Under the awning of the tent Diana was waiting for Gaston and the
horses, pulling on her thick riding-gloves nervously. She was wrought
up to the utmost pitch of excitement. Ahmed Ben Hassan had been away
since the previous day and it was uncertain if he would return that
night or the next. He had been vague as to how long he would be
absent. There had been a constant coming and going amongst his
followers--messengers arriving on exhausted horses at all hours of the
day and night, and the Sheik himself had seemed unusually preoccupied.
He had not condescended to give any reason for the special activity of
his people and she had not asked him.
In the four weeks that had elapsed since she had promised him her
obedience she had been very silent. The fear and hatred of him grew
daily. She had learned to stifle the wild fits of rage and the angry
words that leaped to her lips. She had learned to obey--a reluctant
obedience given with compressed lips and defiant eyes, but given, and
with a silence that surprised even herself. Day after day she had
followed the usual routine, dumb unless he spoke to her; and with his
own attention occupied with matters beyond the four walls of his tent
he had not noticed or did not trouble to heed her silence. Lately he
had left her very much alone; she had ridden with him almost daily
until the last week, when he had announced curtly that in the meantime
the length of her rides must be curtailed and that Gaston would
accompany her. He had not offered any explanation, and she had not
sought one. She had chosen to see in it merely another act of tyranny
imposed on her by the man whose arbitrary exercise of power over her
and whose tacit possession of her galled her continually. And under the
sullen submission a wild fury of revolt was raging. She searched
feverishly for means of flight, and now the Sheik's absence seemed to
have given her the chance she had been waiting for. In the solitude of
the previous night she had tossed impatiently from side to side of the
big couch, vainly trying to find some means of taking advantage of her
comparative freedom to effect her escape. Surely she could find some
way of avoiding Gaston's vigilance. Excitement had kept her awake half
the night, and in the morning she had had hard work to keep her
agitation hidden and to appear as usual. She had even been afraid to
order the horses any earlier in her nervous terror lest the valet
should suspect there was any reason behind the simple request. After
her _petit dejeuner_ she had paced the tent, unable to sit still,
dreading lest any moment might bring the return of the Sheik and
frustrate her hopes. She looked back into the room with a shudder as
her eyes travelled over the luxurious appointments and different
objects that had become so curiously familiar in the last two months.
The unexpected equipments and the man's own baffling personality would
remain in her recollection always as an enigma that she would never be
able to solve. So much had been so inexplicable in himself and in his
mode of life. She drew a long breath and went out hastily into the
sunshine.
The horses were waiting, and Gaston was standing ready to hold her
stirrup. She fondled the beautiful grey horse's soft nose and patted
his satiny neck with a hand that trembled a little. She loved the horse
and to-day he should be the means of saving her. He responded to her
caresses, gentling her with slobbering mouth and whinnying softly. With
one last look at the big double tent and the rest of the camp behind it
she mounted and rode away without another backward glance. She had to
exercise a rigid control over herself. She longed to put Silver Star
into a hand gallop at once and shake off Gaston, but she was still too
near the camp. She must be patient and put a certain number of miles
between herself and the possibility of pursuit before she attempted
anything. Too early an endeavour would only bring the whole horde in
wild chase at her heels. The thought of the promise she had given to
the man from whom she was flying came back to her. She had promised
obedience, but she had not promised that she would not try to escape,
and, if she had, no promise wrung from her by fear was valid in her
opinion.
She rode steadily forward at a slow, swinging canter, instinctively
saving her horse, plan after plan passing through her brain to be
rejected as impracticable. Silver Star fretted continually at the
moderate pace, tossing his head and catching at his bit. She took no
heed of the time beyond the fact that it was passing quickly, and that
if anything was to be done it must be done as soon as possible. But
Gaston, riding a few paces behind her, was very much alive to the hour
and had looked several times at his watch. He ranged alongside of her
now with a murmured apology. "Pardon, Madame. It grows late," and
submitted his wrist watch for her inspection.
Diana glanced mechanically at her own wrist and then remembered that
she had broken her watch the day before. She pulled up, and tilting her
helmet back mopped her hot forehead, and, as she did so, a sharp breeze
sprang up, the curious wind that comes and goes so rapidly in the
desert. An idea flashed into her mind. It was a poor chance, but it
might succeed. She shot a glance at Gaston. He was looking in the
opposite direction, and, raising her hand, she fluttered her
handkerchief a moment in the breeze and then let it go. The wind
carried it some distance away. She gave a little cry and caught at the
bridle of the valet's horse.
"Oh, Gaston, my handkerchief!" and pointed to where the morsel of
cambric lay white against a rock. With a comical exclamation of dismay
he slipped to the ground and started to run across the sand.
