltering himself behind the only thing\nthat would deter Ahmed Ben Hassan's unerring shots. Cautiously Ibraheim\nOmair moved backward, still holding her before him, hoping to gain the\ninner room. But in the shock of his enemy's sudden appearance he\nmiscalculated the position of the divan and stumbled against it, losing\nhis balance for only a moment, but long enough to give the man whose\nrevolver covered him the chance he wanted. With the cold ring of steel\npressing against his forehead the robber chief's hands dropped from\nDiana, and she slid weak and trembling on to the rug, clasping her\npulsating throat, moaning with the effort that it was to breathe.\n\nFor a moment the two men looked into each other's eyes and the\nknowledge of death leaped into Ibraheim Omair's. With the fatalism of\nhis creed he made no resistance, as, with a slow, terrible smile, the\nSheik's left hand reached out and fastened on his throat. It would be\nquicker to shoot, but as Diana had suffered so should her torturer die.\nAll the savagery in his nature rose uppermost. Beside the pitiful,\ngasping little figure on the rug at his feet there was the memory of\nsix mutilated bodies, his faithful followers, men of his own age who\nhad grown to manhood with him, picked men of his personal bodyguard who\nhad been intimately connected with him all his life, and who had served\nhim with devotion and unwavering obedience. They and others who had\nfrom time to time fallen victims to Ibraheim Omair's hatred of his more\npowerful enemy. The man who was responsible for their deaths was in his\npower at last, the man whose existence was a menace and whose life was\nan offence, of whose subtleties he had been trained from a boy to\nbeware by the elder Ahmed Ben Hassan, who had bequeathed to him the\ntribal hatred of the race of whom Ibraheim Omair was head, and whose\ndying words had been the wish that his successor might himself\nexterminate the hereditary enemy. But far beyond the feelings inspired\nby tribal hatred or the remembrance of the vow made five years ago\nbeside the old Sheik's deathbed, or even the death of his own\nfollowers, was the desire to kill, with his bare hands, the man who had\ntortured the woman he loved. The knowledge of her peril, that had\ndriven him headlong through the night to her aid, the sight of her\nhelpless, agonised, in the robber chief's hands, had filled him with a\nmadness that only the fierce joy of killing would cure. Before he could\nlisten to the clamouring of the new love in his heart, before he could\ngather up into his arms the beloved little body that he was yearning\nfor, he had to destroy the man whose murders were countless and who had\nat last fallen into his hands.\n\nThe smile on his face deepened and his fingers tightened slowly on\ntheir hold. But with the strangling clasp of Ahmed Ben Hassan's hands\nupon him the love of life waked again in Ibraheim Omair and he\nstruggled fiercely. Crouched on the floor Diana watched the two big\nfigures swaying in mortal combat with wide, fearful eyes, her hands\nstill holding her aching throat. Ibraheim Omair wrestled for his life,\nconscious of his own strength, but conscious also of the greater\nstrength that was opposed to him. The Sheik let go the hold upon his\nthroat and with both arms locked about him manoeuvred to get the\nposition he required, back to the divan. Then, with a wrestler's trick,\nhe swept Ibraheim's feet from under him and sent his huge body\nsprawling on to the cushions, his knee on his enemy's chest, his hands\non his throat. With all his weight crushing into the chief's breast,\nwith the terrible smile always on his lips, he choked him slowly to\ndeath, till the dying man's body arched and writhed in his last agony,\ntill the blood burst from his nose and mouth, pouring over the hands\nthat held him like a vice.\n\nDiana's eyes never left the Sheik's face, she felt the old paralysing\nfear of him rushing over her, irresistibly drowning for the moment even\nthe love she had for him. She had seen him in cruel, even savage moods,\nbut nothing that had ever approached the look of horrible pleasure that\nwas on his face now. It was a revelation of the real man with the thin\nlayer of civilisation stripped from him, leaving only the primitive\nsavage drunk with the lust of blood. And she was afraid, with a\nshuddering horror, of the merciless, crimson-stained hands that would\ntouch her, of the smiling, cruel mouth that would be pressed on hers,\nand of the murderous light shining in his fierce eyes. But for the\ndying wretch expiating his crimes so hideously she felt no pity, he was\nbeyond all sympathy. She had seen him murder wantonly, and she knew\nwhat her own fate would have been if Ahmed Ben Hassan had not come. And\nthe retribution was swift. The Sheik was being more merciful to him\nthan the robber chief had been to many, a few moments of agony instead\nof hours of lingering torture.\n\nThe noise outside the tent was growing louder as the fighting rolled\nback in its direction, and once or twice a bullet ripped through the\nhangings. One that came closer than the others made Diana turn her head\nand she saw what Ahmed Ben Hassan, absorbed in the fulfilment of his\nhorrible task, had not even thought of--the three big negroes and a\ndozen Arabs who had stolen in silently from the inner room. For once,\nin the intoxication of the moment, the Sheik was careless and caught\noff his guard. Agony leaped into her eyes. The fear of him was wiped\nout in the fear for him. She tried to warn him, but no sound would come\nfrom her throbbing throat, and she crawled nearer to him and touched\nhim. He dropped the dead chief back into the tumbled cushions and\nlooked up swiftly, and at the same moment Ibraheim Omair's men made a\nrush. Without a word he thrust her behind the divan and turned to meet\nthem. Before his revolver they gave way for a moment, but the burly\nNubians behind swept the Arabs forward. Three times he fired and one of\nthe negroes and two Arabs fell, but the rest hurled themselves on him,\nand Diana saw him surrounded. His strength was abnormal, and for some\nminutes the struggling mass of men strained and heaved about him. Diana\nwas on her feet, swaying giddily, powerless to help him, cold with\ndread. Then above the clamour that was raging inside and out she heard\nSaint Hubert's voice shouting, and with a shriek that seemed to rip her\ntortured throat she called to him. The Sheik, too, heard, and with a\ndesperate effort for a moment won clear, but one of the Nubians was\nbehind him, and, as Saint Hubert and a crowd of the Sheik's own men\npoured in through the opening, he brought down a heavy club with\ncrashing force on Ahmed Ben Hassan's head, and as he fell another drove\na broad knife deep into his back. For a few minutes more the tramping\nfeet surged backward and forward over the Sheik's prostrate body. Diana\ntried to get to him, faint and stumbling, flung here and there by the\nfighting, struggling men, until a strong hand caught her and drew her\naside. She strained against the detaining arm, but it was one of\nAhmed's men, and she gave in as a growing faintness came over her.\nMistily she saw Saint Hubert clear a way to his friend's side, and then\nshe fainted, but only for a few moments. Saint Hubert was still on his\nknees beside the Sheik when she opened her eyes, and the tent was quite\nquiet, filled with tribesmen waiting in stoical silence. The camp of\nIbraheim Omair had been wiped out, but Ahmed Ben Hassan's men looked\nonly at the unconscious figure of their leader.\n\nSaint Hubert glanced up hastily as Diana came to his side. \"You are all\nright?\" he asked anxiously, but she did not answer. What did it matter\nabout her?\n\n\"Is he going to die?\" she said huskily, for speaking still hurt\nhorribly.\n\n\"I don't know--but we must get away from here. I need more appliances\nthan I have with me, and we are too few to stay and risk a possible\nattack if there are others of Ibraheim Omair's men in the\nneighbourhood.\"\n\nDiana looked down on the wounded man fearfully. \"But the ride--the\njolting,\" she gasped.\n\n\"It has got to be risked,\" replied Saint Hubert abruptly.\n\nOf the long, terrible journey back to Ahmed Ben Hassan's camp Diana\nnever remembered very much. It was an agony of dread and apprehension,\nof momentary waiting for some word or exclamation from the powerful\nArab who was holding him, or from Saint Hubert, who was riding beside\nhim, that would mean his death, and of momentary respites from fear and\nfaint glimmerings of hope as the minutes dragged past and the word she\nwas dreading did not come. Once a sudden halt seemed to stop her heart\nbeating, but it was only to give a moment's rest to the Arab whose\nstrength was taxed to the uttermost with the Sheik's inert weight, but\nwho refused to surrender his privilege to any other. Moments of\nsemi-unconsciousness, when she swayed against the arm of the watchful\ntribesman riding beside her, and his muttered ejaculation of \"Allah!\nAllah!\" sent a whispered supplication to her own lips to the God they\nboth worshipped so differently. He must not die. God would not be so\ncruel.\n\nFrom time to time Saint Hubert spoke to her, and the quiet courage of\nhis voice steadied her breaking nerves. As they passed the scene of the\nambuscade he told her of Gaston. It was there that the first band of\nwaiting men met them, warned already of their coming by a couple of\nArabs whom the Vicomte had sent on in advance with the news.\n\nThe dawn was breaking when they reached the camp. Diana had a glimpse\nof rows of unusually silent men grouped beside the tent, but all her\nmind was concentrated on the long, limp figure that was being carefully\nlifted down from the sweating horse. They carried him into the tent and\nlaid him on the divan, beside which Henri had already put out all the\nimplements that his master would need.\n\nWhile Saint Hubert, with difficulty, cleared the tent of the Sheik's\nmen Diana stood beside the divan and looked at him. He was soaked in\nblood that had burst through the temporary bandages, and his whole body\nbore evidence of the terrible struggle that had gone before the blow\nthat had felled him. One blood-covered hand hung down almost touching\nthe rug. Diana lifted it in her own, and the touch of the nerveless\nfingers sent a sob into her throat. She caught her lip between her\nteeth to stop it trembling as she laid his hand down on the cushions.\nSaint Hubert came to her, rolling up his shirt-sleeves significantly.\n\n\"Diane, you have been through enough,\" he said gently. \"Go and rest\nwhile I do what I can for Ahmed. I will come and tell you as soon as I\nam finished.\"\n\nShe looked up fiercely. \"It's no good telling me to go away, because I\nwon't. I must help you. I can help you. I shall go mad if you don't let\nme do something. See! My hands are quite steady.\" She held them out as\nshe spoke, and Saint Hubert gave in without opposition.\n\nThe weakness that had sent her trembling into his arms the day before\nhad been the fear of danger to the man she loved, but in the face of\nactual need the courage that was so much a part of her nature did not\nfail her. He made no more remonstrances, but set about his work\nquickly. And all through the horrible time that followed she did not\nfalter. Her face was deadly pale, and dark lines showed below her eyes,\nbut her hands did not shake, and her voice was low and even. She\nsuffered horribly. The terrible wound that the Nubian's knife had made\nwas like a wound in her own heart. She winced as if the hurt had been\nher own when Saint Hubert's gentle, dexterous fingers touched the\nSheik's bruised head. And when it was over and Raoul had turned aside\nto wash his hands, she slipped on to her knees beside him. Would he\nlive? The courage that had kept her up so far had not extended to\nasking Saint Hubert again, and a few muttered words from Henri, to\nwhich the Vicomte had responded with only a shrug, had killed the words\nthat were hovering on her lips. She looked at him with anguished eyes.\n\nOnly a few hours before he had come to her in all the magnificence of\nhis strength. She looked at the long limbs lying now so still, so\nterribly, suggestively still, and her lips trembled again, but her\npain-filled eyes were dry. She could not cry, only her throat ached and\nthrobbed perpetually. She leaned over him whispering his name, and a\nsudden hunger came to her to touch him, to convince herself that he was\nnot dead. She glanced back over her shoulder at Saint Hubert, but he\nhad gone to the open doorway to speak to Yusef, and was standing out\nunder the awning. She bent lower over the unconscious man; his lips\nwere parted slightly, and the usual sternness of his mouth was relaxed.\n\n\"Ahmed, oh, my dear!\" she whispered unsteadily, and kissed him with\nlips that quivered against the stillness of his. Then for a moment she\ndropped her bright head beside the bandaged one on the pillow, but when\nthe Vicomte came back she was kneeling where he had left her, her hands\nclasped over one of the Sheik's and her face hidden against the\ncushions.\n\nSaint Hubert put his hand on her shoulder. \"Diane, you are torturing\nyourself unnecessarily. We cannot know for some time how it will go\nwith him. Try and get some sleep for a few hours. You can do no good by\nstaying here. Henri and I will watch. I will call you if there is any\nchange, my word of honour.\"\n\nShe shook her head without looking up. \"I can't go. I couldn't sleep.\"\n\nSaint Hubert did not press it. \"Very well,\" he said quietly, \"but if\nyou are going to stay you must take off your riding-boots and put on\nsomething more comfortable than those clothes.\"\n\nShe realised the sense of what he was saying, and obeyed him without a\nword. She even had to admit to herself a certain sensation of relief\nafter she had bathed her aching head and throat, and substituted a\nthin, silk wrap for the torn, stained riding-suit.\n\nHenri was pouring out coffee when she came back, and Saint Hubert\nturned to her with a cup in his outstretched hand. \"Please take it. It\nwill do you good,\" he said, with a little smile that was not reflected\nin his anxious eyes.