The Sheik

Diana was sitting on the divan in the living-room of the tent lingering

over her petit dejeuner, a cup of coffee poised in one hand and

her bright head bent over a magazine on her knee. It was a French

periodical of fairly recent date, left a few days before by a Dutchman

who was touring through the desert, and who had asked a night's

hospitality. Diana had not seen him, and it was not until the traveller

had been served with dinner in his own tent that the Sheik had sent the

usual flowery message conveying what, though wrapped in honeyed words,

amounted practically to a command that he should come to drink coffee

and let himself be seen.

Only native servants had been in attendance,

and it was an Arab untinged by any Western influence who had received

him, talking only Arabic, which the Dutchman spoke fluently, and

placing at his disposal himself, his servants and all his belongings

with the perfunctory Oriental insincerity which the traveller knew

meant nothing and accepted at its own value, returning to the usual set

phrases the customary answers that were expected of him. Once or twice

as they talked a woman's subdued voice had reached the Dutchman's ears

from behind the thick curtains, but he knew too much to let any

expression betray him, and he smiled grimly to himself at the thought

of the change that an indiscreet question would bring to the stern face

of his grave and impassive host. He was an elderly man with a tender

heart, and he wondered speculatively what the girl in the next room

would have to pay for her own indiscretion in allowing her voice to be

heard. He left the next morning early without seeing the Sheik again,

escorted for some little distance by Yusef and a few men.

Diana read eagerly. Anything fresh to read was precious. She looked

like a slender boy in the soft riding-shirt and smart-cut breeches, one

slim foot in a long brown boot drawn up under her, and the other

swinging idly against the side of the divan. She finished her coffee

hastily, and, lighting a cigarette, leaned back with a sigh of content

over the magazine.

Two months had slipped away since her mad flight, since her dash for

freedom that had ended in tragedy for the beautiful Silver Star and so

unexpectedly for herself. Weeks of vivid happiness that had been mixed

with poignant suffering, for the perfect joy of being with him was

marred by the passionate longing for his love. Even her surroundings

had taken on a new aspect, her happiness coloured everything. The

Eastern luxury of the tent and its appointments no longer seemed

theatrical, but the natural setting of the magnificent specimen of

manhood who surrounded himself by all the display dear to the heart of

the native. How much was for his own pleasure and how much was for the

sake of his followers she had never been able to determine. The

beauties and attractions of the desert had multiplied a hundred times.

The wild tribesmen, with their primitive ways and savagery, had ceased

to disgust her, and the free life with its constant exercise and simple

routine was becoming indefinitely dear to her. The camp had been moved

several times--always towards the south--and each change had been a

source of greater interest.