It was evening when Diana opened drowsy and heavy eyes, a bitter taste
in her mouth from the effects of the drug that Saint Hubert had given
her. Everything had been laid out in readiness for her waking with the
little touches that were characteristic of Zilah's handiwork, but the
Arab girl herself was not visible. The lamp was lighted, and Diana
turned her head languidly, still half confused, to look at the clock
beside her. The tiny chime sounded seven times, and with a rush of
recollection she leaped up. More than twelve hours since she had knelt
beside him after drinking the coffee that Raoul had given her. She
guessed what he had done and tried to be grateful, but the thought of
what might have happened during the twelve hours she had lain like a
log was horrible. She dressed with feverish haste and went into the
outer room. It was filled with Arabs, many of whom she did not
recognise, and she knew that they must belong to the reinforcements
that Ahmed Ben Hassan had sent for. Two, who seemed from their
appearance to be petty chiefs, were talking in low tones to Saint
Hubert, who looked worn and tired. The rest were grouped silently about
the divan, looking at the still-unconscious Sheik. The restlessness and
delirium of the morning had passed and been succeeded by a death-like
stupor. Nearest to him stood Yusef, his usual swaggering self-assurance
changed into an attitude of deepest dejection, and his eyes, that were
fixed on Ahmed Ben Hassan's face, were like those of a whipped dog.
Gradually the tent emptied until only Yusef was left, and at last,
reluctantly, he too went, stopping at the entrance to speak to Saint
Hubert, who had just taken leave of the two headmen.
The Vicomte came back, bringing a chair for Diana, and put her into it
with gentle masterfulness. "Sit down," he said almost gruffly. "You
look like a ghost."
She looked up at him reproachfully. "You drugged that coffee, Raoul. If
he had died to-day while I was asleep I don't think I could ever have
forgiven you."
"My dear child," he said gravely, "you don't know how near you were to
collapse. If I had not made you sleep I should have had three patients
on my hands instead of two."
"I am very ungrateful," she murmured, with a tremulous little smile.
Saint Hubert brought a chair for himself and dropped into it wearily.
He felt very tired, the strain of the past twenty-four hours had been
tremendous. He had a very real fear that was fast growing into a
conviction that his skill was going to prove unequal to save his
friend's life, and beside that anxiety and his physical fatigue he had
fought a bitter fight with himself all day, tearing out of his heart
the envy and jealousy that filled it, and locking away his love as a
secret treasure to be hidden for always. His devotion to Ahmed Ben
Hassan had survived the greatest test that could be imposed upon it,
and had emerged from the trial strengthened and refined, with every
trace of self obliterated. It had been the hardest struggle of his
life, but it was over now, and all the bitterness had passed, leaving
only a passionate desire for Diana's happiness that outweighed every
other thought. One spark of comfort remained. He would not be quite
useless. His help and sympathy would be necessary to her, and even for
that he was grateful.
He looked across the divan at her, and the change that the last few
hours had made in her struck him painfully. The alert, vigorous
boyishness that had been so characteristic was gone. Her slim figure
drooping listlessly in the big chair, her white face with the new marks
of suffering on it, and her wide eyes burning with dumb misery, were
all purely womanly. And yet though he resented the change he wished it
could have gone further. The restraint she was putting on herself was
unnatural. She asked no questions and she shed no tears. He could have
borne them both easier than the silent anguish of her face. He feared
the results of the emotion she was repressing so rigidly.
There was a long silence.
Henri came in once and Diana roused herself to ask for Gaston, and then
relapsed into silent watchfulness again. She sighed once, a long
quivering sigh that nearly broke Saint Hubert's heart. He rose and bent
over the Sheik with his fingers on his wrist, and as he laid the
nerveless hand down again she leaned nearer and covered it with her
own.
"His hand is so big for an Arab's," she said softly, like a thought
spoken aloud unconsciously.
"He is not an Arab," replied Saint Hubert with sudden, impatient
vehemence. "He is English."
