The Sheik

Ibraheim Omair kept his hold upon her, and presently, with a horrible

loathing, she felt his hand passing over her arm, her neck, and down

the soft curves of her slim young body, then with a muttered

ejaculation he forced her to face him.

"What are you listening for? You think that Ahmed Ben Hassan will come?

Little fool! He has forgotten you already. There are plenty more white

women in Algiers and Oran that he can buy with his gold and his devil

face. The loves of Ahmed Ben Hassan are as the stars in number. They

come and go like the swift wind in the desert, a hot breath--and it's

finished. He will not come, and if he does, he will not find you, for

in an hour we shall be gone."

Diana writhed in his grasp. The hateful words in the guttural voice,

pronounced in vile French, the leering, vicious face with the light of

admiration growing in the bloodshot eyes, were all a ghastly nightmare.

With a sudden desperate wrench she freed herself and fled across the

tent--panic-stricken at last. But in her blind rush she tripped, and

with a swiftness that seemed incompatible with his unwieldiness

Ibraheim Omair followed her and caught her in his arms. Struggling he

carried her to the divan. For a moment he paused, and instinctively

Diana lay still, reserving her strength for the final struggle.

"One hour, my little gazelle, one hour----" he said hoarsely, and bent

his face to hers.

With a cry Diana flung her head aside and strained away from him,

fighting with the strength of madness. She fought like a boy with a

swift thought of gratitude for Aubrey's training, and twisting and

writhing she managed to slip through his grasp until her feet rested on

the ground. But his grip on her never relaxed; he dragged her back to

him, resisting fiercely, ripping the thin shirt from her shoulders,

baring her white, heaving bosom. Gasping, she struggled, until, little

by little, his arms closed round her again. She braced her hands

against his chest, fending him from her till she felt the muscles in

her arms must crack, but the crushing force of his whole weight was

bearing her steadily backwards, and downwards on to the soft cushions

beside them. His hot breath was on her face, the sickening reek of his

clothes was in her nostrils. She felt her resistance growing weaker,

her heart was labouring, beating with wild bounds that suffocated her,

the strength was going from her arms, only a moment more and her force

would be exhausted. Her brain was growing numbed, as it had been when

the man who held her had murdered the woman before her eyes. If he

would only kill her now. Death would be easy compared with this. The

faint hope that still lingered was almost extinguished. Ahmed had not

come, and in her agony the thought of him was a further torture. The

sneering words of Ibraheim Omair had not shaken her faith. He would

come, but he would come too late. He would never know now that she

loved him. Oh, God! How she loved him! Ahmed! Ahmed! And with the

soundless cry the last remnant of her strength went all at once, and

she fell weakly against the chief. He forced her to her knees, and,

with his hand twined brutally in her curls, thrust her head back. There

was a mad light in his eyes and a foam on his lips as he dragged the

knife from his waistbelt and laid the keen edge against her throat. She

did not flinch, and after a moment he dropped it with a horrible laugh.