She waited until he had got well on his way, sitting tense with shining
eyes and thumping heart, then, snatching off her helmet, she brought it
down with a resounding smack on the hindquarters of the servant's
horse, stampeding it in the direction of the camp, and, wheeling Silver
Star, headed for the north, deaf to Gaston's cries.
Wild with excitement and free to go his own pace at last her mount
galloped swiftly and the wind whistled past Diana's ears. To the
possible fate of the little Frenchman left on foot so far from the
encampment she gave no heed. For the moment she did not even think of
him, she had no thought for anybody but herself. Her ruse by its very
simplicity had succeeded. She was free and she did not care about
anything else. She had no plans or ideas what she should do or where
she should go beyond the fact that she would keep riding northward. She
had vague hopes that she might fall in with friendly Arabs who, for a
promised reward, would guide her to civilisation. Most of them could
speak a little French, and for the rest her small stock of Arabic must
do. She knew that she was mad to attempt to ride across the desert
alone, but she did not mind. She was free. She was too excited to think
coherently. She laughed and shouted like a mad thing and her madness
communicated itself to the grey, who was going at racing speed. Diana
knew that he was out of control, that she could not stop him if she
tried, but she did not want to try, the faster the better. In time he
would tire himself, but until then let him go as he pleased. She was
fast putting miles between herself and the camp that had been a prison,
between herself and the brute who had dared to do what he had done. At
the thought of the Sheik a sick feeling of fear ran through her. If
anything should happen? If he should catch her again? She shuddered,
and a cry burst from her lips, but she gripped herself at once. She was
idiotic, contemptible; it was impossible. It would be hours, perhaps
even the next day, before the alarm was given; he would not know in
what direction she had gone. She would have miles of start on one of
the fleetest of his horses. She tried to put him out of her mind. She
had escaped from him and his cruelty, it was a nightmare that was over.
The effects would remain with her always, nothing would ever be the
same again, but the daily dread, the daily contamination would be gone,
the helpless tortured feeling, the shame of submission that had filled
her with an acute self-loathing that was as intense as her passionate
hatred of the man who had forced her to endure his will. The memory of
it would live with her for ever. He had made her a vile thing. Her
cheeks scorched with the thought and she shivered at the remembrance of
all that she had gone through. She had been down into the depths and
she would carry the scars all her life. The girl who had started out so
triumphantly from Biskra had become a woman through bitter knowledge
and humiliating experience.
The pace was less killing now. Silver Star had settled down into the
steady tireless gallop for which Ahmed Ben Hassan's horses were famous.
The little breeze had died away as quickly as it had sprung up, and it
was very hot. Diana looked about her with glowing eyes. Everything
seemed different. From the first she had loved the desert, but back of
everything and mingled with everything had been the feeling of fear,
the continual restraint, the perpetual subservience to the whims of her
captor which had dominated everything. But now the whole aspect was
changed. She loved the endless, undulating expanse stretching out
before her, and as the grey topped each rise her interest grew keener.
What might not be behind the next one? For an hour or more the ground
rose and fell in monotonous succession, and then the desert grew level
again and quite suddenly she could see for miles. About two miles away
a few palm trees showed clustering together, and Diana turned in their
direction. They probably meant a well, and it was time she rested her
horse and herself. It was the tiniest little oasis, and she drew rein
and dismounted with fears for the well she had hoped to find. But there
was one, very much silted up, and she set to work to clear it as well
as she could to procure enough for herself and Silver Star, who was
frantically trying to get to the water. It was exhausting work, but she
managed to satisfy the grey, and, having unloosed his girths, she flung
herself down on the ground in a small patch of shade. She lit a
cigarette and lay flat on her back with her helmet over her eyes.
For the first time since she had shaken off Gaston she began to think
seriously. What she had done was madness. She had no food for herself
or her horse, no water, and Heaven alone knew where the next well might
be. She was alone in an uncivilised country among a savage people with
no protection of any kind. She might fall in with friendly Arabs or she
might not. She might come across an encampment, or she might wander for
days and see no one, in which case death from hunger and thirst stared
her in the face. What would she do when night came? With a sharp cry
she leaped to her feet. What was she to do? She looked all around the
little oasis with startled eyes, at the few palm trees and clumps of
camel thorn, the broken well and the grey horse still snuffing about
its mouth. She felt frightened for the first time; she was alone and
about her was unending space, and she felt an atom, insignificant, the
least of all things. She looked up into the clear sky and the blue
vastness appalled her.