\n\nShe took it unheeding, and, swallowing it hastily, went to the side of\nthe divan again. She slid down on to the rug where she had knelt\nbefore. The Sheik was lying as she had left him. For a few moments she\nlooked at him, then drowsily her eyes closed and her head fell forward\non the cushions, and with a half-sad smile of satisfaction Saint Hubert\ngathered her up into his arms.\n\nHe carried her into the bedroom, hesitating beside the couch before he\nput her down. Surely one moment out of a lifetime might be granted to\nhim. He would never have the torturing happiness of holding her in his\narms again, would never again clasp her against the heart that was\ncrying out for her with the same mad passion that had swept over him\nyesterday. He looked down longingly on the pale face lying against his\narm, and his features contracted at the sight of the cruel marks\nmarring the whiteness of her delicate throat. The love that all his\nlife he had longed for, that he had sought vainly through many\ncountries, had come to him at last, and it had come too late. The\nhelpless loveliness lying in his arms was not for him. It was Ahmed\nwhom she loved, Ahmed who had waked to such a tardy recognition of the\npriceless gift that she had given him, Ahmed whom he must wrest from\nthe grim spectre that was hovering near him lest the light that shone\nin her violet eyes should go out in the blackness of despair. And yet\nas he looked at her with eyes filled with hopeless misery a demon of\nsuggestion whispered within him, tempting him. He knew his friend as no\none else did. What chance of happiness had any woman with a man like\nAhmed Ben Hassan, at the mercy of his savage nature and passionate\nchangeable moods? What reason to suppose that the love that had flamed\nup so suddenly at the thought that he had lost her would survive the\nknowledge of repossession? To him, all his life, a thing desired had\nupon possession become valueless. With the fulfilment of acquisition\nhad come always disinterest. The pleasure of pursuit faded with\nownership. Would this hapless girl who had poured out such a wealth of\nlove at the feet of the man who had treated her brutally fare any\nbetter at his hands? Her chance was slight, if any. Ahmed in the full\npower of his strength again would be the man he had always been,\nimplacable, cruel, merciless. Saint Hubert's own longing, his\npassionate, Gallic temperament, were driving him as they had driven him\nthe day before. The longing to save her from misery was acute, that,\nand his own love, prompted by the urging of the desire within him. Then\nhe trembled, and a great fear of himself came over him. Ahmed was his\nfriend. Who was he that he should judge him? He could at least be\nhonest with himself, he could own the truth. He coveted what was not\nhis, and masked his envy with a hypocrisy that now appeared\ncontemptible. The clasp of his arms around her seemed suddenly a\nprofanation, and he laid her down very gently on the low couch, drawing\nthe thin coverlet over her, and went back slowly to the other room.\n\nHe sent Henri away and sat down beside the divan to watch with a\nfeeling of weariness that was not bodily. The great tent was very\nstill, a pregnant silence seemed to hang in the air, a brooding hush\nthat strained Saint Hubert's already overstrained nerves. He had need\nof all his calm, and he gripped himself resolutely. For a time Ahmed\nBen Hassan lay motionless, and then, as the day crept on and the early\nrays of the warm sun filled the tent, he moved uneasily, and began to\nmutter feverishly in confused Arabic and French. At first the words\nthat came were almost unintelligible, pouring out with rapid\nindistinctness, then by degrees his voice slowed, and hesitating,\ninterrupted sentences came clearly from his lips. And beside him, with\nhis face buried in his hands, Raoul de Saint Hubert thanked God\nfervently that he had saved Diana the added torture of listening to the\nrevelations of the past four months.\n\nThe first words were in Arabic, then the slow, soft voice lapsed into\nFrench, pure as the Vicomte's own.\n\n\"Two hours south of the oasis with the three broken palm trees by the\nwell.... Lie still, you little fool, it is useless to struggle. You\ncannot get away, I shall not let you go.... Why have I brought you\nhere? You ask me why? _Mon Dieu!_ Are you not woman enough to\nknow? No! I will not spare you. Give me what I want willingly and I\nwill be kind to you, but fight me, and by Allah! you shall pay the\ncost!... I know you hate me, you have told me so already. Shall I make\nyou love me?... Still disobedient? When will you learn that I am\nmaster?... I have not tired of you yet, you lovely little wild\nthing, _garcon manque...._ You say she is cowed; I say she is\ncontent--content to give me everything I ask of her.... For four months\nshe has fought me. Why does it give me no pleasure to have broken her\nat last? Why do I want her still? She is English and I have made her\npay for my hatred of her cursed race. I have tortured her to keep my\nvow, and still I want her.... Diane, Diane, how beautiful you are!...\nWhat devil makes me hate Raoul after twenty years? Last night she only\nspoke to him, and when he went I cursed her till I saw the terror in\nher eyes. She fears me. Why should I care if she loves him.... I knew\nshe was not asleep when I went to her. I felt her quivering beside\nme.... I wanted to kill Raoul when he would not come with me, but for\nthat I would have gone back to her.... Allah! how long the day has\nbeen.... Has it been long to her? Will she smile or tremble when I\ncome?... Where is Diane?... Diane, Diane, how could I know how much you\nmeant to me? How could I know that I should love you?... Diane, Diane,\nmy sunshine. The tent is cold and dark without you.... Ibraheim Omair!\nThat devil and Diane! Oh, Allah! Grant me time to get to her.... How\nthe jackals are howling.... See, Raoul, there are the tents.... Diane,\nwhere are you?... Grand Dieu! He has been torturing her!... You knew\nthat I would come, _ma bien aimee_, only a few moments while I\nkill him, then I can hold you in my arms. _Dieu!_ If you knew how\nmuch I loved you.... Diane, Diane, it is all black. I cannot see you,\nDiane, Diane....\"\n\nAnd hour after hour with weary hopelessness the tired voice went\non--\"Diane, Diane....\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nIt was evening when Diana opened drowsy and heavy eyes, a bitter taste\nin her mouth from the effects of the drug that Saint Hubert had given\nher. Everything had been laid out in readiness for her waking with the\nlittle touches that were characteristic of Zilah's handiwork, but the\nArab girl herself was not visible. The lamp was lighted, and Diana\nturned her head languidly, still half confused, to look at the clock\nbeside her. The tiny chime sounded seven times, and with a rush of\nrecollection she leaped up. More than twelve hours since she had knelt\nbeside him after drinking the coffee that Raoul had given her. She\nguessed what he had done and tried to be grateful, but the thought of\nwhat might have happened during the twelve hours she had lain like a\nlog was horrible. She dressed with feverish haste and went into the\nouter room. It was filled with Arabs, many of whom she did not\nrecognise, and she knew that they must belong to the reinforcements\nthat Ahmed Ben Hassan had sent for. Two, who seemed from their\nappearance to be petty chiefs, were talking in low tones to Saint\nHubert, who looked worn and tired. The rest were grouped silently about\nthe divan, looking at the still-unconscious Sheik. The restlessness and\ndelirium of the morning had passed and been succeeded by a death-like\nstupor. Nearest to him stood Yusef, his usual swaggering self-assurance\nchanged into an attitude of deepest dejection, and his eyes, that were\nfixed on Ahmed Ben Hassan's face, were like those of a whipped dog.\n\nGradually the tent emptied until only Yusef was left, and at last,\nreluctantly, he too went, stopping at the entrance to speak to Saint\nHubert, who had just taken leave of the two headmen.\n\nThe Vicomte came back, bringing a chair for Diana, and put her into it\nwith gentle masterfulness. \"Sit down,\" he said almost gruffly. \"You\nlook like a ghost.\"\n\nShe looked up at him reproachfully. \"You drugged that coffee, Raoul. If\nhe had died to-day while I was asleep I don't think I could ever have\nforgiven you.\"\n\n\"My dear child,\" he said gravely, \"you don't know how near you were to\ncollapse. If I had not made you sleep I should have had three patients\non my hands instead of two.\"\n\n\"I am very ungrateful,\" she murmured, with a tremulous little smile.\n\nSaint Hubert brought a chair for himself and dropped into it wearily.\nHe felt very tired, the strain of the past twenty-four hours had been\ntremendous. He had a very real fear that was fast growing into a\nconviction that his skill was going to prove unequal to save his\nfriend's life, and beside that anxiety and his physical fatigue he had\nfought a bitter fight with himself all day, tearing out of his heart\nthe envy and jealousy that filled it, and locking away his love as a\nsecret treasure to be hidden for always. His devotion to Ahmed Ben\nHassan had survived the greatest test that could be imposed upon it,\nand had emerged from the trial strengthened and refined, with every\ntrace of self obliterated. It had been the hardest struggle of his\nlife, but it was over now, and all the bitterness had passed, leaving\nonly a passionate desire for Diana's happiness that outweighed every\nother thought. One spark of comfort remained. He would not be quite\nuseless. His help and sympathy would be necessary to her, and even for\nthat he was grateful.\n\nHe looked across the divan at her, and the change that the last few\nhours had made in her struck him painfully. The alert, vigorous\nboyishness that had been so characteristic was gone. Her slim figure\ndrooping listlessly in the big chair, her white face with the new marks\nof suffering on it, and her wide eyes burning with dumb misery, were\nall purely womanly. And yet though he resented the change he wished it\ncould have gone further. The restraint she was putting on herself was\nunnatural. She asked no questions and she shed no tears. He could have\nborne them both easier than the silent anguish of her face. He feared\nthe results of the emotion she was repressing so rigidly.\n\nThere was a long silence.\n\nHenri came in once and Diana roused herself to ask for Gaston, and then\nrelapsed into silent watchfulness again. She sighed once, a long\nquivering sigh that nearly broke Saint Hubert's heart. He rose and bent\nover the Sheik with his fingers on his wrist, and as he laid the\nnerveless hand down again she leaned nearer and covered it with her\nown.\n\n\"His hand is so big for an Arab's,\" she said softly, like a thought\nspoken aloud unconsciously.\n\n\"He is not an Arab,\" replied Saint Hubert with sudden, impatient\nvehemence. \"He is English.\"\n\nDiana looked up at him swiftly with utter bewilderment in her startled\neyes. \"I don't understand,\" she faltered. \"He hates the English.\"\n\n\"_Quand-meme_, he is the son of one of your English peers. His\nmother was a Spanish lady; many of the old noble Spanish families have\nMoorish blood in their veins, the characteristics crop up even after\ncenturies. It is so with Ahmed, and his life in the desert has\naccentuated it. Has he never told you anything about himself?\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"Sometimes I have wondered----\" she said\nreflectively. \"He seemed different from the others, and there has been\nso much that I could never understand. But then again there were times\nwhen he seemed pure Arab,\" she added in a lower voice and with an\ninvoluntary shiver.\n\n\"You ought to know,\" said Saint Hubert. \"Yes!\" he went on firmly, as\nshe tried to interrupt him. \"It is due to you. It will explain so many\nthings. I will take the responsibility. His father is the Earl of\nGlencaryll.\"\n\n\"But I know him,\" said Diana wonderingly. \"He was a friend of my\nfather. I saw him only a few months ago when Aubrey and I passed\nthrough Paris. He is such a magnificent-looking old man, so fierce and\nsad. Oh, now I know why that awful frown of Ahmed's has always seemed\nso familiar. Lord Glencaryll frowns like that. It is the famous Caryll\nscowl. But I still don't understand.\" She looked from Saint Hubert to\nthe unconscious man on the divan and back to Saint Hubert with a new\ntrouble growing in her eyes.\n\n\"I had better tell you the whole story,\" said Raoul, dropping back into\nhis chair.\n\n\"Thirty-six years ago my father, who was as great a wanderer as I am,\nwas staying here in the desert with his friend the Sheik Ahmed Ben\nHassan. A chance acquaintance some years before over the purchase of\nsome horses had ripened into a very intimate friendship that was\nunusual between a Frenchman and an Arab. The Sheik was a wonderful man,\nvery enlightened, with strong European tendencies. As a matter of pure\nfact he was not too much in sympathy with the French form of\nadministration as carried on in Algeria, but he was not affected\nsufficiently by it to make any real difficulty. The territory that he\nregarded as his own lay too much to the south, and he kept his large\nand scattered tribe in too good order for any interference to be\npossible. He was unmarried, and the women of his own race seemed to\nhave no attraction for him. He was wrapped up in his tribe and his\nhorses. My father had come for a stay of some months. My mother had\nrecently died and he wanted to get away from everything that reminded\nhim of her. One evening, shortly after his arrival at the camp, a party\nof the Sheik's men who had been absent for some days in the north on\nthe chief's affairs arrived, bringing with them a woman whom they had\nfound wandering in the desert. How she had got there, or from what\ndirection she had come, they did not know. They were nearer\ncivilisation than Ahmed Ben Hassan's camp at the time, but with true\nnative tendency to avoid responsibility they thought that the disposal\nof her was a matter more for their Sheik than themselves. She could\ngive no account of herself, as, owing to the effects of the sun or\nother causes, she was temporarily out of her mind. Arabs are very\ngentle with any one who is mad--'Allah has touched them!' She was taken\nto the tent of one of the headmen, whose wife looked after her. For\nsome days it was doubtful whether she would recover, and her condition\nwas aggravated by the fact that she was shortly to become a mother. She\ndid regain her senses after a time, however, but nothing could make her\nsay anything about herself, and questions reduced her to terrible fits\nof hysterical crying which were prejudicial in her state of health. She\nseemed calmest when she was left quite alone, but even then she started\nat the slightest sound, and the headman's wife reported that she would\nlie for hours on her bed crying quietly to herself. She was quite\nyoung--seemingly not more than nineteen or twenty. From her accents my\nfather decided that she was Spanish, but she would admit nothing, not\neven her nationality. In due course of time the child was born, a boy.