The Sheik

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.