The Sheik

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.