Then the sudden panic to which she had given way subsided and her
courage rose with a bound. It was only midday, anything might happen
between then and nightfall. Of one thing only she was sure, she did not
repent of what she had done. Behind her was Ahmed Ben Hassan and before
her was possibly death, and death was preferable. She was quite calm
again and lay down in the patch of shade once more with a resolute
determination to mind. Time to think of them when they came. For the
next hour or two she must rest and escape the intense heat. She rolled
over on her face with her head in her arms and tried to sleep, but she
was too excited, and soon gave up the attempt. And in any case, she
argued with herself, she might sleep too long and lose precious time.
She stretched luxuriously on the soft ground, thankful for the shade
from the burning sun. The grey, tired of nosing round the well and
blowing disdainfully at the thorn bushes, wandered over to her side and
nuzzled her gently. She caught at his velvety nose and drew it down
beside her face. He was a very affectionate beast and gentler than most
of the other horses, and he pressed close up to her, whinnying softly
and looking at her with large expressive eyes. "I haven't anything to
give you, poor old boy," she said regretfully, kissing his muzzle and
then pushing him away from her. She looked up again into the sky, a
dark speck sailed overhead, the slow heavy flight of a vulture. In a
few hours he might be picking her bones! Merciful Heavens! Why did such
thoughts come into her head? Had she nothing left of the courage that
had once been second nature? If she let her nerves get the upper hand
she might as well make no further effort, but lie down and die at once.
With shaking fingers she took another cigarette; smoking would soothe
her. Yet she hesitated before she lit it; there were only a few left
and her need might still be greater. But with a reckless laugh she
snapped the thin case to, and carefully scraped the evil-smelling
sulphur match torn from a flat wood strip. She settled herself
comfortably again full length. All around her were the innumerable tiny
noises of the desert, the hum of countless insect life, the rustling of
the sand and the occasional dry crackle of the camel thorns made by the
slipping of a twig or the displacing of a branch, sounds that would
have been incomprehensible some weeks before. For a few minutes a sand
spider attracted her attention and she watched his hurried painstaking
operations with wondering interest. Gradually a drowsy feeling stole
over her and she realised suddenly that the air was impregnated with
the scent of the tobacco that was always associated with the Sheik. It
was one of his cigarettes that she was smoking. She had always been
powerfully affected by the influence of smell, which induced
recollection with her to an extraordinary degree, and now the uncommon
penetrating odour of the Arab's cigarettes brought back all that she
had been trying to put out of her mind. With a groan she flung it away
and buried her face in her arms. The past rose up, and rushed,
uncontrolled, through her brain. Incidents crowded into her
recollection, memories of headlong gallops across the desert riding
beside the man who, while she hated him, compelled her admiration,
memories of him schooling the horses that he loved, sitting them like a
centaur, memories of him amongst his men, memories more intimately
connected with herself, of his varying moods, his swift changes from
savage cruelty to amazing gentleness, from brutal intolerance to sudden
consideration. There had even been times when he had interested her
despite herself, and she had forgotten the relationship in which they
stood towards each other in listening to his deep, slow voice, till a
word or a gesture brought back the fact vividly. Memories of moments
when she had struggled against his caresses, and he had mocked her
helplessness with his great strength, when she had lain in his arms
panting and exhausted, cold with fear and shrinking from his fierce
kisses. She had feared him as she had never believed it possible to
fear. His face rose before her clearly with all the expressions she had
learned to know and dread. She tried to banish it, striving with all
her might to put him from her mind, twisting this way and that,
writhing on the soft sand as she struggled with the obsession that held
her. She saw him all the time plainly, as though he were there before
her. Would he pursue her always, phantom-like? Would the recollection
of the handsome brown face haunt her for ever with its fierce eyes and
cruel mouth? She buried her head deeper in her arms, but the vision
persisted until with a scream she started up with heaving chest and
wild eyes, standing rigid, staring towards the south with a desperate
fixedness that made her eyeballs ache. The sense of his presence had
been terribly real. She dropped on to the ground again with an
hysterical laugh, and pushed the thick hair off her forehead wearily.
Silver Star laying his muzzle suddenly on her shoulder made her start
again violently with heavy, beating heart. A frightened look went
across her face. "I'm nervous," she muttered, looking round with a
little shiver. "I shall go mad if I stay here much longer." The little
oasis that she had hailed so joyfully had become utterly repugnant and
she was impatient to get away from it. She climbed eagerly into the
saddle, and, with the rapid motion, she regained her calm and her
spirits rose quickly.