\"\n\nSaint Hubert paused a moment and nodded towards the Sheik. \"Even after\nthe child's birth she refused to give any account of herself. In that\nshe was as firm as a rock; in everything else she was the frailest,\ngentlest little creature imaginable. She was very small and slender,\nwith quantities of soft dark hair and beautiful great dark eyes that\nlooked like a frightened fawn's. I have heard my father describe her\nmany times, and I have seen the water-colour sketch he made of her--he\nwas quite an amateur. Ahmed has it locked away somewhere. She nearly\ndied when the baby was born, and she never recovered her strength. She\nmade no complaint and never spoke of herself, and seemed quite content\nas long as the child was with her. She was a child herself in a great\nnumber of ways. It never seemed to occur to her that there was anything\nodd in her continued residence in the Sheik's camp. She had a tent and\nservants of her own, and the headman's wife was devoted to her. So were\nthe rest of the camp for that matter. There was an element of the\nmysterious in her advent that had taken hold of the superstitious\nArabs, and the baby was looked upon as something more than human and\nwas adored by all the tribe. The Sheik himself, who had never looked\ntwice at a woman before in his life, became passionately attached to\nher. My father says that he has never seen a man so madly in love as\nAhmed Ben Hassan was with the strange white girl who had come so oddly\ninto his life. He repeatedly implored her to marry him, and even my\nfather, who has a horror of mixed marriages, was impelled to admit that\nany woman might have been happy with Ahmed Ben Hassan. She would not\nconsent, though she would give no reason for her refusal, and the\nmystery that surrounded her remained as insolvable during the two years\nthat she lived after the baby's birth as it had been on the day of her\narrival. And her refusal made no difference with the Sheik. His\ndevotion was wonderful. When she died my father was again visiting the\ncamp. She knew that she was dying, and a few days before the end she\ntold them her pitiful little history. She was the only daughter of one\nof the oldest noble houses in Spain, as poor as they were noble, and\nshe had been married when she was seventeen to Lord Glencaryll, who had\nseen her with her parents in Nice. She had been married without any\nregard to her own wishes, and though she grew to love her husband she\nwas always afraid of him. He had a terrible temper that was very easily\nroused, and, in those days, he also periodically drank a great deal\nmore than was good for him, and when under the influence of drink\nbehaved more like a devil than a man. She was very young and\n_gauche_, failing often to do what was required of her from mere\nnervousness. He was exigent and made no allowance for her youth and\ninexperience, and her life was one long torture. And yet in spite of it\nall she loved him. Even in speaking of it she insisted that the fault\nwas hers, that the trouble was due to her stupidity, glossing over his\nbrutality; in fact, it was not from her, but from inquiries that he\nmade after her death, that my father learned most of what her life had\nbeen. It seems that Lord Glencaryll had taken her to Algiers and had\nwished to make a trip into the desert. He had been drinking heavily,\nand she did not dare to upset his plans by refusing to go with him or\neven by telling him how soon her child was going to be born. So she\nwent with him, and one night something happened--what she would not\nsay, but my father says he has never seen such a look of terror on any\nwoman's face as she hurried over that part of her story. Whatever it\nwas she waited until the camp was asleep and then slipped out into the\ndesert, mad with fear, with no thought beyond a blind instinct of\nflight that drove her panic-stricken to face any danger rather than\nremain and undergo the misery she was flying from. She remembered\nhurrying onward, terrified by every sound and every shadow, frightened\neven by the blazing stars that seemed to be watching her and pointing\nout the way she had taken, until her mind was numb from utter weariness\nand she remembered nothing more until she awoke in the headman's tent.\nShe had been afraid to say who she was lest she should be sent back to\nher husband. And with the birth of the child she became more than ever\ndetermined to preserve her secret. The boy should be spared the\nsuffering she had herself endured, he should not be allowed to fall\ninto the hands of his father to be at his mercy when the periodical\ndrinking fits made him a very fiend of cruelty. She made my father and\nthe Sheik swear that not until the boy grew to manhood should Lord\nGlencaryll be told of his existence. She wrote a letter for her husband\nwhich she gave into my father's keeping, together with her wedding\nring, which had an inscription inside of it, and a miniature of\nGlencaryll which she had worn always hidden away from sight. She was\nvery contrite with the Sheik, begging his forgiveness for the sorrow\nshe had caused him and for keeping from his knowledge the fact that she\nwas not free. She loved her husband loyally to the end, but the last\nfew days that she lived the Sheik's devotion seemed to wake an\nanswering tenderness in her heart. She was happiest when he was with\nher, and she died in his arms with his kisses on her lips. She left her\nboy in his keeping, and Ahmed Ben Hassan adopted him formally and made\nhim his heir, giving him his own name--the hereditary name that the\nSheik of the tribe has borne for generations. His word was law amongst\nhis people, and there was no thought of any opposition to his wishes;\nfurther, the child was considered lucky, and his choice of successor\nwas received with unanimous delight. All the passionate love that the\nSheik had for the mother was transferred to the son. He idolised him,\nand the boy grew up believing that Ahmed Ben Hassan was his own father.\nWith the traits he had inherited from his mother's people and with his\ndesert upbringing he looked, as he does now, pure Arab. When he was\nfifteen my father induced the Sheik to send him to Paris to be\neducated. With his own European tendencies the Sheik had wished it\nalso, but he could not bring himself to part with the boy before, and\nit was a tremendous wrench to let him go when he did. It was then that\nI first saw him. I was eighteen at the time, and had just begun my\nmilitary training, but as my regiment was stationed in Paris I was able\nto be at home a good deal. He was such a handsome, high-spirited lad.\nMen mature very young in the desert and in many ways he was a great\ndeal older than I was, in spite of my three years' seniority. But, of\ncourse, in other ways he was a perfect child. He had a fiendish temper\nand resented any check on his natural lawless inclinations. He loathed\nthe restrictions that had to be put upon him and he hated the restraint\nof town life. He had been accustomed to having his own way in nearly\neverything, and to the constant adulation of the tribesmen, and he was\nnot prepared to give to anybody else the obedience that he gave\nwillingly to the Sheik. There were some very stormy times, and I never\nadmired my father in anything so much as his handling of that young\nsavage. His escapades were nerve-racking and his _beaux yeux_ led\nhim into endless scrapes. The only threat that reduced him to order was\nthat of sending him home to the Sheik in disgrace. He would promise\namendment and take himself off to the Bois to work off his superfluous\nenergy on my father's horses--until he broke out again. But in spite of\nhis temper and his _diableries_ he was very lovable and everybody\nliked him.\n\n\"After a year with us in Paris my father, always mindful of his real\nnationality, sent him for two years to a tutor in England, where I had\nmyself been. The tutor was an exceptional man, used to dealing with\nexceptional boys, and Ahmed did very well with him. I don't mean that\nhe did much work--that he evaded skilfully and spent most of his time\nhunting and shooting. The only thing that he studied at all seriously\nwas veterinary surgery, which he knew would be useful to him with his\nown horses, and in which his tutor was level-headed enough to encourage\nhim. Then at the end of two years he came back to us for another year.\nHe had gone to the desert every summer for his holidays, and on each\noccasion the Sheik let him return with greater reluctance. He was\nalways afraid that the call of civilisation would be too much for his\nadopted son, especially as he grew older, but although Ahmed had\nchanged very much from the wild desert lad who had first come to us,\nand had developed into a polished man of the world, speaking French and\nEnglish as fluently as Arabic, with plenty of means to amuse himself in\nany way that he wished--for the Sheik was very rich and kept him\nlavishly supplied with money--and though in that last year he was with\nus he was courted and feted in a way that would have turned most\npeople's heads, he was always secretly longing for the time when\nhe would go back to the desert. It was the desert, not civilisation\nthat called loudest to him. He loved the life and he adored the man\nwhom he thought was his father. To be the son and heir of Ahmed Ben\nHassan seemed to him to be the highest pinnacle that any man's ambition\ncould reach. He was perfectly indifferent to the flattery and attention\nthat his money and his good looks brought him. My father entertained\nvery largely and Ahmed became the fashion--'_Le bel Arabe_' he\nwas called, and he enjoyed a _succes fou_ which bored him to\nextinction--and at the end of the year, having written to the Sheik for\npermission to go home, he shook the dust of Paris off his feet and went\nback to the desert. I went with him. It was my first visit and the\nfirst time that I had experienced Ahmed _en prince_. I had never\nseen him in anything but European clothes, and I got quite a shock when\nI came up on deck the morning that we arrived at Oran and found an Arab\nof the Arabs waiting for me. The robes and a complete change of\ncarriage and expression that seemed to go with them altered him\ncuriously and I hardly recognised him. Some of his men were waiting for\nhim on the quay and their excitement was extraordinary. I realised from\nthe deference and attention that the French officials paid to Ahmed the\nposition that the old Sheik had made for himself and the high esteem in\nwhich he was held. We spent the rest of the day in arranging for the\nconsiderable baggage that he had brought with him to be forwarded by\nthe camel caravan that had been sent for the purpose, and also in\nbusiness for the Sheik in Oran. We spent the night in a villa on the\noutskirts of the town belonging to an old Arab who entertained us\nlavishly, and who spent the evening congratulating Ahmed heartily on\nhaving escaped from the clutches of the odious French, by no means\nabashed when Ahmed pointed out that there was an odious Frenchman\npresent, for he dismissed me with a gesture that conveyed that my\nnationality was my misfortune and not my fault, and in impressing on\nhim the necessity of immediately acquiring a wife or two and settling\ndown for the good of the tribe--all this in the intervals of drinking\ncoffee, listening to the most monotonous native music and watching\nbarbaric dances. There was one particularly well-made dancing girl that\nthe old man tried to induce Ahmed to buy, and he made a show of\nbargaining for her--not from any real interest he took in her, but\nmerely to see the effect that it would have on me. But I refused to be\ndrawn, and as my head was reeling with the atmosphere I escaped to bed\nand left him still bargaining. We started early next morning, and were\njoined a few miles out of the town by a big detachment of followers.\nThe excitement of the day before was repeated on a very much larger\nscale. It was a novel experience for me, and I can hardly describe my\nfeelings in the midst of that yelling horde of men, galloping wildly\nround us and firing their rifles until it seemed hardly possible that\nsome accident would not happen. It was Ahmed's attitude that impressed\nme most. He took it all quietly as his due, and when he had had enough\nof it stopped it with a peremptory authority that was instantly obeyed,\nand apologised for the exuberant behaviour of his children. It was a\nnew Ahmed to me; the boy I had known for four years seemed suddenly\ntransformed into a man who made me feel very young. In France I had\nnaturally always rather played elder brother, but here Ahmed was on his\nown ground and the roles seemed likely to be reversed. The arrival at\nthe Sheik's camp was everything that the most lavish scenic producer\ncould have wished. Though I had heard of it both from my father and\nAhmed I was not quite prepared for the splendour with which the Sheik\nsurrounded himself. With Eastern luxury was mingled many European\nadjuncts that added much to the comfort of camp life. The meeting\nbetween the Sheik and Ahmed was most touching. I had a very happy time\nand left with regret. The charm of the desert took hold of me then and\nhas never left me since. But I had to return to my medical studies. I\nleft Ahmed absorbed in his life and happier than I had ever seen him in\nParis. He was nineteen then, and when he was twenty-one my father had\nthe unpleasant task of carrying out Lady Glencaryll's dying wishes. He\nwrote to Lord Glencaryll asking him to come to Paris on business\nconnected with his late wife, and, during the course of a very painful\ninterview, put the whole facts before him. With the letter that the\npoor girl had written to her husband, with the wedding-ring and the\nlocket, together with the sketch that my father had made of her, the\nproofs of the genuineness of the whole affair were conclusive.