Diana looked up at him swiftly with utter bewilderment in her startled
eyes. "I don't understand," she faltered. "He hates the English."
"_Quand-meme_, he is the son of one of your English peers. His
mother was a Spanish lady; many of the old noble Spanish families have
Moorish blood in their veins, the characteristics crop up even after
centuries. It is so with Ahmed, and his life in the desert has
accentuated it. Has he never told you anything about himself?"
She shook her head. "Sometimes I have wondered----" she said
reflectively. "He seemed different from the others, and there has been
so much that I could never understand. But then again there were times
when he seemed pure Arab," she added in a lower voice and with an
involuntary shiver.
"You ought to know," said Saint Hubert. "Yes!" he went on firmly, as
she tried to interrupt him. "It is due to you. It will explain so many
things. I will take the responsibility. His father is the Earl of
Glencaryll."
"But I know him," said Diana wonderingly. "He was a friend of my
father. I saw him only a few months ago when Aubrey and I passed
through Paris. He is such a magnificent-looking old man, so fierce and
sad. Oh, now I know why that awful frown of Ahmed's has always seemed
so familiar. Lord Glencaryll frowns like that. It is the famous Caryll
scowl. But I still don't understand." She looked from Saint Hubert to
the unconscious man on the divan and back to Saint Hubert with a new
trouble growing in her eyes.
"I had better tell you the whole story," said Raoul, dropping back into
his chair.
"Thirty-six years ago my father, who was as great a wanderer as I am,
was staying here in the desert with his friend the Sheik Ahmed Ben
Hassan. A chance acquaintance some years before over the purchase of
some horses had ripened into a very intimate friendship that was
unusual between a Frenchman and an Arab. The Sheik was a wonderful man,
very enlightened, with strong European tendencies. As a matter of pure
fact he was not too much in sympathy with the French form of
administration as carried on in Algeria, but he was not affected
sufficiently by it to make any real difficulty. The territory that he
regarded as his own lay too much to the south, and he kept his large
and scattered tribe in too good order for any interference to be
possible. He was unmarried, and the women of his own race seemed to
have no attraction for him. He was wrapped up in his tribe and his
horses. My father had come for a stay of some months. My mother had
recently died and he wanted to get away from everything that reminded
him of her. One evening, shortly after his arrival at the camp, a party
of the Sheik's men who had been absent for some days in the north on
the chief's affairs arrived, bringing with them a woman whom they had
found wandering in the desert. How she had got there, or from what
direction she had come, they did not know. They were nearer
civilisation than Ahmed Ben Hassan's camp at the time, but with true
native tendency to avoid responsibility they thought that the disposal
of her was a matter more for their Sheik than themselves. She could
give no account of herself, as, owing to the effects of the sun or
other causes, she was temporarily out of her mind. Arabs are very
gentle with any one who is mad--'Allah has touched them!' She was taken
to the tent of one of the headmen, whose wife looked after her. For
some days it was doubtful whether she would recover, and her condition
was aggravated by the fact that she was shortly to become a mother. She
did regain her senses after a time, however, but nothing could make her
say anything about herself, and questions reduced her to terrible fits
of hysterical crying which were prejudicial in her state of health. She
seemed calmest when she was left quite alone, but even then she started
at the slightest sound, and the headman's wife reported that she would
lie for hours on her bed crying quietly to herself. She was quite
young--seemingly not more than nineteen or twenty. From her accents my
father decided that she was Spanish, but she would admit nothing, not
even her nationality. In due course of time the child was born, a boy."
