CHAPTER VIII
Slowly and painfully, through waves of deadly nausea and with thesurging of deep waters in her ears, Diana struggled back toconsciousness. The agony in her head was excruciating, and her limbsfelt cramped and bruised. Recollection was dulled in bodily pain, and,at first, thought was merged in physical suffering. But gradually thefog cleared from her brain and memory supervened hesitatingly. Sheremembered fragmentary incidents of what had gone before the oblivionfrom which she had just emerged. Gaston, and the horror and resolutionin his eyes, the convulsive working of his mouth as he faced her at thelast moment. Her own dread--not of the death that was imminent, butlest the mercy it offered should be snatched from her. Then before thevalet could effect his supreme devotion had come the hail of bullets,and he had fallen against her, the blood that poured from his woundssaturating her linen coat, and rolled over across her feet. Sheremembered vaguely the wild figures hemming her in, but nothing more.
Her eyes were still shut; a leaden weight seemed fixed on them, and theeffort to open them was beyond her strength. "Gaston," she whisperedfeebly, and stretched out her hand. But instead of his body or the dryhot sand her fingers had expected to encounter they closed over softcushions, and with the shock she sat up with a jerk, her eyes staringwide, but, sick and faint, she fell back again, her arm flung acrossher face, shielding the light that pierced like daggers through herthrobbing eye-balls. For a while she lay still, fighting against theweakness that overpowered her, and by degrees the horrible nauseapassed and the agony in her head abated, leaving only a dull ache. Thedesire to know where she was and what had happened made her forget herbruised body. She moved her arm slightly from before her eyes so thatshe could see, and looked cautiously from under thick lashes, screenedby the sleeve of her coat. She was lying on a pile of cushions in onecorner of a small-tented apartment which was otherwise bare, except forthe rug that covered the floor. In the opposite corner of the tent anArab woman crouched over a little brazier, and the smell of nativecoffee was heavy in the air. She closed her eyes again with a shudder.The attempted devotion of Gaston had been useless. This must be thecamp of the robber Sheik, Ibraheim Omair.
She lay still, pressing closely down amongst the cushions, andclenching the sleeve of her jacket between her teeth to stifle thegroan that rose to her lips. A lump came into her throat as she thoughtof Gaston. In those last moments all inequality of rank had been sweptaway in their common peril--they had been only a white man and a whitewoman together in their extremity. She remembered how, when she hadpressed close to him, his hand had sought and gripped hers, conveyingcourage and sympathy. All that he could do he had done, he had shieldedher body with his own, it must have been over his lifeless body thatthey had taken her. He had proved his faithfulness, sacrificing hislife for his master's play-thing. Gaston was in all probability dead,but she was alive, and she must husband her strength for her own needs.She forced the threatening emotion down, and, with an effort,controlled the violent shivering in her limbs, and sat up slowly,looking at the Arab woman, who, hearing her move, turned to gaze ather. Instantly Diana realised that there was no help or compassion tobe expected from her. She was a handsome woman, who must have beenpretty as a girl, but there was no sign of softness in her sullen faceand vindictive eyes. Instinctively Diana felt that the glowing menaceof the woman's expression was inspired by personal hatred, and that herpresence in the lent was objectionable to her. And the feeling gave anecessary spur to the courage that was fast coming back to her. Shestared with all the haughtiness she could summon to her aid; she hadlearned her own power among the natives of India the previous year, andhere in the desert there was only one Arab whose eyes did not fallbeneath hers, and presently with a muttered word the woman turned backto her coffee-making.
Diana's muscles relaxed and she sat back easily on the cushions, thelittle passage of wills had restored her confidence in herself. Shemoved her hand and it brushed against her jacket, coming away stainedand sticky, and she noticed for the first time that all one side andsleeve were soaked with blood. She ripped it off with a shudder andflung it from her, rubbing the red smear from her hands with a kind ofhorror.
