The Arab woman turned to look at her again with a sneering smile that
was full of significance, but beyond a fleeting glance of disdain Diana
paid no attention to her. She stood rigid, one foot beating nervously
into the soft rug. She noticed irrelevantly at the moment that both her
spurs and the empty holster had been removed whilst she was
unconscious, and with the odd detachment that transfers a train of
thought from the centre of importance even at a supreme moment, she
wondered, with an annoyance that seemed curiously futile, why it had
been done.
The voices in the next room continued, until Diana almost prayed for
the moment she was waiting for would come; suspense was worse than the
ordeal for which she was nerving herself, It came at last. The curtain
slid aside again, and the same huge negro she had seen before entered.
He came towards her, and her breath hissed in suddenly between her set
teeth, but before he reached her the Arab woman intercepted him,
blocking his way, and with wild eyes and passionate gestures poured out
a stream of low, frenzied words. The Nubian turned on her impatiently
and thrust her roughly out of his way, and, coming to Diana, put out
his hand as if to grasp her arm, but she stepped back with flashing
eyes and a gesture that he obeyed.
Her heart was pounding, but she had herself under control. Only her
hands twitched, her long fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically,
and she buried them deep in her breeches' pockets to hide them. She
walked slowly to the curtain and nodded to the Nubian to draw it aside,
and slower still she passed into the other room. Only a little larger
than the one she had left, almost as bare, but her mind took in these
things uncomprehendingly, for all her attention was focussed on the
central figure in the room.
Ibraheim Omair, the robber Sheik, lolling his great bulk on a pile of
cushions, a little inlaid stool with coffee beside him, and behind him,
standing motionless as if formed of bronze, two other negroes, so like
the one that had summoned her that they seemed like statues that had
been cast from one mould.
Diana paused for a moment framed in the entrance, then, with head
thrown back and swaggering, boyish stride, she moved across the thick
rugs leisurely and halted in front of the chief, looking straight at
him with haughty, curling lips and insolent, half-closed eyes. The hold
she was exercising over herself was tremendous, her body was rigid with
the effort, and her hands deep down in her pockets clenched till the
nails bit into the palms. Every instinct was rebelling against the calm
she forced upon herself. She longed to scream and make a dash for the
opening that she guessed was behind her, and to take her chance in the
darkness outside. But she knew that such a chance was impossible; if
she ever reached the open air she would never be allowed to get more
than a few steps from the tent. Her only course lay in the bravado that
alone kept her from collapse. She must convey the impression of
fearlessness, though cold terror was knocking at her heart. Masked with
indifference her veiled eyes were watching the robber chief closely.