The Sheik

Saint Hubert looked him full in the face. "Content! Cowed is the better

word, Ahmed."

The Sheik laughed softly. "You flatter me, Raoul. Do not let us speak

any more about it. It is an unfortunate contretemps, and I regret that

it distresses you," he said lightly; then with a sudden change of

manner he laid his hands on the Vicomte's shoulders. "But this can make

no difference to our friendship, mon ami; that is too big a

thing to break down over a difference of opinion. You are a French

nobleman, and I----!" He gave a little bitter laugh. "I am an

uncivilised Arab. We cannot see things in the same way."

"You could, but you will not, Ahmed," replied the Vicomte, with an

accent of regret. "It is not worthy of you." He paused and then looked

up again with a little crooked smile and a shrug of defeat. "Nothing

can ever make any difference with us, Ahmed. I can disagree with you,

but I can't wipe out the recollection of the last twenty years."

A few minutes later the Sheik left him and went out into the night. He

traversed the short distance between the tents slowly, stopping to

speak to a sentry, and then pausing outside his own tent to look up at

the stars. The Persian hound that always slept across the entrance

uncurled himself and got up, thrusting a wet nose into his hand. The

Sheik fondled the huge creature absently, stroking the dog's shaggy

head mechanically, hardly conscious of what he was doing. A great

restlessness that was utterly foreign to his nature had taken

possession of him. He had been aware of it growing within him for some

time, becoming stronger daily, and now the coming of Raoul de Saint

Hubert seemed to have put the crowning touch to a state of mind that he

was unable to understand. He had never been given to thinking of

himself, or criticising or analysing his passing whims and fancies. All

his life he had taken what he wanted; nothing on which he had ever laid

eyes of desire had been denied him. His wealth had brought him

everything he had ever wished. His passionate temper had been

characteristic even when he was a child, but these strange fits of

unreasonable irritability were new, and he searched for a cause vainly.

His keen eyes looked through the darkness towards the south. Was it the

nearness of his hereditary enemy, who had presumed to come closer than

he had ever done before to the border of the country that Ahmed Ben

Hassan regarded as his own, that was causing this great unrest?