She shook off the feeling of apprehension that had taken hold of her
and her nervous fears died away. A reckless feeling, like the
excitement of the morning, came over her, and she urged the grey on
with coaxing words, and responding to her voice, and hardly feeling her
light weight, he raced on untiringly. All around was silence and a
solitude that was stupendous. The vast emptiness was awe-inspiring. The
afternoon was wearing away; already it was growing cooler. Diana had
seen no sign of human life since she had left Gaston hours before and a
little feeling of anxiety stirred faintly deep down in her heart.
Traces of caravans she passed several times, and from the whitening
bones of dead camels she turned her head in aversion--they were too
intimately suggestive. She had seen a few jackals, and once a hyena
lumbered away clumsily among some rocks as she passed. She had got away
from the level desert, and was threading her way in and out of some low
hills, which she felt were taking her out of her right course. She was
steering by the setting sun, which had turned the sky into a glory of
golden crimson, but the intricate turnings amongst the rocky hills were
bewildering. The low, narrow defile seemed hemming her in, menacing her
on all sides, and she was beginning to despair of finding her way out
of the labyrinth, when, on rounding a particularly sharp turn, the
rocks fell away suddenly and she rode out into open country. She
breathed a sigh of relief and called out cheerily to the grey, but, as
she looked ahead, her voice died away, and she reined him in sharply
with a quickening heart-beat. Across the desert about a mile away she
saw a party of Arabs coming towards her. There were about fifty of
them, the leader riding a big, black horse some little distance in
front of his followers. In the clear atmosphere they seemed nearer than
they were. It was not what she wished. She had hoped for an encampment,
where there would be women or a caravan of traders whose constant
communication with the towns would make them realise the importance of
guiding her to civilisation unharmed. This band of fighting men, for
she could see their rifles clearly, and their close and orderly
formation was anything but peaceful, filled her with the greatest
misgivings. Only the worst might be expected from the wild, lawless
tribesmen towards a woman alone amongst them. She had fled from one
hideousness to another which would be ten times more horrible. Her face
blanched and she set her teeth in desperation. The human beings she had
prayed for were now a deadly menace, and she prayed as fervently that
they might pass on and not notice her. Perhaps it was not too late,
perhaps they had not yet seen her and she might still slip away and
hide in the twisting turnings of the defile. She backed Silver Star
further into the shadow of the rock, but as she did so she saw that she
had been seen. The leader turned in his saddle and raised his hand high
above his head, and with a wild shout and a great cloud of dust and
sand his men checked their horses, dragging them back on to their
haunches, while he galloped towards her alone. And at the same moment
an icy hand clutched at Diana's heart and a moan burst from her lips.
There was no mistaking him or the big black horse he rode. For a moment
she reeled with a sudden faintness, and then with a tremendous effort
she pulled herself together, dragging her horse's head round and urged
him back along the track which she had just left, and behind her raced
Ahmed Ben Hassan, spurring the great, black stallion as he had never
done before. With ashy face and wild, hunted eyes Diana crouched
forward on the grey's neck, saving him all she could and riding as she
had never ridden in her life. Utterly reckless, she urged the horse to
his utmost pace, regardless of the rough, dangerous track. Perhaps she
could still shake off her pursuer among the tortuous paths of the
hills. Nothing mattered but that. Better even an ugly toss and a broken
neck than that he should take her again. Panic-stricken she wanted to
shriek and clenched her teeth on her lips to keep back the scream that
rose in her throat. She dared not look behind, but straight ahead
before her, riding with all her skill, hauling the grey round perilous
corners and bending lower and lower in the saddle to aid him. In her
terror she had forgotten what a little distance the hills stretched
from where she had entered them, and blindly she turned into the track
by which she had come, leaving the main hills on her right hand and
emerging on to the open desert on the south side of the range. There
was nothing now but the sheer speed of her horse to save her, and how
long could she count on it? Then with a little glimmer of hope she
remembered that the Sheik was riding The Hawk, own brother to the grey,
and she knew that neither had ever outpaced the other. She had ridden
hard all day, but it was probable that Ahmed Ben Hassan had ridden
harder; he never spared his horses, and his weight was considerably
greater than hers. Would it not be possible for Silver Star, carrying
the lighter burden, to outdistance The Hawk? It was a chance. She would
take it, but she would never give in. The perspiration was rolling down
her face and her breath was coming laboriously. Suddenly, a few minutes
after she had left the hills behind, the Sheik's deep voice came
clearly across the space between them.
"If you do not stop I will shoot your horse. I give you one minute."
She swayed a little in the saddle, clutching the grey's neck to steady
herself and for a moment she closed her eyes, but she did not falter
for an instant. She would not stop; nothing on earth should make her
stop now. Only, because she knew the man, she kicked her feet clear of
the stirrups. He had said he would shoot and he would shoot, and if the
grey shied or swerved a hair's breadth she would probably receive the
bullet that was meant for him. Better that! Yes, even better that!
