The Sheik

Slowly she lifted the weapon clear of the table with steady fingers and

brought her hand stealthily from behind her. She looked at it for a

moment dispassionately. She was not afraid. She was conscious only of

an overwhelming weariness, a longing for rest that should still the

gnawing pain in her breast and the throbbing in her head.... A flash

and it would be over, and all her sorrow would melt away.... But would

it? A doubting fear of the hereafter rushed over her. What if suffering

lived beyond the border-line? But the fear went as suddenly as it had

come, for with it came remembrance that in that shadowy world she would

find one who would understand--her own father, who had shot himself,

mad with heartbroken despair, when her mother died in giving her birth.

She lifted the revolver to her temple resolutely.

There had been no sound to betray what was passing behind him, but the

extra sense, the consciousness of imminent danger that was strong in

the desert-bred man, sprang into active force within the Sheik. He

turned like a flash and leaped across the space that separated them,

catching her hand as she pressed the trigger, and the bullet sped

harmlessly an inch above her head. With his face gone suddenly ghastly

he wrenched the weapon from her and flung it far into the night.

For a moment they stared into each other's eyes in silence, then, with

a moan, she slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet in an agony of

terrible weeping. With a low exclamation he stooped and swept her up

into his arms, holding her slender, shaking figure with tender

strength, pressing her head against him, his cheek on her red-gold

curls.

"My God! child, don't cry so. I can bear anything but that," he cried

brokenly.

But the terrible sobs went on, and fearfully he caught her closer,

straining her to him convulsively, raining kisses on her shining hair.

"Diane, Diane," he whispered imploringly, falling back into the

soft French that seemed so much more natural. "Mon amour, ma

bien-aimee. Ne pleures pas, je t'en prie. Je t'aime, je t'adore. Tu

resteras pres de moi, tout a moi."

She seemed only half-conscious, unable to check the emotion that,

unloosed, overwhelmed her. She lay inert against him, racked with the

long shuddering sobs that shook her. His firm mouth quivered as he

looked down at his work. Gathering her up to his heart he carried her

to the divan, and the weight of her soft slim body sent the blood

racing madly through his veins. He laid her down, and dropped on his

knees beside her, his arm wrapped round her, whispering words of

passionate love.