The Sheik

For a moment the two men looked into each other's eyes and the

knowledge of death leaped into Ibraheim Omair's. With the fatalism of

his creed he made no resistance, as, with a slow, terrible smile, the

Sheik's left hand reached out and fastened on his throat. It would be

quicker to shoot, but as Diana had suffered so should her torturer die.

All the savagery in his nature rose uppermost. Beside the pitiful,

gasping little figure on the rug at his feet there was the memory of

six mutilated bodies, his faithful followers, men of his own age who

had grown to manhood with him, picked men of his personal bodyguard who

had been intimately connected with him all his life, and who had served

him with devotion and unwavering obedience. They and others who had

from time to time fallen victims to Ibraheim Omair's hatred of his more

powerful enemy. The man who was responsible for their deaths was in his

power at last, the man whose existence was a menace and whose life was

an offence, of whose subtleties he had been trained from a boy to

beware by the elder Ahmed Ben Hassan, who had bequeathed to him the

tribal hatred of the race of whom Ibraheim Omair was head, and whose

dying words had been the wish that his successor might himself

exterminate the hereditary enemy. But far beyond the feelings inspired

by tribal hatred or the remembrance of the vow made five years ago

beside the old Sheik's deathbed, or even the death of his own

followers, was the desire to kill, with his bare hands, the man who had

tortured the woman he loved. The knowledge of her peril, that had

driven him headlong through the night to her aid, the sight of her

helpless, agonised, in the robber chief's hands, had filled him with a

madness that only the fierce joy of killing would cure. Before he could

listen to the clamouring of the new love in his heart, before he could

gather up into his arms the beloved little body that he was yearning

for, he had to destroy the man whose murders were countless and who had

at last fallen into his hands.

The smile on his face deepened and his fingers tightened slowly on

their hold. But with the strangling clasp of Ahmed Ben Hassan's hands

upon him the love of life waked again in Ibraheim Omair and he

struggled fiercely. Crouched on the floor Diana watched the two big

figures swaying in mortal combat with wide, fearful eyes, her hands

still holding her aching throat. Ibraheim Omair wrestled for his life,

conscious of his own strength, but conscious also of the greater

strength that was opposed to him. The Sheik let go the hold upon his

throat and with both arms locked about him manoeuvred to get the

position he required, back to the divan. Then, with a wrestler's trick,

he swept Ibraheim's feet from under him and sent his huge body

sprawling on to the cushions, his knee on his enemy's chest, his hands

on his throat. With all his weight crushing into the chief's breast,

with the terrible smile always on his lips, he choked him slowly to

death, till the dying man's body arched and writhed in his last agony,

till the blood burst from his nose and mouth, pouring over the hands

that held him like a vice.