Silver Star tore on headlong and the minute seemed a lifetime. Then
before even she heard the report he bounded in the air and fell with a
crash. Diana was flung far forward and landed on some soft sand. For a
moment she was stunned by the fall, then she staggered dizzily to her
feet and stumbled back to the prostrate horse. He was lashing out
wildly with his heels, making desperate efforts to rise. And as she
reached him the black horse dashed up alongside, stopping suddenly, and
rearing straight up. The Sheik leaped to the ground and ran towards
her. He caught her wrist and flung her out of his way, and she lay
where she had fallen, every nerve in her body quivering. She was beaten
and with the extinguishing of her last hope all her courage failed her.
She gave way to sheer, overwhelming terror, utterly cowed. Every
faculty was suspended, swallowed up in the one dominating force, the
dread of his voice and the dread of the touch of his hands. She heard a
second report and knew that he had put Silver Star out of his misery,
and then, in a few seconds, his voice beside her. She got up
unsteadily, shrinking from him.
"Why are you here, and where is Gaston?"
In a stifled voice she told him everything. What did it matter? If she
tried to be silent he would force her to speak.
He made no comment, and bringing The Hawk nearer tossed her up roughly
into the saddle and swung up behind her, the black breaking at once
into the usual headlong gallop. She made no kind of resistance, a
complete apathy seemed to have come over her. She did not look at the
body of Silver Star, she looked at nothing, clinging to the front of
the saddle, and staring ahead of her unseeingly. She had dropped her
helmet when she fell and she had left it, thankful to be relieved of
the pressure on her aching head. Her mental collapse had affected her
physically, and it needed a real effort of will-power to enable her to
sit up right. Very soon they would join the horsemen, who were waiting
for them, and for her pride's sake she must concentrate all her energy
to avoid betraying her weakness.
Ahmed Ben Hassan did not go back through the defile, he turned into a
little path that Diana had overlooked and which skirted the hills. In
about half-an-hour the troop met them, riding slowly from the opposite
direction. She did not raise her eyes as they approached, but she heard
Yusef's clear tenor voice calling out to the Sheik, who answered
shortly as the men fell in behind him. Back over the ground that she
had traversed so differently. She knew that it had been madness from
the first. She should have known that it could never succeed, that she
could never reach civilisation alone. She had been a fool ever to
imagine that she could win through. The chance that had thrown her
again into the Sheik's power might just as easily have thrown her into
the hands of any other Arab. Luck had helped Ahmed Ben Hassan even as
she herself had unknowingly played into his hands when he had captured
her first. Fate was with him. It was useless to try and struggle
against him any more. Her brain was a confused medley of thoughts that
she was too tired to unravel, strange, conflicting ideas chasing wildly
through her mind. She did not understand them, she did not try. The
effort of thinking made her head ache agonisingly. She was conscious of
a great unrest, a dull aching in her heart and a terrible depression
that was altogether apart from the fear she felt of the Sheik. She gave
up trying to think; she was concerned only with trying to keep her
balance.
She lifted her head for the first time and looked at the magnificent
sky. The sun had almost set, going down in a ball of molten fire, and
the heavens on either side were a riot of gold and crimson and palest
green, shading off into vivid blue that grew blacker and blacker as the
glory of the sunset died away. The scattered palm trees and the far-off
hills stood out in strong relief. It was a country of marvellous
beauty, and Diana's heart gave a sudden throb as she realised that she
was going back to it all. She was drooping wearily, unable to sit
upright any longer, and once or twice she jolted heavily against the
man who rode behind her. His nearness had ceased to revolt her; she
thought of it with a dull feeling of wonder. She had even a sense of
relief at the thought of the strength so close to her. Her eyes rested
on his hands, showing brown and muscular under the folds of his white
robes. She knew the power of the long, lean fingers that could, when he
liked, be gentle enough. Her eyes filled with sudden tears, but she
blinked them back before they fell. She wanted desperately to cry. A
wave of terrible loneliness went over her, a feeling of desolation, and
a strange, incomprehensible yearning for what she did not know. As the
sunset faded and it grew rapidly dusk a chill wind sprang up and she
shivered from time to time, drooping more and more with fatigue, at
times only half conscious. She had drifted into complete oblivion, when
she was awakened with a jerk that threw her back violently against the
Sheik, but she was too tired to more than barely understand that they
had stopped for something, and that there were palm trees near her. She
felt herself lifted down and a cloak wrapped round her, and then she
remembered nothing more. She awoke slowly, shaking off a persistent
drowsiness by degrees. She was still tired, but the desperate weariness
was gone, and she was conscious of a feeling of well-being and
security. The cool, night air blew in her face, dissipating her
sleepiness. She became aware that night had fallen, and that they were
still steadily galloping southward. In a few moments she was wide
awake, and found that she was lying across the saddle in front of the
Sheik, and that he was holding her in the crook of his arm. Her head
was resting just over his heart, and she could feel the regular beat
beneath her cheek. Wrapped warmly in the cloak and held securely by his
strong arm at first she was content to give way only to the sensation
of bodily rest. It was enough for the moment to lie with relaxed
muscles, to have to make no effort of any kind, to feel the soothing
rush of the wind against her face, and the swift, easy gallop of The
Hawk as he carried them on through the night. Them! With a start of
recollection she realised fully whose arm was round her, and whose
breast her head was resting on. Her heart beat with sudden violence.
