The Sheik

"I am going to ride," said Diana, turning away. "It is rather late, but

there is just time. Will you come?"

It was a temptation and he hesitated, gathering together the

instruments he had been using, but prudence prevailed.

"I should like to, but I ought to keep an eye on Selim," he said

quietly, snatching at the plausible excuse that offered. He found her

later before the big tent as she was ready to start, and waited while

she mounted.

"If I am late don't wait for me. Tell Henri to give you your lunch,"

she called out between The Dancer's idiotic prancings.

He watched her ride away, with Gaston a few paces behind and followed

by the escort of six men that the Sheik had lately insisted upon. The

continual presence of these six men riding at her heels irked her

considerably. The wild, free gallops that she had loved became quite

different with the thought of the armed guard behind her. They seemed

to hamper her and put a period to her enjoyment. The loneliness of her

rides had been to her half their charm; she had grown accustomed to and

oblivious of Gaston, but she was acutely conscious of the six pairs of

eyes watching her every movement. She did not see the necessity for

them. She had never been aware of anything any time when she was riding

that seemed to justify the Sheik's order. The oasis was not on a

caravan route, and if she ever saw Arabs at any distance from the camp

they always proved to be Ahmed Ben Hassan's own men. She had thought of

remonstrating with him, but her courage had failed her. His mood, since

the coming of Saint Hubert, had been of the coldest--almost repellant.

The weeks of happiness that had gone before had developed the intimacy

between them almost into a feeling of camaraderie. He had been more

humane, more Western, more considerate than he had ever been, and the

fear that she had of him had lain quiescent. She could have asked him

then. But since the morning of Raoul's arrival, when the unexpected

fervour of his embrace had given new birth to the hope that had almost

died within her, he had changed completely into a cold reserve that

chilled her. His caresses had been careless and infrequent, and his

indifference so great that she had wondered miserably if the flame of

his passion for her was burning out and if this was the end. And yet

throughout his indifference she had been conscious, like Saint Hubert,

of the surveillance of constant jealous eyes that watched them both

with a fierce scrutiny that was felt rather than actually seen. But the

spark of hope that the knowledge of this jealousy still fanned was not

great enough to overcome the barrier that his new mood had raised

between them. She dared ask no favour of him now. Her heart tightened

at the thought of his indifference. It hurt so. This morning he had

left her without a word when he had gone out into the early dawn, and

she was hungry for the kisses he withheld. She was used to his taciturn

fits, but her starved heart ached perpetually for tangible recognition.