Saint Hubert paused a moment and nodded towards the Sheik. "Even after
the child's birth she refused to give any account of herself. In that
she was as firm as a rock; in everything else she was the frailest,
gentlest little creature imaginable. She was very small and slender,
with quantities of soft dark hair and beautiful great dark eyes that
looked like a frightened fawn's. I have heard my father describe her
many times, and I have seen the water-colour sketch he made of her--he
was quite an amateur. Ahmed has it locked away somewhere. She nearly
died when the baby was born, and she never recovered her strength. She
made no complaint and never spoke of herself, and seemed quite content
as long as the child was with her. She was a child herself in a great
number of ways. It never seemed to occur to her that there was anything
odd in her continued residence in the Sheik's camp. She had a tent and
servants of her own, and the headman's wife was devoted to her. So were
the rest of the camp for that matter. There was an element of the
mysterious in her advent that had taken hold of the superstitious
Arabs, and the baby was looked upon as something more than human and
was adored by all the tribe. The Sheik himself, who had never looked
twice at a woman before in his life, became passionately attached to
her. My father says that he has never seen a man so madly in love as
Ahmed Ben Hassan was with the strange white girl who had come so oddly
into his life. He repeatedly implored her to marry him, and even my
father, who has a horror of mixed marriages, was impelled to admit that
any woman might have been happy with Ahmed Ben Hassan. She would not
consent, though she would give no reason for her refusal, and the
mystery that surrounded her remained as insolvable during the two years
that she lived after the baby's birth as it had been on the day of her
arrival. And her refusal made no difference with the Sheik. His
devotion was wonderful. When she died my father was again visiting the
camp. She knew that she was dying, and a few days before the end she
told them her pitiful little history. She was the only daughter of one
of the oldest noble houses in Spain, as poor as they were noble, and
she had been married when she was seventeen to Lord Glencaryll, who had
seen her with her parents in Nice. She had been married without any
regard to her own wishes, and though she grew to love her husband she
was always afraid of him. He had a terrible temper that was very easily
roused, and, in those days, he also periodically drank a great deal
more than was good for him, and when under the influence of drink
behaved more like a devil than a man. She was very young and
_gauche_, failing often to do what was required of her from mere
nervousness. He was exigent and made no allowance for her youth and
inexperience, and her life was one long torture. And yet in spite of it
all she loved him. Even in speaking of it she insisted that the fault
was hers, that the trouble was due to her stupidity, glossing over his
brutality; in fact, it was not from her, but from inquiries that he
made after her death, that my father learned most of what her life had
been. It seems that Lord Glencaryll had taken her to Algiers and had
wished to make a trip into the desert. He had been drinking heavily,
and she did not dare to upset his plans by refusing to go with him or
even by telling him how soon her child was going to be born. So she
went with him, and one night something happened--what she would not
say, but my father says he has never seen such a look of terror on any
woman's face as she hurried over that part of her story. Whatever it
was she waited until the camp was asleep and then slipped out into the
desert, mad with fear, with no thought beyond a blind instinct of
flight that drove her panic-stricken to face any danger rather than
remain and undergo the misery she was flying from. She remembered
hurrying onward, terrified by every sound and every shadow, frightened
even by the blazing stars that seemed to be watching her and pointing
out the way she had taken, until her mind was numb from utter weariness
and she remembered nothing more until she awoke in the headman's tent.
She had been afraid to say who she was lest she should be sent back to
her husband. And with the birth of the child she became more than ever
determined to preserve her secret. The boy should be spared the
suffering she had herself endured, he should not be allowed to fall
into the hands of his father to be at his mercy when the periodical
drinking fits made him a very fiend of cruelty. She made my father and
the Sheik swear that not until the boy grew to manhood should Lord
Glencaryll be told of his existence. She wrote a letter for her husband
which she gave into my father's keeping, together with her wedding
ring, which had an inscription inside of it, and a miniature of
Glencaryll which she had worn always hidden away from sight. She was
very contrite with the Sheik, begging his forgiveness for the sorrow
she had caused him and for keeping from his knowledge the fact that she
was not free. She loved her husband loyally to the end, but the last
few days that she lived the Sheik's devotion seemed to wake an
answering tenderness in her heart. She was happiest when he was with
her, and she died in his arms with his kisses on her lips. She left her
boy in his keeping, and Ahmed Ben Hassan adopted him formally and made
him his heir, giving him his own name--the hereditary name that the
Sheik of the tribe has borne for generations. His word was law amongst
his people, and there was no thought of any opposition to his wishes;
further, the child was considered lucky, and his choice of successor
was received with unanimous delight. All the passionate love that the
Sheik had for the mother was transferred to the son. He idolised him,
and the boy grew up believing that Ahmed Ben Hassan was his own father.
