The Sheik

And when he did turn to her again the joy she would feel in his embrace

would be an agony for the love that was not there. His careless kisses

would scorch her and the strength of his arms would be a mockery. But

would he ever turn to her again? If anything happened to Gaston--if

what he had suggested became a fact and the servant fell a victim to

the blood feud between the two tribes? She knew he would be terribly

avenged, and what would her part be? She wondered dully if he would

kill her, and how. If the long, brown fingers with their steely

strength would choke the life out of her. Her hands went up to her

throat mechanically. He stopped near her to light a fresh cigarette,

and she was trying to summon up courage to speak to him of Gaston when

the covering of the doorway was flung open and Gaston himself stood in

the entrance.

"Monseigneur--" he stammered, and with his two hands outstretched, palm

uppermost, he made an appealing gesture.

The Sheik's hand shot out and gripped the man's shoulder. "Gaston!

Enfin, mon ami!" he said slowly, but there was a ring in his low

voice that Diana had never heard before.

For a moment the two men stared at each other, and then Ahmed Ben

Hassan gave a little laugh of great relief. "Praise be to Allah, the

Merciful, the Compassionate," he murmured.

"To his name praise!" rejoined Gaston softly, then his eyes roved

around the tent towards Diana, and there was no resentment in them, but

only anxiety.

"Madame is----" he hesitated, but the Sheik cut him short.

"Madame is quite safe," he said dryly, and pushed him gently towards

the door with a few words in rapid Arabic. He stood some time after

Gaston had gone to his own quarters looking out into the night, and

when he came in, lingered unusually over closing the flap. Diana stood

hesitating. She was worn out and her long riding-boots felt like lead.

She was afraid to go and afraid to stay. He seemed purposely ignoring

her. The relief of Gaston's return was enormous, but she had still to

reckon with him for her attempted flight. That he said no word about it

at the moment meant nothing; she knew him too well for that. And there

was Silver Star, the finest of all his magnificent horses--she had yet

to pay for his death. The strain that she had gone through since the

morning was tremendous, she could not bear much more. His silence

aggravated her breaking nerves until she felt that her nerves would go.

He had moved over to the writing-table and was tearing the wrapping off

a box of cartridges preparatory to refilling the magazine of his

revolver. The little operation seemed to take centuries. She started at

each separate click. She gripped her hands and passed her tongue over

her dry lips. If he would not speak she must, she could endure it no

longer.