The Sheik

He looked across the divan at her, and the change that the last few

hours had made in her struck him painfully. The alert, vigorous

boyishness that had been so characteristic was gone. Her slim figure

drooping listlessly in the big chair, her white face with the new marks

of suffering on it, and her wide eyes burning with dumb misery, were

all purely womanly. And yet though he resented the change he wished it

could have gone further. The restraint she was putting on herself was

unnatural. She asked no questions and she shed no tears. He could have

borne them both easier than the silent anguish of her face. He feared

the results of the emotion she was repressing so rigidly.

There was a long silence.

Henri came in once and Diana roused herself to ask for Gaston, and then

relapsed into silent watchfulness again. She sighed once, a long

quivering sigh that nearly broke Saint Hubert's heart. He rose and bent

over the Sheik with his fingers on his wrist, and as he laid the

nerveless hand down again she leaned nearer and covered it with her

own.

"His hand is so big for an Arab's," she said softly, like a thought

spoken aloud unconsciously.

"He is not an Arab," replied Saint Hubert with sudden, impatient

vehemence. "He is English."

Diana looked up at him swiftly with utter bewilderment in her startled

eyes. "I don't understand," she faltered. "He hates the English."

"Quand-meme, he is the son of one of your English peers. His

mother was a Spanish lady; many of the old noble Spanish families have

Moorish blood in their veins, the characteristics crop up even after

centuries. It is so with Ahmed, and his life in the desert has

accentuated it. Has he never told you anything about himself?"

She shook her head. "Sometimes I have wondered----" she said

reflectively. "He seemed different from the others, and there has been

so much that I could never understand. But then again there were times

when he seemed pure Arab," she added in a lower voice and with an

involuntary shiver.

"You ought to know," said Saint Hubert. "Yes!" he went on firmly, as

she tried to interrupt him. "It is due to you. It will explain so many

things. I will take the responsibility. His father is the Earl of

Glencaryll."

"But I know him," said Diana wonderingly. "He was a friend of my

father. I saw him only a few months ago when Aubrey and I passed

through Paris. He is such a magnificent-looking old man, so fierce and

sad. Oh, now I know why that awful frown of Ahmed's has always seemed

so familiar. Lord Glencaryll frowns like that. It is the famous Caryll

scowl. But I still don't understand." She looked from Saint Hubert to

the unconscious man on the divan and back to Saint Hubert with a new

trouble growing in her eyes.