What was the matter with her? Why did she not shrink from the pressure
of his arm and the contact of his warm, strong body? What had happened
to her? Quite suddenly she knew--knew that she loved him, that she had
loved him for a long time, even when she thought she hated him and when
she had fled from him. She knew now why his face had haunted her in the
little oasis at midday--that it was love calling to her subconsciously.
All the confusion of mind that had assailed her when they started on
the homeward journey, the conflicting thoughts and contrary emotions,
were explained. But she knew herself at last and knew the love that
filled her, an overwhelming, passionate love that almost frightened her
with its immensity and with the sudden hold it had laid upon her. Love
had come to her at last who had scorned it so fiercely. The men who had
loved her had not had the power to touch her, she had given love to no
one, she had thought that she could not love, that she was devoid of
all natural affection and that she would never know what love meant.
But she knew now--a love of such complete surrender that she had never
conceived. Her heart was given for all time to the fierce desert man
who was so different from all other men whom she had met, a lawless
savage who had taken her to satisfy a passing fancy and who had treated
her with merciless cruelty. He was a brute, but she loved him, loved
him for his very brutality and superb animal strength. And he was an
Arab! A man of different race and colour, a native; Aubrey would
indiscriminately class him as a "damned nigger." She did not care. It
made no difference. A year ago, a few weeks even, she would have
shuddered with repulsion at the bare idea, the thought that a native
could even touch her had been revolting, but all that was swept away
and was nothing in the face of the love that filled her heart so
completely. She did not care if he was an Arab, she did not care what
he was, he was the man she loved. She was deliriously, insanely happy.
She was lying against his heart, and the clasp of his arm was joy
unspeakable. She was utterly content; for the moment all life narrowed
down to the immediate surroundings, and she wished childishly that they
could ride so for ever through eternity. The night was brilliant. The
stars blazed against the inky blackness of the sky, and the light of
the full moon was startlingly clear and white. The discordant yelling
of a pack of hunting jackals came from a little distance, breaking the
perfect stillness. The men were riding in unusual silence, though a low
exclamation or the subdued jingle of accoutrements was heard
occasionally, once some one fired at a night creature that bounded out
from almost under his horse's feet. But the Sheik flung a word of
savage command over his shoulder and there were no more shots. Diana
stirred slightly, moving her head so that she could see his face
showing clearly in the bright moonlight, which threw some features into
high relief and left the rest in dark shadow. She looked at him with
quickening breath. He was peering intently ahead, his eyes flashing in
the cold light, his brows drawn together in the characteristic heavy
scowl, and the firm chin, so near her face, was pushed out more
doggedly than usual.
He felt her move and glanced down. For a moment she looked straight
into his eyes, and then with a low, inarticulate murmur she hid her
face against him. He did not speak, but he shifted her weight a little,
drawing her closer into the curve of his arm.
It was very late when they reached the camp. Lights flashed up in the
big tent and on all sides, and they were surrounded by a crowd of
excited tribesmen and servants. In spite of the hard day's work The
Hawk started plunging and rearing, his invariable habit on stopping,
which nothing could break, and at a word from the Sheik two men leaped
to his head while he transferred Diana to Yusef's outstretched arms.
She was stiff and giddy, and the young man helped her to the door of
the tent, and then vanished again into the throng of men and horses.
Diana sank wearily on to the divan and covered her face with her hands.
She was trembling with fatigue and apprehension. What would he do to
her? She asked herself the question over and over again, with shaking,
soundless lips, praying for courage, nerving herself to meet him. At
last she heard his voice and, looking up, saw him standing in the
doorway. His back was turned, and he was giving orders to a number of
men who stood near him, for she could hear their several voices; and
shortly afterwards half-a-dozen small bands of men rode quickly away in
different directions. For a few moments he stood talking to Yusef and
then came in. At the sight of him Diana shrank back among the soft
cushions, but he took no notice of her, and, lighting a cigarette,
began walking up and down the tent. She dared not speak to him, the
expression on his face was terrible.