With the traits he had inherited from his mother's people and with his
desert upbringing he looked, as he does now, pure Arab. When he was
fifteen my father induced the Sheik to send him to Paris to be
educated. With his own European tendencies the Sheik had wished it
also, but he could not bring himself to part with the boy before, and
it was a tremendous wrench to let him go when he did. It was then that
I first saw him. I was eighteen at the time, and had just begun my
military training, but as my regiment was stationed in Paris I was able
to be at home a good deal. He was such a handsome, high-spirited lad.
Men mature very young in the desert and in many ways he was a great
deal older than I was, in spite of my three years' seniority. But, of
course, in other ways he was a perfect child. He had a fiendish temper
and resented any check on his natural lawless inclinations. He loathed
the restrictions that had to be put upon him and he hated the restraint
of town life. He had been accustomed to having his own way in nearly
everything, and to the constant adulation of the tribesmen, and he was
not prepared to give to anybody else the obedience that he gave
willingly to the Sheik. There were some very stormy times, and I never
admired my father in anything so much as his handling of that young
savage. His escapades were nerve-racking and his _beaux yeux_ led
him into endless scrapes. The only threat that reduced him to order was
that of sending him home to the Sheik in disgrace. He would promise
amendment and take himself off to the Bois to work off his superfluous
energy on my father's horses--until he broke out again. But in spite of
his temper and his _diableries_ he was very lovable and everybody
liked him.
"After a year with us in Paris my father, always mindful of his real
nationality, sent him for two years to a tutor in England, where I had
myself been. The tutor was an exceptional man, used to dealing with
exceptional boys, and Ahmed did very well with him. I don't mean that
he did much work--that he evaded skilfully and spent most of his time
hunting and shooting. The only thing that he studied at all seriously
was veterinary surgery, which he knew would be useful to him with his
own horses, and in which his tutor was level-headed enough to encourage
him. Then at the end of two years he came back to us for another year.
He had gone to the desert every summer for his holidays, and on each
occasion the Sheik let him return with greater reluctance. He was
always afraid that the call of civilisation would be too much for his
adopted son, especially as he grew older, but although Ahmed had
changed very much from the wild desert lad who had first come to us,
and had developed into a polished man of the world, speaking French and
English as fluently as Arabic, with plenty of means to amuse himself in
any way that he wished--for the Sheik was very rich and kept him
lavishly supplied with money--and though in that last year he was with
us he was courted and feted in a way that would have turned most
people's heads, he was always secretly longing for the time when
he would go back to the desert. It was the desert, not civilisation
that called loudest to him. He loved the life and he adored the man
whom he thought was his father. To be the son and heir of Ahmed Ben
Hassan seemed to him to be the highest pinnacle that any man's ambition
could reach. He was perfectly indifferent to the flattery and attention
that his money and his good looks brought him. My father entertained
very largely and Ahmed became the fashion--'_Le bel Arabe_' he
was called, and he enjoyed a _succes fou_ which bored him to
extinction--and at the end of the year, having written to the Sheik for
permission to go home, he shook the dust of Paris off his feet and went
back to the desert. I went with him. It was my first visit and the
first time that I had experienced Ahmed _en prince_. I had never
seen him in anything but European clothes, and I got quite a shock when
I came up on deck the morning that we arrived at Oran and found an Arab
of the Arabs waiting for me. The robes and a complete change of
carriage and expression that seemed to go with them altered him
curiously and I hardly recognised him. Some of his men were waiting for
him on the quay and their excitement was extraordinary. I realised from
the deference and attention that the French officials paid to Ahmed the
position that the old Sheik had made for himself and the high esteem in
which he was held. We spent the rest of the day in arranging for the
considerable baggage that he had brought with him to be forwarded by
the camel caravan that had been sent for the purpose, and also in
business for the Sheik in Oran. We spent the night in a villa on the
outskirts of the town belonging to an old Arab who entertained us
lavishly, and who spent the evening congratulating Ahmed heartily on
having escaped from the clutches of the odious French, by no means
abashed when Ahmed pointed out that there was an odious Frenchman
present, for he dismissed me with a gesture that conveyed that my
nationality was my misfortune and not my fault, and in impressing on
him the necessity of immediately acquiring a wife or two and settling
down for the good of the tribe--all this in the intervals of drinking
coffee, listening to the most monotonous native music and watching
barbaric dances. There was one particularly well-made dancing girl that
the old man tried to induce Ahmed to buy, and he made a show of
bargaining for her--not from any real interest he took in her, but
merely to see the effect that it would have on me. But I refused to be
drawn, and as my head was reeling with the atmosphere I escaped to bed
and left him still bargaining. We started early next morning, and were
joined a few miles out of the town by a big detachment of followers.
