The Sheik

He carried her into the bedroom, hesitating beside the couch before he

put her down. Surely one moment out of a lifetime might be granted to

him. He would never have the torturing happiness of holding her in his

arms again, would never again clasp her against the heart that was

crying out for her with the same mad passion that had swept over him

yesterday. He looked down longingly on the pale face lying against his

arm, and his features contracted at the sight of the cruel marks

marring the whiteness of her delicate throat. The love that all his

life he had longed for, that he had sought vainly through many

countries, had come to him at last, and it had come too late. The

helpless loveliness lying in his arms was not for him. It was Ahmed

whom she loved, Ahmed who had waked to such a tardy recognition of the

priceless gift that she had given him, Ahmed whom he must wrest from

the grim spectre that was hovering near him lest the light that shone

in her violet eyes should go out in the blackness of despair. And yet

as he looked at her with eyes filled with hopeless misery a demon of

suggestion whispered within him, tempting him. He knew his friend as no

one else did.

What chance of happiness had any woman with a man like

Ahmed Ben Hassan, at the mercy of his savage nature and passionate

changeable moods? What reason to suppose that the love that had flamed

up so suddenly at the thought that he had lost her would survive the

knowledge of repossession? To him, all his life, a thing desired had

upon possession become valueless. With the fulfilment of acquisition

had come always disinterest. The pleasure of pursuit faded with

ownership. Would this hapless girl who had poured out such a wealth of

love at the feet of the man who had treated her brutally fare any

better at his hands? Her chance was slight, if any. Ahmed in the full

power of his strength again would be the man he had always been,

implacable, cruel, merciless. Saint Hubert's own longing, his

passionate, Gallic temperament, were driving him as they had driven him

the day before. The longing to save her from misery was acute, that,

and his own love, prompted by the urging of the desire within him. Then

he trembled, and a great fear of himself came over him. Ahmed was his

friend. Who was he that he should judge him? He could at least be

honest with himself, he could own the truth. He coveted what was not

his, and masked his envy with a hypocrisy that now appeared

contemptible. The clasp of his arms around her seemed suddenly a

profanation, and he laid her down very gently on the low couch, drawing

the thin coverlet over her, and went back slowly to the other room.