\nGlencaryll broke down completely. He admitted that his wife had every\njustification for leaving him, he spared himself nothing. He referred\nquite frankly to the curse of which he had been the slave and which had\nmade him irresponsible for his actions when he was under its influence.\nHe had never known himself what had happened that terrible night, but\nthe tragedy of his wife's disappearance had cured him. He had made\nevery effort to find her and it was many years before he gave up all\nhope. He mourned her bitterly, and worshipped her memory. It was\nimpossible not to pity him, for he had expiated his fault with agony\nthat few men can have experienced. The thought that he had a son and\nthat son her child almost overwhelmed him. He had ardently desired an\nheir, and, thinking himself childless, the fact that his title and his\nold name, of which he was very proud, would die with him had been a\ngreat grief. His happiness in the knowledge of Ahmed's existence was\npathetic, he was consumed with impatience for his son's arrival.\nNothing had been said to Ahmed in case Lord Glencaryll should prove\ndifficult to convince and thereby complicate matters, but his ready\nacceptance of the affair and his eagerness to see his son made further\ndelay unnecessary, and my father sent for Ahmed. The old Sheik let him\ngo in ignorance of what was coming. He had always dreaded the time when\nhis adopted son would have to be told of his real parentage, fearful of\nlosing him, jealous of sharing his affection and resenting anybody's\nclaim to him over his own. And so, with the only instance he ever gave\nof want of moral courage, he sent Ahmed to Paris with no explanation,\nand left to my father the task of breaking to him the news. I shall\nnever forget that day. It had been arranged that Ahmed should be told\nfirst and that afterwards father and son should meet. Ahmed arrived in\nthe morning in time for _dejeuner_, and afterwards we went to my\nfather's study, and there he told him the whole story as gently and as\ncarefully as he could. Ahmed was standing by the window. He never said\na word the whole time my father was speaking, and when he finished he\nstood quite still for a few moments, his face almost grey under the\ndeep tan, his eyes fixed passionately on my father's--and then his\nfiendish temper broke out suddenly. It was a terrible scene. He cursed\nhis father in a steady stream of mingled Arabic and French blasphemy\nthat made one's blood run cold. He cursed all English people\nimpartially. He cursed my father because he had dared to send him to\nEngland. He cursed me because I had been a party to the affair. The\nonly person whom he spared was the Sheik; who after all was as much\nimplicated as we were, but he never once mentioned him. He refused to\nsee his father, refused to recognise that he was his father, and he\nleft the house that afternoon and Paris that night, going straight back\nto the desert, taking with him Gaston, who had arranged some time\nbefore to enter his service as soon as his time in the cavalry was up.\nA letter that Lord Glencaryll wrote to him, addressed to Viscount\nCaryll, which is, of course, his courtesy title, begging for at least\nan interview, and which he gave to us to forward, was returned\nunopened, and scrawled across the envelope: _'Inconnu._ Ahmed Ben\nHassan.' And since that day his hatred of the English had been a\nmonomania, and he has never spoken a word of English. Later on, when we\nused to travel together, his obvious avoidance of English people was at\ntimes both awkward and embarrassing, and I have often had to go through\nthe farce of translating into French or Arabic remarks made to him by\nEnglish fellow-travellers, that is, when he condescended to notice the\nremarks, which was not often. From the day he learned the truth about\nhimself for two years we saw nothing of him. Then the old Sheik asked\nus to visit him. We went with some misgivings as to what Ahmed's\nreception of us would be, but he met us as if nothing had happened. He\nignored the whole episode and has never referred to it. It is a closed\nincident. The Sheik warned us that Ahmed had told him that any\nreference to it would mean the breaking off of all relations with us.\nBut Ahmed himself had changed indescribably. All the lovable qualities\nthat had made him so popular in Paris were gone, and he had become the\ncruel, merciless man he has been ever since. The only love left in him\nwas given to his adopted father, whom he worshipped. Later I was\nallowed back on the old footing, and he has always been good to Gaston,\nbut with those three exceptions he has spared nobody and nothing. He is\nmy friend, I love him, and I am not telling you more than you know\nalready.\"\n\nSaint Hubert broke off and looked anxiously at Diana, but she did not\nmove or meet his gaze. She was sitting with her hand still clasped over\nthe Sheik's and the other one shading her face, and the Vicomte went on\nspeaking: \"It is so easy to judge, so difficult to understand another\nperson's temptations. Ahmed's position has always been a curious one.\nHe has had unique temptations with always the means of gratifying\nthem.\"\n\nThere was a longer pause, but still Diana did not move or speak.\n\n\"The curse of Ishmael had taken hold of me by then and I wandered\ncontinually. Sometimes Ahmed came with me; we have shot big game\ntogether in most parts of the globe. A few times he stayed with us in\nParis, but never for long; he always wearied to get back to the desert.\nFive years ago the old Sheik died; he was an exceptionally strong man,\nand should have lived for years but for an accident which crippled him\nhopelessly and from which he died a few months afterwards. Ahmed's\ndevotion during his illness was wonderful. He never left him, and since\nhe succeeded to the leadership of the tribe he has lived continuously\namongst his people, absorbed in them and his horses, carrying on the\ntraditions handed down to him by his predecessor and devoting his life\nto the tribe. They are like children, excitable, passionate and\nheadstrong, and he has never dared to risk leaving them alone too long,\nparticularly with the menace of Ibraheim Omair always in the\nbackground. He has never been able to seek relaxation further afield\nthan Algiers or Oran----\" Saint Hubert stopped abruptly, cursing himself\nfor a tactless fool. She could not fail to realise the significance of\nthose visits to the gay, vicious little towns. The inference was\nobvious. His thoughtless words would only add to her misery. Her\nsensitive mind would shrink from the contamination they implied. If\nAhmed was going to die, she would be desolate enough without forcing on\nher knowledge the unworthiness of the man she loved. He pushed his\nchair back impatiently and went to the open doorway. He felt that she\nwanted to be alone. She watched him go, then slipped to her knees\nbeside the couch.\n\nShe had realised the meaning of Raoul's carelessly uttered words and\nthey had hurt her poignantly, but it was no new sorrow. He had told her\nhimself months ago, callously, brutally, sparing her nothing,\nextenuating nothing. She pressed her cheek against the hand she was\nholding. She did not blame him, she could only love him, no matter what\nhis life had been. It was Ahmed as he was she loved, his faults, his\nvices were as much a part of him as his superb physique and the\nalternating moods that had been so hard to meet. She had never known\nhim otherwise. He seemed to stand alone, outside the prescribed\nconventions that applied to ordinary men. The standards of common usage\ndid not appear compatible with the wild desert man who was his own law\nand followed only his own precedent, defiant of social essentials and\nscornful of criticism. The proud, fierce nature and passionate temper\nthat he had inherited, the position of despotic leadership in which he\nhad been reared, the adulation of his followers and the savage life in\nthe desert, free from all restraint, had combined to produce the\nhaughty unconventionalism that would not submit to the ordinary rules\nof life. She could not think of him as an Englishman. The mere accident\nof his parentage was a factor that weighed nothing. He was and always\nwould be an Arab of the wilderness. If he lived! He _must_ live!\nHe could not go out like that, his magnificent strength and fearless\ncourage extinguished by a treacherous blow that had not dared to meet\nhim face to face--in spite of the overwhelming numbers--but had struck\nhim down from behind, a coward stroke. He must live, even if his life\nmeant death to her hopes of happiness; that was nothing compared with\nhis life. She loved him well enough to sacrifice anything for him. If\nhe only lived she could bear even to be put out of his life. It was\nonly he that mattered, his life was everything. He was so young, so\nstrong, so made to live. He had so much to live for. He was essential\nto his people. They needed him. If she could only die for him. In the\ndays when the world was young the gods were kind, they listened to the\nprayers of hapless lovers and accepted the life that was offered in\nplace of the beloved whose life was claimed. If God would but listen to\nher now. If He would but accept her life in exchange for his. If----!\nif----!\n\nHer fingers crept up lightly across his breast, fearful lest even their\ntender touch should injure his battered body, and she looked long and\nearnestly at him. His crisp brown hair was hidden by the bandages that,\ndead white against his tanned face, swathed his bruised head. His\nclosed eyes with the thick dark lashes curling on his cheek, hiding the\nusual fierce expression that gleamed in them, and the relaxation of the\nhard lines of his face made him look singularly young. That youthful\nlook had been noticeable often when he was asleep, and she had watched\nit wondering what Ahmed the boy had been like before he grew into the\nmerciless man at whose hands she had suffered so much.\n\nAnd now the knowledge of his boyhood seemed to make him even dearer\nthan he had been before. What sort of man would he have been if the\nlittle dark-eyed mother had lived to sway him with her gentleness? Poor\nlittle mother, helpless and fragile!--yet strong enough to save her boy\nfrom the danger that she feared for him, but paying the price of that\nstrength with her life, content that her child was safe.\n\nDiana thought of her own mother dying in the arms of a husband who\nadored her, and then of the little Spanish girl slipping away from\nlife, a stranger in a strange land, her heart crying out for the\nhusband whom she still loved, turning in ignorance of his love for\nconsolation in the agony of death to the lover she had denied, and\nseeking comfort in his arms. A sudden jealousy of the two dead women\nshook her. They had been loved. Why could not she be loved? Wherein did\nshe fail that he would not love her? Other men had loved her, and his\nlove was all she longed for in the world. To feel his arms around her\nonly once with love in their touch, to see his passionate eyes kindle\nonly once with the light she prayed for. She drew a long sobbing\nbreath. \"Ahmed, _mon bel Arabe_,\" she murmured yearningly.\n\nShe rose to her feet. She was afraid of breaking down, of giving way to\nthe fear and anxiety that racked her. She turned instinctively to the\nhelp and sympathy that offered and went to Saint Hubert, joining him\nunder the awning. Usually at night the vicinity of the Sheik's tent was\navoided by the tribesmen, even the sentry on guard was posted at some\nlittle distance. Kopec curled up outside the doorway kept ample watch.\nBut to-night the open space was swarming with men, some squatting on\nthe ground in circles, others clustered together in earnest\nconversation, and far off through the palm trees she caught an\noccasional glimpse of mounted men. Yusef and the headmen acting under\nhim were taking no risks, there was to be no chance of a surprise\nattack.\n\n\"You must be very tired, Raoul,\" she said, slipping her hand through\nhis arm, for her need was almost as much for physical as mental\nsupport. The frank touch of her hand sent a quiver through him, but he\nsuppressed it, and laid his own hand over her cold fingers.\n\n\"I must not think of that yet. Later on, perhaps, I can rest a little.\nHenri can watch; he is almost as good a doctor as I am, the\nincomparable Henri! Ahmed and I have always quarrelled over the\nrespective merits of our servants.\"\n\nHe felt her hand tighten on his arm at the mention of the Sheik's name\nand heard the smothered sigh that she choked back. They stood in\nsilence for a while watching the shifting groups of tribesmen. A little\nknot of low-voiced men near them opened up, and one of their number\ncame to Saint Hubert with an inquiry.\n\n\"The men are restless.\" Raoul said when the Arab had gone back to his\nfellows with all the consolation the Vicomte could give him. \"Their\ndevotion is very strong. Ahmed is a god to them. Their anxiety takes\nthem in a variety of ways. Yusef, who has been occupied with his duties\nmost of the day, has turned to religion for the first time in his life,\nhe has gone to say his prayers with the pious Abdul, as he thinks that\nAllah is more likely to listen if his petitions go heavenward in\ncompany with the holy man's.\"\n\nDiana's thoughts strayed back to the story that Saint Hubert had told\nher. \"Does Lord Glencaryll know that you see Ahmed?