The Sheik

Diana's muscles relaxed and she sat back easily on the cushions, the

little passage of wills had restored her confidence in herself. She

moved her hand and it brushed against her jacket, coming away stained

and sticky, and she noticed for the first time that all one side and

sleeve were soaked with blood. She ripped it off with a shudder and

flung it from her, rubbing the red smear from her hands with a kind of

horror.

The little tent was intensely hot, and there was a close, pungent smell

that was eminently native that she never experienced in the cool

airiness and scrupulous cleanliness of Ahmed Ben Hassan's tents. Her

sensitive lip curled with disgust, all her innate fastidiousness in

revolt. The heat aggravated a burning thirst that was parching her

throat. She got up on to her feet slowly, and with infinite caution, to

prevent any jar that might start again the throbbing in her head; but

the effects of the blow were wearing off, and, though her head

continued to ache, it did no more than that, and the sick, giddy

feeling had gone completely. She crossed the tent to the side of the

Arab woman.

"Give me some water," she said in French, but the woman shook her head

without looking up. Diana repeated the request in Arabic, one of the

few sentences she knew without stumbling. This time the woman rose up

hastily and held out a cup of the coffee she had been making.

Diana hated the sweet, thick stuff, but it would do until she could get

the water she wanted, and she put out her hand to take the little cup.

But her eyes met the other's fixed on her, and something in their

malignant stare made her pause. A sudden suspicion shot through her

mind. The coffee was drugged. What beyond the woman's expression made

her think so she did not know, but she was sure of it. She put the cup

aside impatiently.

"No. Not coffee. Water," she said firmly.

Before she realised what was happening the woman thrust a strong arm

round her and forced the cup to her lips. That confirmed Diana's

suspicions and rage lent her additional strength. The woman was strong,

but Diana was stronger, younger and more active. She dashed the cup to

the floor, spilling its contents, and, with an effort, tore the

clinging hands from her and sent the woman crashing on to the ground,

rolling against the brazier, oversetting it, and scattering brass pots

and cups over the rug. The woman scrambled to her knees and beat out

the glowing embers, uttering scream after scream in a shrill, piercing

voice. And, in answer to her cries, a curtain at the side of the tent,

that Diana had not noticed, slid aside and a gigantic Nubian came in.

With outstretched hand shaking with rage, pointing at Diana, she burst

into voluble abuse, punctuating every few words with the shrieks that

had brought the negro.