The little tent was intensely hot, and there was a close, pungent smellthat was eminently _native_ that she never experienced in the coolairiness and scrupulous cleanliness of Ahmed Ben Hassan's tents. Hersensitive lip curled with disgust, all her innate fastidiousness inrevolt. The heat aggravated a burning thirst that was parching herthroat. She got up on to her feet slowly, and with infinite caution, toprevent any jar that might start again the throbbing in her head; butthe effects of the blow were wearing off, and, though her headcontinued to ache, it did no more than that, and the sick, giddyfeeling had gone completely. She crossed the tent to the side of theArab woman.
"Give me some water," she said in French, but the woman shook her headwithout looking up. Diana repeated the request in Arabic, one of thefew sentences she knew without stumbling. This time the woman rose uphastily and held out a cup of the coffee she had been making.
Diana hated the sweet, thick stuff, but it would do until she could getthe water she wanted, and she put out her hand to take the little cup.But her eyes met the other's fixed on her, and something in theirmalignant stare made her pause. A sudden suspicion shot through hermind. The coffee was drugged. What beyond the woman's expression madeher think so she did not know, but she was sure of it. She put the cupaside impatiently.
"No. Not coffee. Water," she said firmly.
Before she realised what was happening the woman thrust a strong armround her and forced the cup to her lips. That confirmed Diana'ssuspicions and rage lent her additional strength. The woman was strong,but Diana was stronger, younger and more active. She dashed the cup tothe floor, spilling its contents, and, with an effort, tore theclinging hands from her and sent the woman crashing on to the ground,rolling against the brazier, oversetting it, and scattering brass potsand cups over the rug. The woman scrambled to her knees and beat outthe glowing embers, uttering scream after scream in a shrill, piercingvoice. And, in answer to her cries, a curtain at the side of the tent,that Diana had not noticed, slid aside and a gigantic Nubian came in.With outstretched hand shaking with rage, pointing at Diana, she burstinto voluble abuse, punctuating every few words with the shrieks thathad brought the negro.
Diana could understand nothing of what she said, but her expressivegestures told the story of the struggle plainly enough. The Nubianlistened with white teeth flashing in a broad grin, and shook his headin response to some request urged with denunciatory fist. He picked upthe last remaining embers that had scattered on the rug, rubbing thesmouldering patches till they were extinguished, and then turned toleave the room. But Diana called him back. She went a step forward, herhead high, and looked him straight in the face.
"Fetch me water!" she said imperiously. He pointed to the coffee thatthe woman had recommenced to make, her back turned to them, but Dianastamped her foot. "Water! Bring me water!" she said again, moreimperiously than before. With a wider grin the negro made a gesture ofacquiescence and went out, returning in a few moments with awater-skin.
The thought of its condition made her hesitate for a moment, but onlyfor a moment. Her thirst was too great to allow niceties to interferewith it. She picked up one of the clean coffee-cups that had rolled toher feet, rinsed it several times, and then drank. The water was warmand slightly brackish, but she needed it too much to mind. In spite ofbeing tepid it relieved the dry, suffocating feeling in her throat andrefreshed her. The Nubian went away again, leaving the woman stillcrouching over the brazier.
Diana walked back to the cushions and dropped down on to them gladly.The events of the last few moments had tried her more than sherealised, her legs were shaking under her, and she was thankful to sitdown. But her courage had risen with a bound; the fact that she wasphysically stronger than the woman who had been put to guard her, andalso that she had gained her point with the burly negro, had a greatmoral effect on her, fur
ther restoring her confidence in herself.