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh yes. He and my father became great friends. He often stays with us\nin Paris. We are a link between him and Ahmed. He is always hungry for\nany news of him, and still clings to the hope that one day he will\nrelent. He has never made any further effort to open up relations with\nhim because he knows it would be useless. If there is to be any\n_rapprochement_ between them it must come from Ahmed. They have\nalmost met accidentally once or twice, and Glencaryll has once seen\nhim. It was at the opera. He was staying in Paris for some months and\nhad a box. I had gone across from our own box on the other side of the\nhouse to speak to him. There were several people with him. I was\nstanding beside him, talking. Ahmed had just come into our box opposite\nand was standing right in the front looking over the theatre. Something\nhad annoyed him and he was scowling. The likeness was unmistakable.\nGlencaryll gave a kind of groan and staggered back against me. 'Good\nGod! Who is that?' he said, and I don't think he knew he was speaking\nout loud.\n\n\"A man next him looked in the direction he was looking and laughed.\n'That's the Saint Huberts' wild man of the desert. Looks fierce,\ndoesn't he? The women call him \"_le bel Arabe_.\" He certainly\nwears European clothes with better grace than most natives. He is said\nto have a peculiar hatred of the English, so you'd better give him a\nwide berth, Glencaryll, if you don't want to be bow-stringed or have\nyour throat cut, or whatever fancy form of death the fellow cultivates\nin his native habitat. Raoul can tell you all about him.'\n\n\"There was not any need for me to tell him. Fortunately the opera began\nand the lights went down, and I persuaded him to go away before the\nthing was over.\"\n\nDiana gave a little shiver. She felt a great sympathy coming over her\nfor the lonely old man, hoping against hope for the impossible, that\nshe had not felt earlier in the evening. He, too, was wearing his heart\nout against the inflexible will of Ahmed Ben Hassan.\n\nShe shivered again and turned back into the tent with Saint Hubert.\nThey halted by the couch and stood for a long time in silence. Then\nDiana slowly raised her head and looked up into Raoul's face, and he\nread the agonised question in her eyes.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said gently. \"All things are with Allah.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe night grew hotter and the atmosphere more oppressive. Wrapped in a\nthin silk kimono Diana lay very still on the outside of the wide couch\nin the inner room, propped high with pillows that the shaded light of\nthe little reading-lamp beside her might fall on the book she held, but\nshe was not reading.\n\nIt was Raoul's latest book, that he had brought with him, but she could\nnot concentrate her mind on it, and it lay idle on her knee--while her\nthoughts were far away. It was three months since the night that Saint\nHubert had almost given up hope of being able to save the Sheik's\nlife--a night that had been followed by days of suspense that had\nreduced Diana to a weary-eyed shadow of her former vigorous self, and\nhad left marks on Raoul that would never be effaced. But thanks to his\ngreat strength and splendid constitution the Sheik had rallied and\nafter the first few weeks convalescence had been rapid. When the\nterrible fear that he might die was past it had been a wonderful\nhappiness to wait on him. With the determination to live for the\nmoment, to which she had forced herself, she had banished everything\nfrom her mind but the joy of being near him and of being necessary to\nhim. It had been a very silent service, for he would lie for hours with\nclosed eyes without speaking, and something that she could not master\nkept her tongue-tied in his presence when they were alone. Only once he\nhad referred to the raid. As she bent over him to do some small office\nhis fingers closed feebly round her wrist and his eyes, with a\nsearching apprehension in them, looked into hers for the first time\nsince the night when she had fled from his curses.\n\n\"Was it--in time?\" he whispered slowly, and as she nodded with crimson\ncheeks and lowered eyes he turned his head away without another word,\nbut a shudder that he was too weak to control shook him.\n\nBut the happiness of ministering to him passed very swiftly. As he grew\nstronger he managed so that she was rarely alone with him, and he\ninsisted on her riding twice every day, sometimes with Saint Hubert,\nsometimes with Henri, coolly avowing a preference for his own society\nor that of Gaston, who was beginning to get about again. Later, too, he\nwas much occupied with headmen who came in from the different camps,\nand as the days passed she found herself more and more excluded from\nthe intimacy that had been so precious. She was thrown much into the\nsociety of Raoul de Saint Hubert. All that they had gone through\ntogether had drawn them very closely to each other, and Diana often\nwondered what her girlhood would have been like if it had been spent\nunder his guardianship instead of that of Sir Aubrey Mayo. The sisterly\naffection she had never given her own brother she gave to him, and,\nwith the firm hold over himself that he had never again slackened, the\nVicomte accepted the role of elder brother which she unconsciously\nimposed on him.\n\nIt was hard work sometimes, and there were days when he dreaded the\ndaily rides, when the strain seemed almost more than he could bear, and\nhe began to make tentative suggestions about resuming his wanderings,\nbut always the Sheik pressed him to stay.\n\nAhmed Ben Hassan's final recovery was quick, and the camp soon settled\ndown into normal conditions. The reinforcements were gone back to the\ndifferent camps from which they had been drawn. There was no further\nneed of them. Ibraheim Omair's tribe, with their leader dead, had\nbroken up and scattered far to the south; there was no chief to keep\nthem together and no headman strong enough to draw them round a new\nchieftain, for Ibraheim had allowed no member of his tribe to attain\nany degree of wealth or power that might prove him a rival; so they had\nsplit up into numerous small bands lacking cohesion. In fulfilling the\nvow made to his predecessor Ahmed Ben Hassan had cleared the desert of\na menace that had hung over it for many years.\n\nThe relations between the Sheik and Saint Hubert had gone back to what\nthey had been the night of Raoul's arrival, before his candid criticism\nhad roused the Sheik's temper and fired his jealousy. The recollection\nof the miserable week that had preceded the raid had been wiped out in\nall that had followed it. No shadow could ever come between them again\nsince Raoul had voluntarily stood on one side and sacrificed his own\nchance of happiness for his friend's.\n\nAnd with the Sheik's complete recovery his attitude towards Diana had\nreverted to the cold reserve that had chilled her before--a reserve\nthat was as courteous as it was indifferent. He had avoided her as much\nas had been possible, and the continual presence of Saint Hubert had\nbeen a barrier between them. Unostensibly but effectually he had\ncontrived that Raoul should never leave them alone. Though he included\nher in the general conversation he rarely spoke to her directly, and\noften she found him looking at her with his fierce eyes filled with an\nexpression that baffled her, and as each time the quick blood rushed\ninto her face his forehead drew together in the heavy frown that was so\ncharacteristic. During meals it was Raoul that kept the conversation\nfrom lapsing with ready tact and an eloquent flow of words, ranging\nover many subjects. In the evening the men became immersed in the\nprojection of Saint Hubert's new book, for details of which he was\ndrawing on the Sheik's knowledge, and long after Diana left them she\ncould hear the two voices, both deep and musical, but Raoul's quicker\nand more emphatic, continuously rising and falling, till at last Raoul\nwould go to his own tent and Gaston would come--noiseless and\nsoft-toned as his master. Ordinarily the Sheik dispensed with him at\nnight, but since his wound, the valet, as soon as he had himself\nrecovered, had always been in attendance. Some nights he lingered\ntalking, and others the Sheik dismissed him in a few minutes with only\na curt word or two, and then there would be silence, and Diana would\nbury her face in her pillow and writhe in her desperate loneliness,\nsick with longing for the strong arms she had once dreaded and the\nkisses she had once loathed. He had slept in the outer room since his\nillness, and tossing feverishly on the soft cushions of the big empty\nbed in which she lay alone Diana had suffered the greatest humiliation\nshe had yet experienced. He had never loved her, but now he did not\neven want her. She was useless to him. She was less than nothing to\nhim. He had no need of her. She would lie awake listening wearily to\nthe tiny chimes of the little clock with the bitter sense of her\nneedlessness crushing her. She was humbled to the very dust by his\nindifference. The hours of loneliness in the room that was redolent\nwith associations of him were filled with memories that tortured her.\nIn her fitful sleep her dreams were agonies from which she awakened\nwith shaking limbs and shuddering breath, and waking, her hand would\nstretch out groping to him till remembrance came with cruel vividness.\n\nIn the daytime, too, she had been much alone, for as soon as the Sheik\nwas strong enough to sit in the saddle the two men had ridden far\nafield every day, visiting the outlying camps and drawing into Ahmed\nBen Hassan's own hands again the affairs that had had to be relegated\nto the headmen.\n\nAt last Raoul had announced that his visit could be protracted no\nlonger and that he must resume his journey to Morocco. He was going up\nto Oran and from there to Tangier by coasting steamer, collecting at\nTangier a caravan for his expedition through Morocco. His decision once\nmade he had speeded every means of getting away with a despatch that\nhad almost suggested flight.\n\nTo Diana his going meant the hastening of a crisis that could not be\nput off much longer. The situation was becoming impossible. She had\nsaid good-bye to him the night before. She had never guessed the love\nshe had inspired in him, and she wondered at the sadness in his eyes\nand his unaccustomed lack of words. He had wanted to say so much and he\nhad said so little. She must never guess and Ahmed must never guess, so\nhe played the game to the end. Only that night after she had left them\nthe voices sounded in the adjoining room for a very short time. And\nthis morning he and Ahmed Ben Hassan had ridden away at daybreak. She\nhad not been asleep; she had heard them go, and almost she wished Raoul\nback, for with his presence the vague fear that assailed her seemed\nfurther away. The camp had seemed very lonely and the day very long.\n\nShe had ridden with Gaston, and hurried over her solitary dinner, and\nsince then she had been waiting for the Sheik to come back. In what\nmood would he come? Since Raoul's announcement of his departure he had\nbeen more than usually taciturn and reserved. The book she held slipped\nat length on to the floor, and she let it he unheeded. The usual\nstillness of the desert seemed to-night unusually still-sinister\neven--and the silence was so intense that the sudden squeal of a\nstallion a little distance away made her start with madly racing heart\nEarlier in the evening a tom-tom had been going persistently in the\nmen's lines, and later a native pipe had shrilled thinly in monotonous\ncadence; but she had grown accustomed to these sounds; they were of\nnightly occurrence and they soothed rather than irritated her, and when\nthey stopped the quiet had become intensified to such a degree that she\nwould have welcomed any sound. To-night her nerves were on edge. She was\nrestless and excited, and her thoughts were chaos.\n\nShe was alone again at his mercy. What would his attitude be? Her hands\nclenched on her knees. At times she lay almost without breathing,\nstraining to hear the faintest sound that would mean his return, and\nthen again lest she should hear what she listened for. She longed for\nhim passionately, and at the same time she was afraid, He had changed\nso much that there were moments when she had the curious feeling that\nit was a stranger who was coming back to her, and she both dreaded his\ncoming and yearned for it with a singular combination of emotions. She\nlooked round the room where she had at once suffered so much and been\nso happy with troubled eyes. She had never been nervous before, but\nto-night her imagination ran riot. There was electricity in the air\nwhich acted on her overstrung nerves. The little shaded lamp threw a\ncircle of light round the bed, but left the rest of the room dim, and\nthe dusky corners seemed full of odd new shadows that came and went\nillusively. Hangings and objects that were commonly familiar to her\ntook on fantastic shapes that she watched nervously, till at last she\nbrushed her hand across her eyes with a laugh of angry impatience. Was\nthe love that had changed her so completely also making her a coward?\nHad even her common-sense been lost in the one great emotion that held\nher? She understood perfectly the change that had taken place in her.