The Sheik

The warm sunshine was flooding the tent when Diana awoke from the deep

sleep of exhaustion that had been almost insensibility, awoke to

immediate and complete remembrance. One quick, fearful glance around

the big room assured her that she was alone. She sat up slowly, her

eyes shadowy with pain, looking listlessly at the luxurious

appointments of the tent. She looked dry-eyed, she had no tears left.

They had all been expended when she had grovelled at his feet imploring

the mercy he had not accorded her. She had fought until the unequal

struggle had left her exhausted and helpless in his arms, until her

whole body was one agonised ache from the brutal hands that forced her

to compliance, until her courageous spirit was crushed by the

realisation of her own powerlessness, and by the strange fear that the

man himself had awakened in her, which had driven her at last moaning

to her knees. And the recollection of her abject prayers and weeping

supplications filled her with a burning shame. She loathed herself with

bitter contempt. Her courage had broken down; even her pride had failed

her.

She wound her arms about her knees and hid her face against them.

"Coward! Coward!" she whispered fiercely. Why had she not scorned him?

Or why had she not suffered all that he had done to her in silence? It

would have pleased him less than the frenzied entreaties that had only

provoked the soft laugh that made her shiver each time she heard it.

She shivered now. "I thought I was brave," she murmured brokenly. "I am

only a coward, a craven."

She lifted her head at last and looked around her. The room was a

curious mixture of Oriental luxury and European comfort. The lavish

sumptuousness of the furnishings suggested subtly an unrestrained

indulgence, the whole atmosphere was voluptuous, and Diana shrank from

the impression it conveyed without exactly understanding the reason.

There was nothing that jarred artistically, the rich hangings all

harmonised, there were no glaring incongruities such as she had seen in

native palaces in India. And everything on which her eyes rested drove

home relentlessly the hideous fact of her position. His things were

everywhere. On a low, brass-topped table by the bed was the half-smoked

cigarette he had had between his lips when he came to her. The pillow

beside her still bore the impress of his head. She looked at it with a

growing horror in her eyes until an uncontrollable shuddering seized

her and she cowered down, smothering the cry that burst from her in the

soft pillows and dragging the silken coverings up around her as if

their thin shelter were a protection. She lived again through every

moment of the past night until thought was unendurable, until she felt

that she would go mad, until at last, worn out, she fell asleep.