Two soft-footed Arab servants brought a hastily prepared supper. It was
a ghastly meal. He never spoke or showed in any way that he was
conscious of her presence. She had had nothing to eat all day, but the
food nearly choked her and she could hardly swallow it, but she forced
herself to eat a little. It seemed interminable until the servants
finally withdrew, after bringing two little gold-cased cups of native
coffee. She gulped it down with difficulty. The Sheik had resumed his
restless pacing, smoking cigarette after cigarette in endless
succession. The monotonous tramp to and fro worked on Diana's nerves
until she winced each time he passed her, and, huddled on the divan,
she watched him continually, fascinated, fearful.
He never looked at her. From time to time he glanced at the watch on
his wrist and each time his face grew blacker. If he would only speak!
His silence was worse than anything he could say. What was he going to
do? He was capable of doing anything. The suspense was torture. Her
hands grew clammy and she wrenched at the soft open collar of her
riding-shirt with a feeling of suffocation.
Twice Yusef came to report, and the second time the Sheik came back
slowly from the door where he had been speaking to him and stopped in
front of Diana, looking at her strangely.
She flung out her hands instinctively, shrinking further back among the
cushions, her eyes wavering under his. "What are you going to do to
me?" she whispered involuntarily, with dry lips.
He looked at her without answering for a while, as if to prolong the
torture she was enduring, and a cruel look crept into his eyes. "That
depends on what happens to Gaston," he said at length slowly.
"Gaston?" she repeated stupidly. She had forgotten the valet, in all
that had occurred since the morning she had forgotten his very
existence.
"Yes--Gaston," he said sternly. "You do not seem to have thought of
what might happen to him."
She sat up slowly, a puzzled look coming into her face. "What could
happen to him?" she asked wonderingly.
He dragged back the flap of the tent and pointed out into the darkness.
"Over there in the south-west, there is an old Sheik whose name is
Ibraheim Omair. His tribe and mine have been at feud for generations.
Lately I have learned that he has been venturing nearer than he has
ever before dared. He hates me. To capture my personal servant would be
more luck than he could have hoped for."
He dropped the flap and began walking up and down again. There was a
sinister tone in his voice that made Diana suddenly comprehend the
little Frenchman's peril. Ahmed Ben Hassan was not the man to be easily
alarmed on any one's behalf. That he was anxious about Gaston was
apparent, and with her knowledge of him she understood his anxiety
argued a very real danger. She had heard tales before she left Biskra,
and since then she had been living in an Arab camp, and she knew
something of the fiendish cruelty and callous indifference to suffering
of the Arabs. Ghastly mental pictures with appalling details crowded
now into her mind. She shuddered.
"What would they do to him?" she asked shakily, with a look of horror.
The Sheik paused beside her. He looked at her curiously and the cruelty
deepened in his eyes. "Shall I tell you what they would do to him?" he
said meaningly, with a terrible smile.
She gave a cry and flung her arms over her head, hiding her face. "Oh,
do not! Do not!" she wailed.
He jerked the ash from his cigarette. "Bah!" he said contemptuously.
"You are squeamish."
She felt sick with the realisation of what could result to Gaston from
her action. She had had no personal feeling with regard to him. On the
contrary, she liked him--she had not thought of him, the man, when she
had stampeded his horse and left him on foot so far from camp. She had
looked upon him only as a jailer, his master's deputy.
The near presence of this hostile Sheik explained many things she had
not understood: Gaston's evident desire daring their ride not to go
beyond a certain distance, the special activity that had prevailed of
late amongst the Sheik's immediate followers, and the speed and silence
that had been maintained during the headlong gallop across the desert
that evening. She had known all along the Arab's obvious affection for
his French servant, and it was confirmed now by the anxiety that he did
not take the trouble to conceal--so unlike his usual complete
indifference to suffering or danger.
She looked at him thoughtfully. There were still depths that she had
not fathomed in his strange character. Would she ever arrive at even a
distant understanding of his complex nature? There was a misty yearning
in her eyes as they followed his tall figure up and down the tent. His
feet made no sound on the thick rugs, and he moved with the long,
graceful stride that always reminded her of the walk of a wild animal.
Her new-found love longed for expression as she watched him. If she
could only tell him! If she had only the right to go to him and in his
arms to kiss away the cruel lines from his mouth! But she had not. She
must wait until she was called, until he should choose to notice the
woman whom he had taken for his pleasure, until the baser part of him
had need of her again. He was an Arab, and to him a woman was a slave,
and as a slave she must give everything and ask for nothing.