\nShe had never had any illusions about herself, and had never attempted\nto curb the obstinate self-will and haughty pride that had\ncharacterized her. She thought of it curiously, her mind going back\nover the last few months that had changed her whole life. The last mad\nfreak for which she had paid so dearly had been the outcome of an\narrogant determination to have her own way in the face of all protests\nand advice. And with a greater arrogance and a determination stronger\nthan her own Ahmed Ben Hassan had tamed her as he tamed the magnificent\nhorses that he rode. He had been brutal and merciless, using no half\nmeasures, forcing her to obedience by sheer strength of will and\ncompelling a complete submission. She thought of how she had feared and\nhated him with passionate intensity, until the hatred had been swamped\nby love as passionate and as intense. She did not know why she loved\nhim, she had never been able to analyse the passion that held her so\nstrongly, but she knew deep down in her heart that it went now far past\nhis mere physical beauty and superb animal strength. She loved him\nblindly with a love that had killed her pride and brought her to his\nfeet humbly obedient. All the love that had lain dormant in her heart\nfor years was given to him. Body and soul she belonged to him. And the\nchange within her was patent in her face, the haughty expression in her\neyes had turned to a tender wistfulness, with a curious gleam of\nexpectancy that flickered in them perpetually; the little mutinous\nmouth had lost the scornful curve. And with the complete change in her\nexpression she was far more beautiful now than she had ever been. But\nwith her love was the fear of him that she had learned during the first\nhours of her captivity, the physical fear that she had never lost, even\nduring the happy weeks that had preceded the coming of Saint Hubert,\nand the greater fear that was with her always, and that at times drove\nher, with wide-stricken eyes, wildly to pace the tent as if to escape\nthe shadow that hung over her--the fear of the time when he should tire\nof her. The thought racked her, and now, as always, she tried to put it\nfrom her, but it continued, persistently haunting her like a grim\nspectre. Always the same thought tortured her--he had not taken her for\nlove. No higher motive than a passing fancy had stirred him. He had\nseen her, had wished for her and had taken her, and once in his power\nit had amused him to break her to his hand. She realised all that. And\nhe had been honest, he had never pretended to love her. Often when the\nhumour took him he could be gentle, as in those last few weeks, but\ngentleness was not love, and she had never seen the light that she\nlonged for kindle in his eyes. His caresses had been passionate or\ncareless with his mood. She did not know that he loved her. She had not\nbeen with him during the long hours of his delirium and she had not\nheard what Raoul de Saint Hubert had heard. And since his recovery his\nattitude of aloofness had augmented her fear. There seemed only one\nconstruction to put on his silence, and his studied and obvious\navoidance of her. The passing fancy had passed. It was as if the\nfleeting passion he had had for her had been drained from him with the\nblood that flowed from the terrible wound he had received. He was tired\nof her and seeking for a means to disembarrass himself of her. Vaguely\nshe felt that she had known this for weeks, but to-night was the first\ntime that she had had courage to be frank with herself. It must be so.\nEverything pointed to it; the curious expression she had seen in his\neyes and his constant heavy frown all confirmed it. She flung her arm\nacross her eyes with a little moan. He was tired of her and the bottom\nhad fallen out of her world. The instinct to fight for his love that\nhad been so strong in her the day that Ibraheim Omair had captured her\nhad died with the death of all her hopes. Her spirit was broken. She\nknew that her will was helpless against his, and with a fatalism that\nshe had learned in the desert she accepted the inevitable with a\ncrushed feeling of hopelessness.\n\nShe wondered numbly what would become of her. It did not seem to matter\nmuch. Nothing mattered now that he did not want her any more. The old\nlife was far away, in another world. She could never go back to it. She\ndid not care. It was nothing to her. It was only here in the desert, in\nAhmed Ben Hassan's arms, that she had become alive, that she had\nlearned what life really meant, that she had waked both to happiness\nand sorrow.\n\nThe future stretched out blank and menacing before her, but she turned\nfrom it with a great sob of despair. It was on him that her thoughts\nwere fixed. How would life be endurable without him? Dully she wondered\nwhy she did not hate him for having done to her what he had done, for\nhaving made her what she was. But nothing that he could do could kill\nthe love now that he had inspired. And she would never regret. She\nwould always have the memory of the fleeting happiness that had been\nhers--in after years that memory would be all that she would have to\nlive for. Even in her heart she did not reproach him, there was no\nbitterness in her misery. She had always known that it would come,\nthough she had fenced with it, shutting it out of her mind resolutely.\nHe had never led her to expect anything else. There was no link to\nbring them closer together, no bond between them. If she could have had\nthe promise of a child. Alone though she was the sensitive colour\nflamed into her cheeks, and she hid her face in the pillows with a\nquivering sob. A child that would be his and hers, a child--a boy with\nthe same passionate dark eyes, the same crisp brown hair, the same\ngraceful body, who would grow up as tall and strong, as brave and\nfearless as his father. Surely he must love her then. Surely the memory\nof his own mother's tragic history would make him merciful to the\nmother of his son. But she had no hope of that mercy. She lay shaking\nwith passionate yearning and the storm of bitter tears that swept over\nher, hungry for the clasp of his arms, faint with longing. The pent-up\nmisery of weeks that she had crushed down surged over. There was nobody\nto hear the agonising sobs that shook her from head to foot. She could\nrelax the control that she had put upon herself and which had seemed to\nbe slowly turning her to stone. She could give way to the emotion that,\nsuppressed, had welled up choking in her throat and gripped her\nforehead like red-hot bands eating into her brain. Tears were not easy\nto her. She had not wept since that first night when, with the fear of\nworse than death, she had grovelled at his feet, moaning for mercy. She\nhad not wept during the terrible hours she was in the power of Ibraheim\nOmair, nor during the days that Raoul de Saint Hubert had fought for\nhis friend's life. But to-night the tears that all her life she had\ndespised would not be denied. Tortured with conflicting emotions,\nunsatisfied love, fear and uncertainty, utterly unnerved, she gave\nherself up at last to the feelings she could no longer restrain. Prone\non the wide bed, her face buried in the pillows, her hands clutching\nconvulsively at the silken coverings, she wept until she had no more\ntears, until the anguished, sobs died away into silence and she lay\nquiet, exhausted.\n\nShe wrestled with herself. The weakness that she had given way to must\nbe conquered. She knew that, without any possibility of doubt, his\ncoming would seal her fate--whatever it was to be. She must wait until\nthen. A long, shuddering sigh ran through her. \"Ahmed! Ahmed Ben\nHassan,\" she murmured slowly, lingering with wistful tenderness on the\nwords. She pressed her face closer into the cushions, clasping her\nhands over her head, and for a long time lay very still. The heat was\nintense and every moment the tent seemed to grow more airless. The room\nwas stifling, and, with a little groan, Diana sat up, pushing the heavy\nhair oft her damp forehead, and covered her flushed face with her\nhands. A cicada began its shrill note close by, chirping with maddening\npersistency. Quite suddenly her mind was filled with thoughts of her\nown people, the old home in England, the family for whose honour her\nancestors had been so proudly jealous. Even Aubrey, lazy and\nself-indulgent as he was, prized the family honour as he prized nothing\nelse on earth; and now she, proud Diana Mayo, who had the history of\nher race at her fingers' ends, who had gloried in the long line of\nupright men and chaste women, had no thankfulness in her heart that in\nher degradation she had been spared a crowning shame. Beside her love\neverything dwindled into nothingness. He was her life, he filled her\nhorizon. Honour itself was lost in the absorbing passion of her love.\nHe had stripped it from her and she was content that it should lie at\nhis feet. He had made her nothing, she was his toy, his plaything,\nwaiting to be thrown aside. She shuddered again and looked around the\ntent that she had shared with him with a bitter smile and sad, hunted\neyes.... After her--who? The cruel thought persisted. She was torn with\na mad, primitive jealousy, a longing to kill the unknown woman who\nwould inevitably succeed her, a desire that grew until a horror of her\nown feelings seized her, and she shrank down, clasping her hands over\nher ears to shut out the insidious voice that seemed actually\nwhispering beside her. The Persian hound in the next room had whined\nuneasily from time to time, and now he pushed his way past the curtain\nand stalked across the thick rugs. He nuzzled his shaggy head against\nher knee, whimpering unhappily, looking up into her face. And when she\nnoticed him he reared up and flung his long body across her lap,\nthrusting his wet nose into her face. She caught his head in her hands\nand rubbed her cheek against his rough hair, crooning over him softly.\nEven the dog was comfort in her loneliness, and they both waited for\ntheir master.\n\nShe pushed him down at length, and with her hand on his collar went\ninto the other room. A solitary lamp burned dimly. She crossed to the\ndoorway and pulled aside the flap, and a small, white-clad figure rose\nup before her.\n\n\"Is that you, Gaston?\" she asked involuntarily, though she knew that\nthe question was unnecessary, for he always slept across the entrance\nto the tent when the Sheik was away.\n\n\"_A votre service, Madame_.\"\n\nFor a few minutes she did not speak, and Gaston stood silent beside\nher. She might have remembered that he was there. He never stirred far\nbeyond the sound of her voice whenever she was alone in the camp. He\nwas always waiting, unobtrusive, quick to carry out her requests, even\nto anticipate them. With him standing beside her she thought of the\ntime when they had fought side by side--all difference in rank eclipsed\nin their common danger. The servant had been merged into the man, and a\nman who had the courage to do what he had attempted when he had faced\nher at what had seemed the last moment with his revolver clenched in a\nhand that had not shaken, a man at whose side and by whose hand she\nwould have been proud to die. They were men, these desert dwellers,\nmaster and servants alike; men who endured, men who did things, inured\nto hardships, imbued with magnificent courage, splendid healthy\nanimals. There was nothing effete or decadent about the men with whom\nAhmed Ben Hassan surrounded himself.\n\nDiana had always liked Gaston; she had been touched by his unvarying\nrespectful attitude that had never by a single word or look conveyed\nthe impression that he was aware of her real position in his master's\ncamp. He treated her as if she were indeed what from the bottom of her\nheart she wished she was. He was solicitous without being officious,\nfamiliar with no trace of impertinence, He was Diana's first experience\nof a class of servant that still lingers in France, a survival of\npre-Revolution days, who identify themselves entirely with the family\nthey serve, and in Gaston's case this interest in his master had been\nstrengthened by experiences shared and dangers faced which had bound\nthem together with a tie that could never be broken and had raised\ntheir relations on to a higher plane than that of mere master and man.\nThose relations had at first been a source of perpetual wonder to\nDiana, brought up in the rigid atmosphere of her brother's\nestablishment, where Aubrey's egoism gave no opportunity for anything\nbut conventional service, and in their wanderings, where personal\nservants had to be often changed. Even Stephens was, in Aubrey's eyes,\na mere machine.\n\nVery soon after she had been brought to Ahmed Ben Hassan's camp she had\nrealised that Gaston's devotion to the Sheik had been extended to\nherself, but since the night of the raid he had frankly worshipped her.\n\nIt was very airless even out-of-doors. She peered into the darkness,\nbut there was little light from the tiny crescent moon, and she could\nsee nothing. She moved a few steps forward from under the awning to\nlook up at the brilliant stars twinkling overhead. She had watched them\nso often from Ahmed Ben Hassan's arms; they had become an integral part\nof the passionate Oriental nights. He loved them, and when the mood was\non him, watched them untiringly, teaching her to recognise them, and\ntelling her countless Arab legends connected with them, sitting under\nthe awning far info the night, till gradually his voice faded away from\nher ears, and long after she was asleep he would sit on motionless,\nstaring up into the heavens, smoking endless cigarettes. Would it be\ngiven to her ever to watch them again sparkling against the\nblue-blackness of the sky, with the curve of his arm round her and the\nsteady beat of his heart under her cheek? A stab of pain went: through\nher. Would anything ever be the same again? Everything had changed\nsince the coming of Raoul de Saint Hubert. A weary sigh broke from her\nlips.\n\n\"Madam is tired?\" a respectful voice murmured at her ear.\n\nDiana started. She had forgotten the valet. \"It is so hot. The tent was\nstifling,\" she said evasively.\n\nGaston's devotion was of a kind that sought practical demonstration.\n\"_Madame veut du cafe?_\" he suggested tentatively. It was his\nuniversal panacea, but at the moment it sounded almost grotesque.\n\nDiana felt an hysterical desire to laugh which nearly turned into\ntears, but she checked herself. \"No, it is too late.\"\n\n\"In one little moment I will bring it,\" Gaston urged persuasively,\nunwilling to give up his own gratification in serving her.\n\n\"No, Gaston. It makes me nervous,\" she said gently.\n\nGaston heaved quite a tragic sigh. His own nerves were steel and his\ncapacity for imbibing large quantities of black coffee at any hour of\nthe day or night unlimited.\n\n\"_Une limonade_?\" he persisted hopefully.\n\nShe let him bring the cool drink more for his pleasure than for her\nown. \"Monseigneur is late,\" she said slowly, straining her eyes again\ninto the darkness.\n\n\"He will come,\" replied Gaston confidently. \"Kopec is restless, he is\nalways so when Monseigneur is coming.\"\n\nShe looked down for a moment thoughtfully at the dim shape of the hound\nlying at the man's feet, and then with a last upward glance at the\nbright stars turned back into the tent. All her nervous fears had\nvanished in speaking to Gaston, who was the embodiment of practical\ncommon sense; earlier, when unreasoning terror had taken such a hold on\nher, she had forgotten that he was within call, faithful and devoted.