Her position was an appalling one, but hope was strong within her. Thefact that since she had regained consciousness she had seen only thewoman and the Nubian seemed to argue that Ibraheim Omair must be absentfrom his camp; the thought that he might purposely be delaying themoment of inspecting his captive with a view to prolonging her mentaltorture she put from her as improbable. She did not credit him with somuch acumen. And from his absence her courage gained strength. If itcould only be prolonged until Ahmed reached her. That the Sheik wouldcome she knew, her faith in him was unbounded. If he only came in time!Hours had passed since the ambuscade had surprised them. It had beenearly afternoon then. Now the lighted lamp told her it was night. Howlate she did not know. Her watch had been broken some months before,and she had no means of even guessing the hour, but it must be well onin the evening. By now the absence of herself and Gaston and theirescort would be discovered. He would know her peril and he would cometo her. Of that she had no doubt. Although he had changed so strangelyin the last few days, though the wonderful gentleness of the last twomonths had merged again into indifference and cruelty, still she neverdoubted. Even if desire had passed and indifference had become so greatthat she was no longer necessary to him, still the Oriental jealousywith which he was so deeply imbued would never allow him to let herpass so lightly from his keeping. He might discard her at his ownpleasure, but no one would take her from him with impunity. Her woman'sintuition had sensed the jealousy that had actuated him during theunhappy days since Saint Hubert had come. An inconsistent jealousy thathad been unprovoked and unjustified, but for which she had suffered.She had known last night, when she winced under his sarcastic tongue,and later, when Saint Hubert had left them and his temper had suddenlyboiled over, that she was paying for the unaccustomed strain that hewas putting on his own feelings. His curses had eaten into her heart,and she had fled from him to stifle the coward instinct that urged herto confess her love and beg his mercy. She had lain awake withshivering apprehension waiting for him, but when, after nearly twohours, he had sauntered in, the usual cigarette between his lips,indifference had taken the place of rage, and he had ignored her, asshe had grown used to being ignored. And long after she knew from hiseven breathing that he was asleep she had lain wide-eyed beside him,grasping at what happiness she could, living for the moment as she hadschooled herself to live, trying to be content with just the fact ofhis nearness. And the indifference of the night had been maintainedwhen he had left her at dawn, his persistent silence pointing thecontinuance of his displeasure. But he would come, if for no otherreason than the same jealousy which held him in its inexorable grip. Hewould come! He would come! She whispered it over to herself as ifmerely the sound of the words gave her courage. He would not letanything happen to her. Every moment that Ibraheim Omair stayed awaywas so much gained, every moment he would be coming nearer. Thereversal of the role he played in her life brought a quivering smile toher lips. For the advent of the man who a few weeks before she hadloathed for his brutal abduction of herself she now prayed with thedesperation of despair. He represented safety, salvation, everythingthat made life worth living.
A sudden noise and men's voices in the adjoining room sent her to herfeet with heaving breast and clenched hands. But the sharp, gutturalvoice predominating over the other voices killed the wild hope that hadsprung up in her by its utter dissimilarity to the soft low tones forwhich she longed. Ibraheim Omair! He had come first! She set her teethwith a long, shuddering breath, bracing herself to meet what wascoming.
The Arab woman turned to look at her again with a sneering smile thatwas full of significance, but beyond a fleeting glance of disdain Dianapaid no attention to her. She stood rigid, one foot beating nervouslyinto the soft rug. She noticed irrelevantly at the moment that both herspurs and the empty holster had been removed whilst she wasunconscious, and with the odd detachment that transfers a train ofthought from the centre of importance even at a supreme moment, shewondered, with an annoyance that seemed curiously futile, why it hadbeen done.
The voices in the next room continued, until Diana almost prayed forthe moment she was waiting for would come; suspense was worse than theordeal for which she was nerving herself, It came at last. The curtainslid aside again, and the same huge negro she had seen before entered.He came towards her, and her breath hissed in suddenly between her setteeth, but before he reached her the Arab woman intercepted him,blocking his way, and with wild eyes and passionate gestures poured outa stream of low, frenzied words. The Nubian turned on her impatientlyand thrust her roughly out of his way, and, coming to Diana, put outhis hand as if to grasp her arm, but she stepped back with flashingeyes and a gesture that he obeyed.
Her heart was pounding, but she had herself under control. Only herhands twitched, her long fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically,and she buried them deep in her breeches' pockets to hide them. Shewalked slowly to the curtain and nodded to the Nubian to draw it aside,and slower still she passed into the other room. Only a little largerthan the one she had left, almost as bare, but her mind took in thesethings uncomprehendingly, for all her attention was focussed on thecentral figure in the room.
