She laid her face on her knees with a shudder. The
ordeal before her cut like a knife into her heart. The pride that Ahmed
Ben Hassan had not yet killed flamed up and racked her with humiliation
and shame, the shame that still seared her soul like a hot iron, so
that there were moments she could not bear even the presence of the man
who had made her what she was, in spite of the love she bore him, and,
pleading fever, prayed to be alone. Not that he ever granted her
prayer, for he knew fever when he saw it, but would pull her down
beside him with a mocking laugh that still had the power to hurt so
much. The thought of what it would be to her to meet his friend had
presumably never entered his mind, or if it had it had made no
impression and been dismissed as negligible. It was the point of view,
she supposed drearily; the standpoint from which he looked at things
was fundamentally different from her own--racially and temperamentally
they were poles apart. To him she was only the woman held in bondage, a
thing of no account. She sat very still for a while with her face
hidden, until a discreet cough from Gaston warned her that time was
flying. She went back to the horses slowly with white face and
compressed lips. There was the usual trouble in mounting, and her
strained nerves made her impatient of The Dancer's idiosyncrasies, and
she checked him sharply, making him rear dangerously.
"Careful, Madame," cried Gaston warningly.
"For whom--me or Monseigneur's horse?" she retorted bitterly, and
ignoring her hat, which Gaston held out to her with reproachful eyes,
she spurred the horse viciously, making him break into a headlong
gallop. It had got to be gone through, so get it over as soon as
possible. And behind her, Gaston, for the first time in all his long
service, cursed the master he would cheerfully have died for.
The horse's nerves, like her own, were on edge, and he pulled badly,
his smooth satiny neck growing dark and seamed with sweat; Diana needed
all her knowledge to control him, and she began to wonder if when they
came to the camp she would be able to stop him. She topped an
undulation that was some little distance from the tents with
misgivings, and wrapped the reins round her hands to prevent them
slipping through her fingers. As they neared she saw the Sheik standing
outside his tent, with a tall, thin man beside him. She had only a
glimpse of dark, unruly hair and a close-cut beard as she shot past,
unable to pull up The Dancer. But just beyond the tent, with the reins
cutting into her hands, she managed to haul him round and bring him
back. A couple of grooms jumped to his head, but, owing to his peculiar
tactics, landed short, and he pranced to his own satisfaction and
Diana's rage, until the amusement of it passed and he let himself be
caught. Diana had done nothing to stop him once she had managed to turn
him. If the horse chose to behave like a fool she was not going to be
made to look foolish by fighting him when she knew that it was useless.
In the hands of the men he sidled and snorted, and, dropping the reins,
Diana pulled off her gloves and sat for a moment rubbing her sore
hands. Then the Sheik came forward and she slid down. Before looking at
him she turned and, catching at The Dancer's head, struck him angrily
over the nose with her thick riding-gloves and watched him led away,
plunging and protesting, pulling the gloves through her fingers
nervously, until Ahmed Ben Hassan's voice made her turn.