\nShe picked up the fallen book, and lying down again forced herself to\nread, but though her eyes followed the lines mechanically she did not\nsense what she was reading, and all the time her ears were strained to\ncatch the earliest sound of his coming.\n\nAt last it came. Only a suggestion at first--a wave of thought caught\nby her waiting brain, an instinctive intuition, and she started up\ntense with expectancy, her lips parted, her eyes wide, hardly\nbreathing, listening intently. And when he came it was with unexpected\nsuddenness, for, in the darkness, the little band of horsemen were\ninvisible until they were right on the camp, and the horses' hoofs made\nno sound. The stir caused by his arrival died away quickly. For a\nmoment there was a confusion of voices, a jingle of accoutrements, one\nof the horses whinnied, and then in the ensuing silence she heard him\ncome into the tent. Her heart raced suffocatingly. There was a murmur\nof conversation, the Sheik's low voice and Gaston's quick animated\ntones answering him, and then the servant hurried out. Acutely\nconscious of every sound, she waited motionless, her hands gripping the\nsoft mattress until her fingers cramped, breathing in long, painful\ngasps as she tried to stop the laboured beating of her heart. In spite\nof the heat a sudden coldness crept over her, and she shivered\nviolently from time to time. Her face was quite white, even her lips\nwere colourless and her eyes, fixed on the curtain which divided the\ntwo rooms, glittered feverishly. With her intimate knowledge every\nmovement in the adjoining room was as perceptible as if she had seen\nit. He was pacing up and down as he had paced on the night when\nGaston's fate was hanging in the balance, as he always paced when he\nwas deliberating anything, and the scent of his cigarette filled her\nroom. Once he paused near the communicating curtain and her heart gave\na wild leap, but after a moment he moved away. He stopped again at the\nfar end of the tent, and she knew from the faint metallic click that he\nwas loading his revolver. She heard him lay it down on the little\nwriting-table, and then the steady tramping began once more. His\nrestlessness made her uneasy. He had been in the saddle since early\ndawn. Saint Hubert had advised him to be careful for some weeks yet. It\nwas imprudent not to rest when opportunity offered. He was so careless\nof himself. She gave a quick, impatient sigh, and the tender light in\nher eyes deepened into an anxiety that was half maternal. In spite of\nhis renewed strength and his laughing protests at Raoul's warnings,\ncoupled with a physical demonstration on his less muscular friend that\nhad been very conclusive, she could never forget that she had seen him\nlying helpless as a child, too weak even to raise his hand. Nothing\ncould ever take the remembrance from her, and nothing could ever alter\nthe fact that in his weakness he had been dependent on her. She had\nbeen necessary to him then. She had a moment's fierce pleasure in the\nthought, but it faded as suddenly as it had come. It had been an\nephemeral happiness.\n\nAt last she heard the divan creak under his weight, but not until\nGaston came back bringing his supper. As he ate he spoke, and his first\nwords provoked an exclamation of dismay from the Frenchman, which was\nhastily smothered with a murmured apology, and then Diana became aware\nthat others had come into the room. He spoke to each in turn, and she\nrecognised Yusef's clear, rather high-pitched voice arguing with the\ntaciturn head camelman, whose surly intonations and behaviour matched\nthe bad-tempered animals to whom he was devoted, until a word from\nAhmed Ben Hassan silenced them both. There were two more who received\ntheir orders with only a grunt of acquiescence.\n\nPresently they went out, but Yusef lingered, talking volubly, half in\nArabic, half in French, but lapsing more and more into the vernacular\nas he grew excited. Even in the midst of her trouble the thought of him\nsent a little smile to Diana's lips. She could picture him squatting\nbefore the Sheik, scented and immaculate, his fine eyes rolling, his\nslim hands waving continually, his handsome face alight with boyish\nenthusiasm and worship. At last he, too, went, and only Gaston\nremained, busy with the _cafetiere_ that was his latest toy. The\naroma of the boiling coffee filled the tent. She could imagine the\nservant's deft fingers manipulating the fragile glass and silver\nappliance. She could hear the tinkle of the spoon as he moved the cup,\nthe splash of the coffee as he poured it out, the faint sound of the\ncup being placed on the inlaid table. Why was Ahmed drinking French\ncoffee when he always complained it kept him awake? At night he was in\nthe habit of taking the native preparation. Surely to-night he had need\nof sleep. It was the hardest day he had had since his illness. For a\nfew moments longer Gaston moved about the outer room, and from the\nsound Diana guessed that he was collecting on to a tray the various\nthings that had to be removed. Then his voice, louder than he had\nspoken before:\n\n_\"Monseigneur desir d'autre chose?\"_\n\nThe Sheik must have signed in the negative, for there was no audible\nanswer.\n\n_\"Bon soir, Monseigneur.\"_\n\n_\"Bon soir, Gaston.\"_\n\nDiana drew a quick breath. While the man was still in the adjoining\nroom the moment for which she was waiting seemed interminable. And now\nshe wished he had not gone. He stood between her and--what? For the\nfirst time since the coming of Saint Hubert she was alone with him,\nreally alone. Only a curtain separated them, a curtain that she could\nnot pass. She longed to go to him, but she did not dare. She was pulled\nbetween love and fear, and for the moment fear was in the ascendant.\nShe shivered, and a sob rose in her throat as the memory came to her of\nanother night during those two months of happiness, that were fast\nbecoming like a wonderful dream, when he had ridden in late. After\nGaston left she had gone to him, flushed and bright-eyed with sleep,\nand he had pulled her down on to his knee, and made her share the\nnative coffee she detested, laughing boyishly at her face of disgust.\nAnd, holding her in his arms with her head on his shoulder, he had told\nher all the incidents of the day's visit to one of the other camps, and\nfrom his men and his horses drifted almost insensibly into details\nconnected with his own plans for the future, which were really the\nintimate confidences of a husband to a wife who is also a comrade. The\nmingled pain and pleasure of the thought had made her shiver, and he\nhad started up, declaring that she was cold, and, lifting her till his\ncheek was resting on hers, carried her back into the other room.\n\nBut what she had done then was impossible now. He seemed so utterly\nstrange, so different from the man whom she thought she had grown to\nunderstand. She was all at sea. She was desperately tired, her head\naching and confused with the terrible problems of the future. She dared\nnot think any more. She only wanted to lie in his arms and sob her\nheart out against his. She was starving for the touch of his hands,\nsuffering horribly.\n\nShe slid down on to her knees, burying her face in the couch.\n\n\"Oh, God! Give me his love!\" she kept whispering in agonised entreaty,\nuntil the recollection of the night, months before, when in the same\nposture she had prayed that God's curse might fall on him, sent a\nshudder through her.\n\n\"I didn't mean if,\" she moaned. \"Oh, clear God! I didn't mean it. I\ndidn't know.... Take it back. I didn't mean it.\"\n\nShe choked down the sobs that rose, pressing her face closer into the\nsilken coverings.\n\nThere was silence in the next room except for the striking of a match\nthat came with monotonous regularity. And always the peculiar scent of\nhis tobacco drifting in through the heavy curtains, forcing a hundred\nrecollections with the association of its perfume. Why didn't he come\nto her? Did he know how he was torturing her? Was he so utterly\nindifferent that he did not care what she suffered? Did he even think\nof her, to wonder if she suffered or not? The fear of the future rushed\non her again with overwhelming force. The uncertainty was killing her.\nShe raised her head and looked at the travelling clock beside the\nreading-lamp. It was an hour since Gaston had left him. Another hour of\nwaiting would drive her mad. She must know what he was going to do. She\ncould bear anything but this suspense. She had reached the limit of her\nendurance. She struggled to her feet, drawing the thin wrap closer\naround her. But even then she stood irresolute, dreading the fulfilling\nof her fears; she had not the courage voluntarily to precipitate her\nfate. She clung to her fool's paradise. Her eyes were fixed on the\nclock, watching the hands drag slowly round the dial. A quarter of an\nhour crept past. It seemed the quarter of a lifetime, and Diana brushed\nher hand across her eyes to clear away the dazzling reflection of the\nstaring white china face with its long black minute hand. No sound of\nany kind came now from the other room. The silence was driving her\nfrantic. She was desperate; she must know, nothing could be worse than\nthe agony she was enduring.\n\nShe set her teeth and, crossing the room, slipped noiselessly between\nthe curtains. Then she shrank back suddenly with her hands over her\nmouth. He was leaning forward on the divan, his elbows on his knees,\nhis face hidden in his hands. And it was as a stranger that he had come\nback to her, divested of the flowing robes that had seemed essentially\na part of him; an unfamiliar figure in silk shirt, riding breeches and\nhigh brown boots, still dust-covered from the long ride. A thin tweed\ncoat lay in a heap on the carpet--he must have flung it off after\nGaston went, for the valet, with his innate tidiness, would never have\nleft it lying on the floor.\n\nShe looked at him hungrily, her eyes ranging slowly over the long\nlength of him and lingering on his bent head. The light from the\nhanging lamp shone on his thick brown hair burnishing it like bronze.\nShe was shaking with a sudden new shyness, but love gave her courage\nand she went to him, her bare feet noiseless on the rugs.\n\n\"Ahmed!\" she whispered.\n\nHe lifted his head slowly and looked at her, and the sight of his face\nsent her on to her knees beside him, her hands clutching the breast of\nhis soft shirt.\n\n\"Ahmed! What is it?... You are hurt--your wound----?\" she cried, her\nvoice sharp with anxiety.\n\nHe caught her groping hands, and rising, pulled her gently to her feet,\nhis fingers clenched round hers, looking down at her strangely. Then he\nturned from her without a word, and wrenching open the flap of the\ntent, flung it back and stood in the open doorway staring out into the\nright. He looked oddly slender and tall silhouetted against the\ndarkness. A gleam of perplexity crept into her frightened eyes, and one\nhand went up to her throat.\n\n\"What is it?\" she whispered again breathlessly.\n\n\"It is that we start for Oran to-morrow,\" he replied. His voice sounded\ndull and curiously unlike, and with a little start Diana realised that\nhe was speaking in English. Her eyes closed and she swayed dizzily.\n\n\"You are sending me away?\" she gasped slowly.\n\nThere was a pause before he answered.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe curt monosyllable lashed her like a whip. She reeled under it,\npanting and wild-eyed. \"Why?\"\n\nHe did not answer and the colour flamed suddenly into her face. She\nwent closer to him, her breast heaving, trying to speak, but her throat\nwas parched and her lips shaking so that no words would come.\n\n\"It is because you are tired of me?\" she muttered at last hoarsely,\n\"--as you told me you would tire, as you tired of--those other women?\"\nHer voice died away with an accent of horror in it.\n\nAgain he did not answer, but he winced, and his hands that were hanging\nat his sides clenched slowly.\n\nDiana flung one arm across her face to shut him out from her sight. Her\nheart was breaking, and she longed with a feeling of sick misery to\ncrawl to his feet, but a remnant of pride kept her back.\n\nHe spoke at length in the same level, toneless voice. \"I will take you\nto the first desert station outside of Oran, where you can join the\ntrain. For your own sake I must not be seen with you in Oran, as I am\nknown there. If you should by any chance be recognised or your identity\nshould leak out, you can say that for reasons of your own you extended\nyour trip, that your messages miscarried, anything that occurs to you.\nBut it is not at all likely to happen. There are many travellers\npassing through Oran. Gaston can do all business and make all\narrangements for you. He will take you to Marseilles, and if you need\nhim he will go with you to Paris, Cherbourg, or London--whichever you\nwish. As you know, you can trust him absolutely. When you do not need\nhim any longer, he will come back to me. I--I will not trouble you any\nmore. You need never be afraid that I will come into your life again.\nYou can forget these months in the desert and the uncivilised Arab who\ncrossed your path. To keep out of your way is the only amends I can\nmake.\"\n\nShe flung up her head. Quick, suspicious jealousy and love and pride\ncontending nearly choked her. \"Why don't you speak the truth?\" she\ncried wildly. \"Why don't you say what you really mean?--that you have\nno further use for me, that it amused you to take me and torture me to\nsatisfy your whim, but the whim is passed. It does not amuse you any\nlonger. You are tired of me and so you get rid of me with all\nprecautions. Do you think the truth can hurt me? Nothing that you can\ndo can hurt me now. You made me the vile thing I am for your pleasure,\nand now for your pleasure you throw me on one side.... How many times a\nyear does Gaston take your discarded mistresses back to France?\" Her\nvoice broke into a terrible laugh.