The Sheik

He dropped her hands and turned abruptly, going back to the doorway,

looking out into the darkness. "It is very late. We must start early.

Go and lie down," he said gently, but it was an order in spite of the

gentleness of his voice.

She shrank back trembling, with piteous, stricken face and eyes filled

with a great despair. She knew him and she knew it was the end. Nothing

would break his resolution. She looked at him with quivering lips

through a mist of tears, looked at him with a desperate fixedness that

sought to memorise indelibly his beloved image in her heart. The dear

head so proudly poised on the broad shoulders, the long strong limbs,

the slender, graceful body. He was all good to look upon. A man of men.

Monseigneur! Monseigneur! Mon maitre et seigneur. No! It would

never be that any more. A rush of tears blinded her and she stepped

back uncertainly and stumbled against the little writing-table. She

caught at it behind her to steady herself, and her fingers touched the

revolver he had laid down. The contact of the cold metal sent a chill

that seemed to strike her heart. She stood rigid, with startled eyes

fixed on the motionless figure in the doorway--one hand gripping the

weapon tightly and the other clutching the silken wrap across her

breast. Her mind raced forward feverishly, there were only a few hours

left before the morning, before the bitter moment when she must leave

behind her for ever the surroundings that had become so dear, that had

been her home as the old castle in England had never been. She thought

of the long journey northward, the agonised protraction of her misery

riding beside him, the nightly camps when she would lie alone in the

little travelling tent, and then the final parting at the wayside

station, when she would have to watch him wheel at the head of his men

and ride out of her life, and she would strain her eyes through the

dust and sand to catch the last glimpse of the upright figure on the

spirited black horse. It would be The Hawk, she thought suddenly. He

had ridden Shaitan to-day, and he always used one or other of the two

for long journeys. It was The Hawk he had ridden the day she had made

her bid for freedom and who had carried the double burden on the return

journey when she had found her happiness. The contrast between that

ride, when she had lain content in the curve of his strong arm, and the

ride that she would take the next day was poignant. She closed her

teeth on her trembling lip, her fingers tightened on the stock of the

revolver, and a wild light came into her sad eyes. She could never go

through with it. To what end would be the hideous torture? What was

life without him?--Nothing and less than nothing. She could never give

herself to another man. She was necessary to no one. Aubrey had no real

need of her; his selfishness wrapped him around with a complacency that

abundantly satisfied him. One day, for the sake of the family he would

marry--perhaps was already married if he had been able to find a woman

in America who would accept his egoism along with his old name and

possessions. Her life was her own to deal with. Nobody would be injured

by its termination. Aubrey, indeed, would benefit considerably. And

he----? His figure was blurred through the tears that filled her eyes.