The excitement of the day before was repeated on a very much larger
scale. It was a novel experience for me, and I can hardly describe my
feelings in the midst of that yelling horde of men, galloping wildly
round us and firing their rifles until it seemed hardly possible that
some accident would not happen. It was Ahmed's attitude that impressed
me most. He took it all quietly as his due, and when he had had enough
of it stopped it with a peremptory authority that was instantly obeyed,
and apologised for the exuberant behaviour of his children. It was a
new Ahmed to me; the boy I had known for four years seemed suddenly
transformed into a man who made me feel very young. In France I had
naturally always rather played elder brother, but here Ahmed was on his
own ground and the roles seemed likely to be reversed. The arrival at
the Sheik's camp was everything that the most lavish scenic producer
could have wished. Though I had heard of it both from my father and
Ahmed I was not quite prepared for the splendour with which the Sheik
surrounded himself. With Eastern luxury was mingled many European
adjuncts that added much to the comfort of camp life. The meeting
between the Sheik and Ahmed was most touching. I had a very happy time
and left with regret. The charm of the desert took hold of me then and
has never left me since. But I had to return to my medical studies. I
left Ahmed absorbed in his life and happier than I had ever seen him in
Paris. He was nineteen then, and when he was twenty-one my father had
the unpleasant task of carrying out Lady Glencaryll's dying wishes. He
wrote to Lord Glencaryll asking him to come to Paris on business
connected with his late wife, and, during the course of a very painful
interview, put the whole facts before him. With the letter that the
poor girl had written to her husband, with the wedding-ring and the
locket, together with the sketch that my father had made of her, the
proofs of the genuineness of the whole affair were conclusive.
Glencaryll broke down completely. He admitted that his wife had every
justification for leaving him, he spared himself nothing. He referred
quite frankly to the curse of which he had been the slave and which had
made him irresponsible for his actions when he was under its influence.
He had never known himself what had happened that terrible night, but
the tragedy of his wife's disappearance had cured him. He had made
every effort to find her and it was many years before he gave up all
hope. He mourned her bitterly, and worshipped her memory. It was
impossible not to pity him, for he had expiated his fault with agony
that few men can have experienced. The thought that he had a son and
that son her child almost overwhelmed him. He had ardently desired an
heir, and, thinking himself childless, the fact that his title and his
old name, of which he was very proud, would die with him had been a
great grief. His happiness in the knowledge of Ahmed's existence was
pathetic, he was consumed with impatience for his son's arrival.
