The Sheik

Diana was shaking all over and her hands were clenching and unclenching

as she stared at the man, who seemed a part of the horse he was sitting

so closely. Would it never end? She did not care now which killed the

other so that it would only stop. The man's endurance seemed mere

bravado. She clutched Gaston's arms with a hand that was wringing wet.

"It is horrible," she gasped with an accent of loathing.

"It is necessary," he replied quietly.

"Nothing can justify that," she cried passionately.

"Your pardon, Madame. He must learn. He killed a man this morning,

threw him, and what you call in English 'savaged' him."

Diana hid her face in her hands. "I can't bear it," she said pitifully.

A few minutes later Gaston clicked his tongue against his teeth. "See,

Madame. It is over," he said gently.

She looked up fearfully. The Sheik was standing on the ground beside

the colt, who was swaying slowly from side to side with heaving sides

and head held low to the earth, dripping blood and foam. And as she

looked he tottered and collapsed exhausted. There was a rush from all

sides, and Gaston went towards his master, who towered above the crowd

around him.

Diana turned away with an exclamation of disgust. It was enough to have

seen a display of such brutality; it was too much to stand by while his

fellow-savages acclaimed him for his cruelty.

She went slowly back into the tent, shaken with what she had seen, and

stood in undecided hesitation beside the divan. The helpless feeling

that she so often experienced swept over her with renewed force. There

was nowhere that she could get away from him, no privacy, no respite.

Day and night she must endure his presence with no hope of escape. She

closed her eyes in a sudden agony, and then stiffened at the sound of

his voice outside.

He came in laughing, a cigarette dangling from one blood-stained hand,

while with the other he wiped the perspiration from his forehead,

leaving a dull red smear. She shrank from him, looking at him with

blazing eyes. "You are a brute, a beast, a devil! I hate you!" she

choked furiously.

For a moment an ugly look crossed his face, and then he laughed again.

"Hate me by all means, ma belle, but let your hatred be

thorough. I detest mediocrity," he said lightly, as he passed on into

the other room.

She sank down on to the couch. She had never felt so desperate, so

powerless. She stared straight before her, shivering, as she went over

the scene she had just witnessed, her fingers picking nervously at the

jade-green silk of her dress. She longed for some power that would

deaden her feelings and blunt her capacity for suffering. She looked at

Gaston with hard eyes when he came in. He had approved of what the

Sheik had done, would have done it himself if he had been able. They

were all alike.