And when he did turn to her again the joy she would feel in his embrace
would be an agony for the love that was not there. His careless kisses
would scorch her and the strength of his arms would be a mockery. But
would he ever turn to her again? If anything happened to Gaston--if
what he had suggested became a fact and the servant fell a victim to
the blood feud between the two tribes? She knew he would be terribly
avenged, and what would her part be? She wondered dully if he would
kill her, and how. If the long, brown fingers with their steely
strength would choke the life out of her. Her hands went up to her
throat mechanically. He stopped near her to light a fresh cigarette,
and she was trying to summon up courage to speak to him of Gaston when
the covering of the doorway was flung open and Gaston himself stood in
the entrance.
"Monseigneur--" he stammered, and with his two hands outstretched, palm
uppermost, he made an appealing gesture.
The Sheik's hand shot out and gripped the man's shoulder. "Gaston!
_Enfin, mon ami!_" he said slowly, but there was a ring in his low
voice that Diana had never heard before.
For a moment the two men stared at each other, and then Ahmed Ben
Hassan gave a little laugh of great relief. "Praise be to Allah, the
Merciful, the Compassionate," he murmured.
"To his name praise!" rejoined Gaston softly, then his eyes roved
around the tent towards Diana, and there was no resentment in them, but
only anxiety.
"Madame is----" he hesitated, but the Sheik cut him short.
"Madame is quite safe," he said dryly, and pushed him gently towards
the door with a few words in rapid Arabic. He stood some time after
Gaston had gone to his own quarters looking out into the night, and
when he came in, lingered unusually over closing the flap. Diana stood
hesitating. She was worn out and her long riding-boots felt like lead.
She was afraid to go and afraid to stay. He seemed purposely ignoring
her. The relief of Gaston's return was enormous, but she had still to
reckon with him for her attempted flight. That he said no word about it
at the moment meant nothing; she knew him too well for that. And there
was Silver Star, the finest of all his magnificent horses--she had yet
to pay for his death. The strain that she had gone through since the
morning was tremendous, she could not bear much more. His silence
aggravated her breaking nerves until she felt that her nerves would go.
He had moved over to the writing-table and was tearing the wrapping off
a box of cartridges preparatory to refilling the magazine of his
revolver. The little operation seemed to take centuries. She started at
each separate click. She gripped her hands and passed her tongue over
her dry lips. If he would not speak she must, she could endure it no
longer.
"I am sorry about Silver Star," she faltered, and even to herself her
voice sounded hoarse and strange. He did not answer, but only shrugged
his shoulders as he dropped the last cartridge into its place.
The gesture and his uncompromising attitude exasperated her. "You had
better have shot me," she said bitterly.
"Perhaps. You would have been easier replaced. There are plenty of
women, but Silver Star was almost unique," he retorted quickly, and she
winced at the cold brutality of his tone.
A little sad smile curved her lips. "Yet you shot your horse to get me
back," she said in a barely audible voice.
He flung round with an oath. "You little fool! Do you know so little of
me yet? Do you think that I will let anything stand between me and what
I want? Do you think that by running away from me you will make me want
you less? By Allah! I would have found you if you had got as far as
France. What I have I keep, until I tire of it--and I have not tired of
you yet." He jerked her to him, staring down at her passionately, and
for a moment his face was the face of a devil. "How shall I punish
you?" He felt the shudder he expected go through her and laughed as she
shrank in his arms and hid her face. He forced her head up with
merciless fingers. "What do you hate most?--my kisses?" and with
another mocking laugh he crushed his mouth to hers in a long
suffocating embrace.
Then he let her go suddenly, and, blind and dizzy, she reeled from him
and staggered. He caught her as she swayed and swept her into his arms.
Her head fell back against his shoulder and his face changed at the
sight of her quivering features. He carried her into the adjoining room
and laid her on the couch, his hands lingering as he drew them from
her. For a moment he stood looking down with smouldering eyes on the
slight, boyish figure lying on the bed, the ferocity dying out of his
face. "Take care you do not wake the devil in me again, _ma
belle,"_ he said sombrely.
Alone Diana turned her face into the pillows with a moan of anguish.
Back in the desert a few hours ago, under the shining stars, when the
truth had first come to her, she had thought that she was happy, but
she knew now that without his love she would never be happy. She had
tasted the bitterness of his loveless kisses and she knew that a worse
bitterness was to come, and she writhed at the thought of what her life
with him would be.
"I love him! I love him! And I want his love more than anything in
Heaven and earth."