The Sheik

The short twilight had gone and a brilliant moon shone high in the

heavens, illuminating the surrounding country with a clear white light.

At any other time the beauty of the scene, the glamour of the Eastern

night, the head-long gallop in company with this band of fierce

fighting men would have stirred Saint Hubert profoundly. His artistic

temperament and his own absolute fearlessness and love of adventure

would have combined to make the expedition an exciting experience that

he would not willingly have foregone. But the reason for it all, the

peril of the girl whom he loved so unexpectedly, changed the whole

colour of the affair, tinging it with a gravity and a suspense that

left a cold fear in his heart. And if to him, what then to the man

beside him? The question that Ahmed Ben Hassan had negatived so

scornfully a week before had been answered differently in the swift

look that had crossed his face this evening. He had not spoken since

they started, and Saint Hubert had not felt able to break the silence.

They had left the level country and were in amongst the long,

successive ranges of undulating ground, the summits standing out silver

white in the gleaming moonlight, the hollows filled with dark shadow,

like black pools of deep, still water. And at the bottom of one of the

slopes the Sheik pulled up suddenly with a low, hissing exclamation. A

white shape was lying face downwards, spread-eagled on the sand, almost

under The Hawk's feet, and at their approach two lean, slinking forms

cantered away into the night. The Sheik and Henri reached the still

figure simultaneously and Saint Hubert almost as quickly. He made a

hurried examination. The bullet that had stunned Gaston had glanced

off, leaving an ugly cut, and others that had hit him at the same time

had ploughed through his shoulder, breaking the bone and causing

besides wounds that had bled freely. He had staggered more than a mile

before he had fainted again from loss of blood. He came to under Saint

Hubert's handling, and lifted his heavy eyes to the Sheik, who was

kneeling beside him.

"Monseigneur--Madame--Ibraheim Omair," he whispered weakly, and

relapsed into unconsciousness.

For a moment the Sheik's eyes met Raoul's across his body, and then

Ahmed Ben Hassan rose to his feet. "Be as quick as you can," he said,

and went back to his horse. He leaned against The Hawk, his fingers

mechanically searching for and lighting a cigarette, his eyes fixed

unseeingly on the group around Gaston. The valet's broken words had

confirmed the fear that he had striven to crush since he discovered

Diana's absence.