Nothing had been said to Ahmed in case Lord Glencaryll should prove
difficult to convince and thereby complicate matters, but his ready
acceptance of the affair and his eagerness to see his son made further
delay unnecessary, and my father sent for Ahmed. The old Sheik let him
go in ignorance of what was coming. He had always dreaded the time when
his adopted son would have to be told of his real parentage, fearful of
losing him, jealous of sharing his affection and resenting anybody's
claim to him over his own. And so, with the only instance he ever gave
of want of moral courage, he sent Ahmed to Paris with no explanation,
and left to my father the task of breaking to him the news. I shall
never forget that day. It had been arranged that Ahmed should be told
first and that afterwards father and son should meet. Ahmed arrived in
the morning in time for _dejeuner_, and afterwards we went to my
father's study, and there he told him the whole story as gently and as
carefully as he could. Ahmed was standing by the window. He never said
a word the whole time my father was speaking, and when he finished he
stood quite still for a few moments, his face almost grey under the
deep tan, his eyes fixed passionately on my father's--and then his
fiendish temper broke out suddenly. It was a terrible scene. He cursed
his father in a steady stream of mingled Arabic and French blasphemy
that made one's blood run cold. He cursed all English people
impartially. He cursed my father because he had dared to send him to
England. He cursed me because I had been a party to the affair. The
only person whom he spared was the Sheik; who after all was as much
implicated as we were, but he never once mentioned him. He refused to
see his father, refused to recognise that he was his father, and he
left the house that afternoon and Paris that night, going straight back
to the desert, taking with him Gaston, who had arranged some time
before to enter his service as soon as his time in the cavalry was up.
A letter that Lord Glencaryll wrote to him, addressed to Viscount
Caryll, which is, of course, his courtesy title, begging for at least
an interview, and which he gave to us to forward, was returned
unopened, and scrawled across the envelope: _'Inconnu._ Ahmed Ben
Hassan.' And since that day his hatred of the English had been a
monomania, and he has never spoken a word of English. Later on, when we
used to travel together, his obvious avoidance of English people was at
times both awkward and embarrassing, and I have often had to go through
the farce of translating into French or Arabic remarks made to him by
English fellow-travellers, that is, when he condescended to notice the
remarks, which was not often. From the day he learned the truth about
himself for two years we saw nothing of him. Then the old Sheik asked
us to visit him. We went with some misgivings as to what Ahmed's
reception of us would be, but he met us as if nothing had happened. He
ignored the whole episode and has never referred to it. It is a closed
incident. The Sheik warned us that Ahmed had told him that any
reference to it would mean the breaking off of all relations with us.
But Ahmed himself had changed indescribably. All the lovable qualities
that had made him so popular in Paris were gone, and he had become the
cruel, merciless man he has been ever since. The only love left in him
was given to his adopted father, whom he worshipped. Later I was
allowed back on the old footing, and he has always been good to Gaston,
but with those three exceptions he has spared nobody and nothing. He is
my friend, I love him, and I am not telling you more than you know
already."
Saint Hubert broke off and looked anxiously at Diana, but she did not
move or meet his gaze. She was sitting with her hand still clasped over
the Sheik's and the other one shading her face, and the Vicomte went on
speaking: "It is so easy to judge, so difficult to understand another
person's temptations. Ahmed's position has always been a curious one.
He has had unique temptations with always the means of gratifying
them."
There was a longer pause, but still Diana did not move or speak.
"The curse of Ishmael had taken hold of me by then and I wandered
continually. Sometimes Ahmed came with me; we have shot big game
together in most parts of the globe. A few times he stayed with us in
Paris, but never for long; he always wearied to get back to the desert.
Five years ago the old Sheik died; he was an exceptionally strong man,
and should have lived for years but for an accident which crippled him
hopelessly and from which he died a few months afterwards. Ahmed's
devotion during his illness was wonderful. He never left him, and since
he succeeded to the leadership of the tribe he has lived continuously
amongst his people, absorbed in them and his horses, carrying on the
traditions handed down to him by his predecessor and devoting his life
to the tribe. They are like children, excitable, passionate and
headstrong, and he has never dared to risk leaving them alone too long,
particularly with the menace of Ibraheim Omair always in the
background. He has never been able to seek relaxation further afield
than Algiers or Oran----" Saint Hubert stopped abruptly, cursing himself
for a tactless fool. She could not fail to realise the significance of
those visits to the gay, vicious little towns. The inference was
obvious. His thoughtless words would only add to her misery. Her
sensitive mind would shrink from the contamination they implied. If
Ahmed was going to die, she would be desolate enough without forcing on
her knowledge the unworthiness of the man she loved. He pushed his
chair back impatiently and went to the open doorway. He felt that she
wanted to be alone. She watched him go, then slipped to her knees
beside the couch.
