The Sheik

A few days after he had taken her she had seen him chastise a servant.

She did not know what the man's fault had been, but the punishment

seemed out of all proportion to anything that could be imagined, and

she had watched fascinated with horror, until he had tossed away the

murderous whip, and without a second glance at the limp, blood-stained

heap that huddled on the ground with suggestive stillness had strolled

back unconcerned to the tent. The sight had sickened her and haunted

her perpetually. His callousness horrified her even more than his

cruelty. She hated him with all the strength of her proud, passionate

nature. His personal beauty even was an additional cause of offence.

She hated him the more for his handsome face and graceful, muscular

body. His only redeeming virtue in her eyes was his total lack of

vanity, which she grudgingly admitted. He was as unconscious of himself

as was the wild animal with which she compared him.

"He is like a tiger," she murmured deep into the cushions, with a

shiver, "a graceful, cruel, merciless beast." She remembered a tiger

she had shot the previous winter in India. After hours of weary,

cramped waiting in the machan the beautiful creature had slipped

noiselessly through the undergrowth and emerged into the clearing. He

had advanced midway towards the tree where she was perched and had

stopped to listen, and the long, free stride, the haughty poise of the

thrown-back head, the cruel curl of the lips and the glint in the

ferocious eyes flashing in the moonlight, were identical with the

expression and carriage of the man who was her master. Then it had been

admiration without fear, and she had hesitated at wantonly destroying

so perfect a thing, until the quick pressure of her shikari's fingers

on her arm brought her back to facts and reminded her that the "perfect

thing" was reported to have eaten a woman the previous week. And now it

was fear with a reluctant admiration that she despised herself for

according.

A hand on her shoulder made her start up with a cry. Usually her nerves

were in better control, but the thick rugs deadened every sound, and

she had not expected him so soon. He had been out since dawn and had

come in much past his usual time, and had been having a belated siesta

in the adjoining room.

Angry with herself she bit her lip and pushed the tumbled hair off her

forehead. He dropped on to the divan beside her and lit the inevitable

cigarette; he smoked continuously every moment he was not in the

saddle. She glanced at him covertly. He was lying with his head thrown

back against the cushions, idly blowing smoke-rings and watching them

drift towards the open door-way. And as she looked he yawned and turned

to her.