The Sheik

She wrestled with herself. The weakness that she had given way to must

be conquered. She knew that, without any possibility of doubt, his

coming would seal her fate--whatever it was to be. She must wait until

then. A long, shuddering sigh ran through her. "Ahmed! Ahmed Ben

Hassan," she murmured slowly, lingering with wistful tenderness on the

words. She pressed her face closer into the cushions, clasping her

hands over her head, and for a long time lay very still. The heat was

intense and every moment the tent seemed to grow more airless. The room

was stifling, and, with a little groan, Diana sat up, pushing the heavy

hair oft her damp forehead, and covered her flushed face with her

hands.

A cicada began its shrill note close by, chirping with maddening

persistency. Quite suddenly her mind was filled with thoughts of her

own people, the old home in England, the family for whose honour her

ancestors had been so proudly jealous. Even Aubrey, lazy and

self-indulgent as he was, prized the family honour as he prized nothing

else on earth; and now she, proud Diana Mayo, who had the history of

her race at her fingers' ends, who had gloried in the long line of

upright men and chaste women, had no thankfulness in her heart that in

her degradation she had been spared a crowning shame. Beside her love

everything dwindled into nothingness. He was her life, he filled her

horizon. Honour itself was lost in the absorbing passion of her love.

He had stripped it from her and she was content that it should lie at

his feet. He had made her nothing, she was his toy, his plaything,

waiting to be thrown aside. She shuddered again and looked around the

tent that she had shared with him with a bitter smile and sad, hunted

eyes.... After her--who? The cruel thought persisted. She was torn with

a mad, primitive jealousy, a longing to kill the unknown woman who

would inevitably succeed her, a desire that grew until a horror of her

own feelings seized her, and she shrank down, clasping her hands over

her ears to shut out the insidious voice that seemed actually

whispering beside her. The Persian hound in the next room had whined

uneasily from time to time, and now he pushed his way past the curtain

and stalked across the thick rugs. He nuzzled his shaggy head against

her knee, whimpering unhappily, looking up into her face. And when she

noticed him he reared up and flung his long body across her lap,

thrusting his wet nose into her face. She caught his head in her hands

and rubbed her cheek against his rough hair, crooning over him softly.

Even the dog was comfort in her loneliness, and they both waited for

their master.