She had realised the meaning of Raoul's carelessly uttered words and
they had hurt her poignantly, but it was no new sorrow. He had told her
himself months ago, callously, brutally, sparing her nothing,
extenuating nothing. She pressed her cheek against the hand she was
holding. She did not blame him, she could only love him, no matter what
his life had been. It was Ahmed as he was she loved, his faults, his
vices were as much a part of him as his superb physique and the
alternating moods that had been so hard to meet. She had never known
him otherwise. He seemed to stand alone, outside the prescribed
conventions that applied to ordinary men. The standards of common usage
did not appear compatible with the wild desert man who was his own law
and followed only his own precedent, defiant of social essentials and
scornful of criticism. The proud, fierce nature and passionate temper
that he had inherited, the position of despotic leadership in which he
had been reared, the adulation of his followers and the savage life in
the desert, free from all restraint, had combined to produce the
haughty unconventionalism that would not submit to the ordinary rules
of life. She could not think of him as an Englishman. The mere accident
of his parentage was a factor that weighed nothing. He was and always
would be an Arab of the wilderness. If he lived! He _must_ live!
He could not go out like that, his magnificent strength and fearless
courage extinguished by a treacherous blow that had not dared to meet
him face to face--in spite of the overwhelming numbers--but had struck
him down from behind, a coward stroke. He must live, even if his life
meant death to her hopes of happiness; that was nothing compared with
his life. She loved him well enough to sacrifice anything for him. If
he only lived she could bear even to be put out of his life. It was
only he that mattered, his life was everything. He was so young, so
strong, so made to live. He had so much to live for. He was essential
to his people. They needed him. If she could only die for him. In the
days when the world was young the gods were kind, they listened to the
prayers of hapless lovers and accepted the life that was offered in
place of the beloved whose life was claimed. If God would but listen to
her now. If He would but accept her life in exchange for his. If----!
if----!
Her fingers crept up lightly across his breast, fearful lest even their
tender touch should injure his battered body, and she looked long and
earnestly at him. His crisp brown hair was hidden by the bandages that,
dead white against his tanned face, swathed his bruised head. His
closed eyes with the thick dark lashes curling on his cheek, hiding the
usual fierce expression that gleamed in them, and the relaxation of the
hard lines of his face made him look singularly young. That youthful
look had been noticeable often when he was asleep, and she had watched
it wondering what Ahmed the boy had been like before he grew into the
merciless man at whose hands she had suffered so much.
And now the knowledge of his boyhood seemed to make him even dearer
than he had been before. What sort of man would he have been if the
little dark-eyed mother had lived to sway him with her gentleness? Poor
little mother, helpless and fragile!--yet strong enough to save her boy
from the danger that she feared for him, but paying the price of that
strength with her life, content that her child was safe.
Diana thought of her own mother dying in the arms of a husband who
adored her, and then of the little Spanish girl slipping away from
life, a stranger in a strange land, her heart crying out for the
husband whom she still loved, turning in ignorance of his love for
consolation in the agony of death to the lover she had denied, and
seeking comfort in his arms. A sudden jealousy of the two dead women
shook her. They had been loved. Why could not she be loved? Wherein did
she fail that he would not love her? Other men had loved her, and his
love was all she longed for in the world. To feel his arms around her
only once with love in their touch, to see his passionate eyes kindle
only once with the light she prayed for. She drew a long sobbing
breath. "Ahmed, _mon bel Arabe_," she murmured yearningly.
