The Sheik

She gave in suddenly, lying quiet in his arms. She had touched the

lowest depths of degradation; he could do nothing more to her than he

had done. For the moment she could fight no further, she was worn out

and utterly weary. A numb feeling of despair came over her and with it

a sense of unreality, as if it were a hideous nightmare from which she

would wake, for the truth seemed too impossible, the setting too

theatrical. The man himself was a mystery. She could not reconcile him

and the barbaric display in which he lived with the evidences of

refinement and education that the well-worn books in the tent evinced.

The fastidious ordering of his appointments puzzled her; it was strange

to find in such a place. A dozen incongruities that she had noticed

during the day crowded into her recollection until her head reeled. She

turned from them wearily; she was too tired to think, too spent in mind

and body. And with the despair a kind of indifference stole over her.

She had suffered so much that nothing more mattered.

The strong arms around her tightened slowly. "Look at me," he said in

the soft slow voice that seemed habitual to him, and which contrasted

oddly with the neat, clipping French that he spoke. She shivered and

her dark lashes flickered for a moment. "Look at me." His voice was

just as slow, just as soft, but into it had crept an inflection that

was unmistakable.

Twenty-four hours ago Diana Mayo had not known the meaning of the word

fear, and had never in all her life obeyed any one against her

inclination, but in twenty-four hours she had lived through years of

emotions. For the first time she had pitted her will against a will

that was stronger than her own, for the first time she had met an

arrogance that was greater and a determination that was firmer than

hers. For the first time she had met a man who had failed to bow to her

wishes, whom a look had been powerless to transform into a willing

slave. In a few hours that had elapsed she had learned fear, a terrible

fear that left her sick with apprehension, and she was learning

obedience. Obedient now, she forced herself to lift her eyes to his,

and the shamed blood surged slowly into her cheeks. His dark,

passionate eyes burnt into her like a hot flame. His encircling arms

were like bands of fire, scorching her. His touch was torture.

Helpless, like a trapped wild thing, she lay against him, panting,

trembling, her wide eyes fixed on him, held against their will.

Fascinated she could not turn them away, and the image of the brown,

handsome face with its flashing eyes, straight, cruel mouth and strong

chin seemed searing into her brain. The faint indefinite scent of an

uncommon Turkish tobacco clung about him, enveloping her. She had been

conscious of the same scent the previous day when he had held her in

his arms during the wild ride across the desert.