\n\nHe swung round swiftly and flung his arms about her, crushing her to\nhim savagely, forgetting his strength, his eyes blazing. \"God! Do you\nthink it is easy to let you go, that you are taunting me like this? Do\nyou think I haven't suffered, that I'm not suffering now? Don't you\nknow that it is tearing my heart out by the roots to send you away? My\nlife will be hell without you. Do you think I haven't realised what an\ninfinitely damned brute I've been? I didn't love you when I took you, I\nonly wanted you to satisfy the beast in me. And I was glad that you\nwere English that I could make you suffer as an Englishman made my\nmother suffer, I so loathed the whole race. I have been mad all my\nlife, I think--up till now. I thought I didn't care until the night I\nheard that Ibraheim Omair had got you, and then I knew that if anything\nhappened to you the light of my life was out, and that I would only\nwait to kill Ibraheim before I killed myself.\"\n\nHis arms were like a vice hurting her, but they felt like heaven, and\nshe clung to him speechless, her heart throbbing wildly. He looked down\nlong and deeply into her eyes, and the light in his--the light that she\nhad longed for--made her tremble. His brown head bent lower and lower,\nand his lips had almost touched her when he drew back, and the love in\nhis eyes faded into misery.\n\n\"I mustn't kiss you,\" he said huskily, as he put her from him gently.\n\"I don't think I should have the courage to let you go if I did. I\ndidn't mean to touch you.\"\n\nHe turned from her with a little gesture of weariness.\n\nFear fled back into her eyes. \"I don't want to go,\" she whispered\nfaintly.\n\nHe paused by the writing-table and took up the revolver he had loaded\nearlier, breaking it absently, spinning the magazine between his finger\nand thumb, and replaced it before answering.\n\n\"You don't understand. There is no other way,\" he said dully.\n\n\"If you really loved me you would not let me go,\" she cried, with a\nmiserable sob.\n\n\"_If_ I loved you?\" he echoed, with a hard laugh. \"_If_ I\nloved you! It is because I love you so much that I am able to do it. If\nI loved you a little less I would let you stay and take your chance.\"\n\nShe flung out her hands appealingly. \"I want to stay, Ahmed! I love\nyou!\" she panted, desperate--for she knew his obstinate determination,\nand she saw her chance of happiness slipping away.\n\nHe did not move or look at her, and his brows drew together in the\ndreaded heavy frown. \"You don't know what you are saying. You don't\nknow what it would mean,\" he replied in a voice from which he had\nforced all expression. \"If you married me you would have to live always\nhere in the desert. I cannot leave my people, and I am--too much of an\nArab to let you go alone. It would be no life for you. You think you\nlove me now, though God knows how you can after what I have done to\nyou, but a time would come when you would find that your love for me\ndid not compensate for your life here. And marriage with me is\nunthinkable. You know what I am and what I have been. You know that I\nam not fit to live with, not fit to be near any decent woman. You know\nwhat sort of a damnable life I have led; the memory of it would always\ncome between us--you would never forget, you would never trust me. And\nif you could, of your charity, both forgive and forget, you know that I\nam not easy to live with. You know my devilish temper--it has not\nspared you in the past, it might not spare you in the future. Do you\nthink that I could bear to see you year after year growing to hate me\nmore? You think that I am cruel now, but I am thinking what is best for\nyou afterwards. Some day you will think of me a little kindly because I\nhad the strength to let you go. You are so young, your life is only just\nbeginning. You are strong enough to put the memory of these last months\nout of your mind--to forget the past and live only for the future. No\none need ever know. There can be no fear for your--reputation. Things\nare forgotten in the silence of the desert. Mustafa Ali is many hundreds\nof miles away, but not so far that he would dare to talk. My own men\nneed not be considered, they speak or are silent as I wish. There is\nonly Raoul, and there is no question of him. He has not spared me his\nopinion. You must go back to your own country, to your own people, to\nyour own life, in which I have no place or part, and soon all this will\nseem only like an ugly dream.\"\n\nThe sweat was standing out on his forehead and his hands were clenched\nwith the effort he was making, but her head was buried in her hands,\nand she did not see the torture in his face, she only heard his soft,\nlow voice inexorably decreeing her fate and shutting her out from\nhappiness in quiet almost indifferent tones.\n\nShe shuddered convulsively. \"Ahmed! I go!\" she wailed.\n\nHe looked up sharply, his face livid, and tore her hands from her face.\n\"Good God! You don't mean--I haven't--You aren't----\" he gasped hoarsely,\nlooking down at her with a great fear in his eyes.\n\nShe guessed what he meant and the color rushed into her face. The\ntemptation to lie to him and let the consequences rest with the future\nwas almost more than she could resist. One little word and she would be\nin his arms ... but afterwards----? It was the fear of the afterwards\nthat kept her silent. The colour slowly drained from her face and she\nshook her head mutely.\n\nHe let go her wrists with a quick sigh of relief and wiped the\nperspiration from his face. Then he laid his hand on her shoulder and\npushed her gently towards the inner room. For a moment she resisted,\nher wide, desperate eyes searching his, but he would not meet her look,\nand his mouth was set in the hard straight line she knew so well, and\nwith a cry she flung herself on his breast, her face hidden against\nhim, her hands clinging round his neck. \"Ahmed! Ahmed! You are killing\nme. I cannot live without you. I love you and I want you--only you. I\nam not afraid of the loneliness of the desert, it is the loneliness of\nthe world outside the shelter of your arms that I am afraid of. I am\nnot afraid of what you are or what you have been. I am not afraid of\nwhat you might do to me. I never lived until you taught me what life\nwas, here in the desert. I can't go back to the old life, Ahmed. Have\npity on me. Don't shut me out from my only chance of happiness, don't\nsend me away. I know you love me--I know! I know! And because I know I\nam not ashamed to beg you to be merciful. I haven't any shame or pride\nleft. Ahmed! Speak to me! I can't bear your silence.... Oh! You are\ncruel, cruel!\"\n\nA spasm crossed his face, but his mouth set firmer and he disengaged\nher clinging hands with relentless fingers. \"I have never been anything\nelse,\" he said bitterly, \"but I am willing that you should think me a\nbrute now rather than you should live to curse the day you ever saw me.\nI still think that your greater chance of happiness lies away from me\nrather than with me, and for your ultimate happiness I am content to\nsacrifice everything.\"\n\nHe dropped her hands and turned abruptly, going back to the doorway,\nlooking out into the darkness. \"It is very late. We must start early.\nGo and lie down,\" he said gently, but it was an order in spite of the\ngentleness of his voice.\n\nShe shrank back trembling, with piteous, stricken face and eyes filled\nwith a great despair. She knew him and she knew it was the end. Nothing\nwould break his resolution. She looked at him with quivering lips\nthrough a mist of tears, looked at him with a desperate fixedness that\nsought to memorise indelibly his beloved image in her heart. The dear\nhead so proudly poised on the broad shoulders, the long strong limbs,\nthe slender, graceful body. He was all good to look upon. A man of men.\nMonseigneur! Monseigneur! _Mon maitre et seigneur._ No! It would\nnever be that any more. A rush of tears blinded her and she stepped\nback uncertainly and stumbled against the little writing-table. She\ncaught at it behind her to steady herself, and her fingers touched the\nrevolver he had laid down. The contact of the cold metal sent a chill\nthat seemed to strike her heart. She stood rigid, with startled eyes\nfixed on the motionless figure in the doorway--one hand gripping the\nweapon tightly and the other clutching the silken wrap across her\nbreast. Her mind raced forward feverishly, there were only a few hours\nleft before the morning, before the bitter moment when she must leave\nbehind her for ever the surroundings that had become so dear, that had\nbeen her home as the old castle in England had never been. She thought\nof the long journey northward, the agonised protraction of her misery\nriding beside him, the nightly camps when she would lie alone in the\nlittle travelling tent, and then the final parting at the wayside\nstation, when she would have to watch him wheel at the head of his men\nand ride out of her life, and she would strain her eyes through the\ndust and sand to catch the last glimpse of the upright figure on the\nspirited black horse. It would be The Hawk, she thought suddenly. He\nhad ridden Shaitan to-day, and he always used one or other of the two\nfor long journeys. It was The Hawk he had ridden the day she had made\nher bid for freedom and who had carried the double burden on the return\njourney when she had found her happiness. The contrast between that\nride, when she had lain content in the curve of his strong arm, and the\nride that she would take the next day was poignant. She closed her\nteeth on her trembling lip, her fingers tightened on the stock of the\nrevolver, and a wild light came into her sad eyes. She could never go\nthrough with it. To what end would be the hideous torture? What was\nlife without him?--Nothing and less than nothing. She could never give\nherself to another man. She was necessary to no one. Aubrey had no real\nneed of her; his selfishness wrapped him around with a complacency that\nabundantly satisfied him. One day, for the sake of the family he would\nmarry--perhaps was already married if he had been able to find a woman\nin America who would accept his egoism along with his old name and\npossessions. Her life was her own to deal with. Nobody would be injured\nby its termination. Aubrey, indeed, would benefit considerably. And\nhe----? His figure was blurred through the tears that filled her eyes.\n\nSlowly she lifted the weapon clear of the table with steady fingers and\nbrought her hand stealthily from behind her. She looked at it for a\nmoment dispassionately. She was not afraid. She was conscious only of\nan overwhelming weariness, a longing for rest that should still the\ngnawing pain in her breast and the throbbing in her head.... A flash\nand it would be over, and all her sorrow would melt away.... But would\nit? A doubting fear of the hereafter rushed over her. What if suffering\nlived beyond the border-line? But the fear went as suddenly as it had\ncome, for with it came remembrance that in that shadowy world she would\nfind one who would understand--her own father, who had shot himself,\nmad with heartbroken despair, when her mother died in giving her birth.\n\nShe lifted the revolver to her temple resolutely.\n\nThere had been no sound to betray what was passing behind him, but the\nextra sense, the consciousness of imminent danger that was strong in\nthe desert-bred man, sprang into active force within the Sheik. He\nturned like a flash and leaped across the space that separated them,\ncatching her hand as she pressed the trigger, and the bullet sped\nharmlessly an inch above her head. With his face gone suddenly ghastly\nhe wrenched the weapon from her and flung it far into the night.\n\nFor a moment they stared into each other's eyes in silence, then, with\na moan, she slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet in an agony of\nterrible weeping. With a low exclamation he stooped and swept her up\ninto his arms, holding her slender, shaking figure with tender\nstrength, pressing her head against him, his cheek on her red-gold\ncurls.\n\n\"My God! child, don't cry so. I can bear anything but that,\" he cried\nbrokenly.\n\nBut the terrible sobs went on, and fearfully he caught her closer,\nstraining her to him convulsively, raining kisses on her shining hair.\n\"_Diane, Diane,_\" he whispered imploringly, falling back into the\nsoft French that seemed so much more natural. \"_Mon amour, ma\nbien-aimee. Ne pleures pas, je t'en prie. Je t'aime, je t'adore. Tu\nresteras pres de moi, tout a moi._\"\n\nShe seemed only half-conscious, unable to check the emotion that,\nunloosed, overwhelmed her. She lay inert against him, racked with the\nlong shuddering sobs that shook her. His firm mouth quivered as he\nlooked down at his work. Gathering her up to his heart he carried her\nto the divan, and the weight of her soft slim body sent the blood\nracing madly through his veins. He laid her down, and dropped on his\nknees beside her, his arm wrapped round her, whispering words of\npassionate love.\n\nGradually the terrible shuddering passed and the gasping sobs died\naway, and she lay still, so still and white that he was afraid. He\ntried to rise to fetch some restorative, but at the first movement she\nclung to him, pressing closer to him. \"I don't want anything but you,\"\nshe murmured almost inaudibly.\n\nHis arm tightened round her and he turned her face up to his. Her eyes\nwere closed and the wet lashes lay black against her pale cheek. His\nlips touched them pitifully.\n\n\"Diane, will you never look at me again?\" His voice was almost humble.\n\nHer eyes quivered a moment and them opened slowly, looking up into his\nwith a still-lingering fear in them. \"You won't send me away?\" she\nwhispered pleadingly, like a terrified child.\n\nA hard sob broke from him and he kissed her trembling lips fiercely.\n\"Never!\" he said sternly. \"I will never let you go now. My God! If you\nknew how I wanted you. If you knew what it cost me to send you away.\nPray God I keep you happy. You know the worst of me, poor child--you\nwill have a devil for a husband.\"\n\nThe colour stole back slowly into her face and a little tremulous smile\ncurved her lips. She slid her arm up and round his neck, drawing his\nhead down. \"I am not afraid,\" she murmured slowly. \"I am not afraid of\nanything with your arms round me, my desert lover. Ahmed! Monseigneur!\"\n\n\n\nTHE END"