She rose to her feet. She was afraid of breaking down, of giving way to
the fear and anxiety that racked her. She turned instinctively to the
help and sympathy that offered and went to Saint Hubert, joining him
under the awning. Usually at night the vicinity of the Sheik's tent was
avoided by the tribesmen, even the sentry on guard was posted at some
little distance. Kopec curled up outside the doorway kept ample watch.
But to-night the open space was swarming with men, some squatting on
the ground in circles, others clustered together in earnest
conversation, and far off through the palm trees she caught an
occasional glimpse of mounted men. Yusef and the headmen acting under
him were taking no risks, there was to be no chance of a surprise
attack.
"You must be very tired, Raoul," she said, slipping her hand through
his arm, for her need was almost as much for physical as mental
support. The frank touch of her hand sent a quiver through him, but he
suppressed it, and laid his own hand over her cold fingers.
"I must not think of that yet. Later on, perhaps, I can rest a little.
Henri can watch; he is almost as good a doctor as I am, the
incomparable Henri! Ahmed and I have always quarrelled over the
respective merits of our servants."
He felt her hand tighten on his arm at the mention of the Sheik's name
and heard the smothered sigh that she choked back. They stood in
silence for a while watching the shifting groups of tribesmen. A little
knot of low-voiced men near them opened up, and one of their number
came to Saint Hubert with an inquiry.
"The men are restless." Raoul said when the Arab had gone back to his
fellows with all the consolation the Vicomte could give him. "Their
devotion is very strong. Ahmed is a god to them. Their anxiety takes
them in a variety of ways. Yusef, who has been occupied with his duties
most of the day, has turned to religion for the first time in his life,
he has gone to say his prayers with the pious Abdul, as he thinks that
Allah is more likely to listen if his petitions go heavenward in
company with the holy man's."
Diana's thoughts strayed back to the story that Saint Hubert had told
her. "Does Lord Glencaryll know that you see Ahmed?" she asked.
"Oh yes. He and my father became great friends. He often stays with us
in Paris. We are a link between him and Ahmed. He is always hungry for
any news of him, and still clings to the hope that one day he will
relent. He has never made any further effort to open up relations with
him because he knows it would be useless. If there is to be any
_rapprochement_ between them it must come from Ahmed. They have
almost met accidentally once or twice, and Glencaryll has once seen
him. It was at the opera. He was staying in Paris for some months and
had a box. I had gone across from our own box on the other side of the
house to speak to him. There were several people with him. I was
standing beside him, talking. Ahmed had just come into our box opposite
and was standing right in the front looking over the theatre. Something
had annoyed him and he was scowling. The likeness was unmistakable.
Glencaryll gave a kind of groan and staggered back against me. 'Good
God! Who is that?' he said, and I don't think he knew he was speaking
out loud.
"A man next him looked in the direction he was looking and laughed.
'That's the Saint Huberts' wild man of the desert. Looks fierce,
doesn't he? The women call him "_le bel Arabe_." He certainly
wears European clothes with better grace than most natives. He is said
to have a peculiar hatred of the English, so you'd better give him a
wide berth, Glencaryll, if you don't want to be bow-stringed or have
your throat cut, or whatever fancy form of death the fellow cultivates
in his native habitat. Raoul can tell you all about him.'
"There was not any need for me to tell him. Fortunately the opera began
and the lights went down, and I persuaded him to go away before the
thing was over."
Diana gave a little shiver. She felt a great sympathy coming over her
for the lonely old man, hoping against hope for the impossible, that
she had not felt earlier in the evening. He, too, was wearing his heart
out against the inflexible will of Ahmed Ben Hassan.
She shivered again and turned back into the tent with Saint Hubert.
They halted by the couch and stood for a long time in silence. Then
Diana slowly raised her head and looked up into Raoul's face, and he
read the agonised question in her eyes.
"I don't know," he said gently. "All things are with Allah."