The Sheik

From the shelter of the tent she watched the troop arrive at the open

space before her. The horse the Sheik was riding was jet black, and

Diana looked from the beautiful creature's satiny coat to the man's

white robes with angry contempt.

"Black and white! Black and white! Mountebank!" she muttered through

her clenched teeth. Then as he swung to the ground every thought fell

from her but the terror he inspired. She waited, breathless, the swift

racing of her heart an actual physical pain.

He lingered, fondling the great black horse, and even after it had been

led away he stood looking after it, talking to a tall young Arab who

had ridden in with him. At last he turned and came leisurely towards

the tent. He paused at the door to speak to the Frenchman, a

picturesque, barbaric figure, with flowing robes and great white cloak,

the profile of his lean face clean cut against the evening sky, the

haughty poise of his head emphasised by the attitude in which he was

standing, arrogant, dominating. He moved his hands when he spoke with

quick, expressive gestures, but his voice was slow and soft, pitched in

a deep musical key, but with all its softness unmistakably

authoritative. He pointed with outstretched, steady hand to something

beyond her line of vision, and as he turned to enter the tent he

laughed softly, and she shivered involuntarily. Then he swept in, and

she drew back from him with lowered eyes. She would not look at him;

she would not meet his look. His presence was an offence, she was

scorched with shame. Every fibre of her being cried out in protest at

his proximity. She wished with passionate fierceness that she could

die. She shook feverishly and caught her quivering lip between her

teeth to keep it still, and the red-gold curls lay wet against her

forehead. Her breast heaved stormily with the rapid beating of her

heart, but she held herself proudly erect. He crossed the tent with a

long noiseless stride.

"I hope that Gaston took care of you properly and gave you everything

that you wanted?" he said easily, stooping to a little table to light a

cigarette. The coolness of his words and manner were like a dash of

cold water. She had been prepared for anything but this calm

nonchalance in a situation that was intolerable. His tone conveyed the

perfunctory regret of a host for an unavoidable absence. Her fear gave

way to rage, her body stiffened, her hands clenched.

"Is it not time that this ended? Haven't you done enough?" she burst

out passionately. "Why have you committed this outrage?"