The Sheik

And since the night that he had carried her back in triumph he had been

kind to her--kind beyond anything that she had expected. He had never

made any reference to her fight or to the death of the horse that he

had valued so highly; in that he had been generous. The episode over,

he wished no further allusion to it. But there was nothing beyond

kindness. The passion that smouldered in his dark eyes often was not

the love she craved, it was only the desire that her uncommon type and

her utter dissimilarity from all the other women who had passed through

his hands had awakened in him. The perpetual remembrance of those other

woman brought her a constant burning shame that grew stronger every

day, a shame that was only less strong than her ardent love, and a wild

jealousy that tortured her with doubts and fears, an ever-present demon

of suggestion reminding her of the past when it was not she who lay in

his arms, nor her lips that received his kisses. The knowledge that the

embraces she panted for had been shared by les autres was an

open wound that would not heal. She tried to shut her mind to the past.

She knew that she was a fool to expect the abstinence of a monk in the

strong, virile desert man.

And she was afraid for the future. She

wanted him for herself alone, wanted his undivided love, and that he

was an Arab with Oriental instincts filled her with continual dread,

dread of the real future about which she never dared to think, dread of

the passing of his transient desire. She loved him so passionately, so

completely, that beyond him was nothing. He was all the world. She gave

herself to him gladly, triumphantly, as she would give her life for him

if need be. But she had schooled herself to hide her love, to yield

apathetically to his caresses, and to conceal the longing that

possessed her. She was afraid that the knowledge that she loved him

would bring about the disaster she dreaded. The words that he had once

used remained continually in her mind: "If you loved me you would bore

me, and I should have to let you go." And she hid her love closely in

her heart. It was difficult, and it hurt her to hide it from him and to

assume indifference. It was difficult to remember that she must make a

show of reluctance when she was longing to give unreservedly. She

dropped the end of the cigarette hissing into the dregs of the coffee

and turned a page, and, as she did so, she looked up suddenly, the

magazine dropping unheeded on the floor. Close outside the tent the

same low, vibrating baritone was singing the Kashmiri love song that

she had heard last the night before she left Biskra. She sat tense, her

eyes growing puzzled.