Ibraheim Omair, the robber Sheik, lolling his great bulk on a pile ofcushions, a little inlaid stool with coffee beside him, and behind him,standing motionless as if formed of bronze, two other negroes, so likethe one that had summoned her that they seemed like statues that hadbeen cast from one mould.
Diana paused for a moment framed in the entrance, then, with headthrown back and swaggering, boyish stride, she moved across the thickrugs leisurely and halted in front of the chief, looking straight athim with haughty, curling lips and insolent, half-closed eyes. The holdshe was exercising over herself was tremendous, her body was rigid withthe effort, and her hands deep down in her pockets clenched till thenails bit into the palms. Every instinct was rebelling against the calmshe forced upon herself. She longed to scream and make a dash for theopening that she guessed was behind her, and to take her chance in thedarkness outside. But she knew that such a chance was impossible; ifshe ever reached the open air she would never be allowed to get morethan a few steps from the tent. Her only course lay in the bravado thatalone kept her from collapse. She must convey the impression offearlessness, though cold terror was knocking at her heart. Masked withindifference her veiled eyes were watching the robber chief closely.This was, indeed, the Arab of her imaginings, this gross, unwieldyfigure lying among the tawdry cushions, his swollen, ferocious faceseamed and lined with every mark of vice, his full, sensual lips partedand showing broken, blackened teeth, his deep-set, bloodshot eyes witha look in them that it took all her resolution to sustain, a look ofsuch bestial evilness that the horror of it bathed her in perspiration.His appearance was slovenly, his robes, originally rich, were stainedand tumbled, the fat hands lying spread out on his knees were engrainedwith dirt, showing even against his dark skin. His heavy face lit upwith a gleam of malicious satisfaction as Diana came towards him, hisloose mouth broadened in a wicked smile. He leaned forward a little,weighing heavily on the hands that were on his knees, his eyes rovingslowly over her till they rested on her face again.
"So! the white woman of my brother Ahmed Ben Hassan," he said slowly,in villainous French, with a sudden, snarling intonation as he utteredhis enemy's name. "Ahmed Ben Hassan! May Allah burn his soul in hell!"he added with relish, and spat contemptuously.
He leaned back on the cushions with a grunt, and drank some coffeenoisily.
Diana kept her eyes fixed on him, and under their unwavering stare heseemed to be uneasy, his own inflamed eyes wandering ceaselessly overher, one hand fumbling at the curved hilt of a knife stuck in his belt,and at last he grew exasperated, hitching himself forward once more andbeckoning her to come nearer to him. She hesitated, and as she pauseduncertainly, there was a flutter of draperies behind her, and the Arabwoman from the inner room, evading the negro who stepped forward tostop her, flung herself at the feet of
Ibraheim Omair, clinging to hisknees with a low wailing cry. In a flash Diana realised the meaning ofthe hatred that had gleamed in the woman's eyes earlier in the evening.To her she was a rival, whose coming to share the favours of her lordhad aroused all the jealousy of the reigning favourite. A wave ofdisgust mingled with the fear that was torturing her. She jerked herhead angrily, fighting against the terror that was growing on her, andfor a moment her lashes drooped and hid her eyes. When she looked upagain the woman was still crouched at the old Arab's feet, imploringand distraught.
Ibraheim Omair looked down on her curiously, his lips drawn back fromhis blackened teeth in an evil grin, and then shook her off violentlywith a swift blow in the mouth, but the woman clung closer, withupturned, desperate face, a thin trickle of blood oozing from her lips,and with a hoarse growl that was like the dull roar of a savage beastthe robber chief caught her by the throat and held her for a moment,her frantic, clutching hands powerless against his strong grasp, thenslowly drew the long knife from the ample folds of his waist-cloth, andas slowly drove it home into the strangling woman's breast. With savagecallousness, before he released his hold of her, he wiped the stainedknife carefully on her clothing and replaced it, and then flung thedead body from him. It rolled over on the rug midway between him andDiana.
There was a momentary silence in the room, and Diana became consciousof a muffled, rhythmical beat near her, like the ticking of a greatclock, and realised with dull wonder that it was her own heart beating.She seemed turned to stone, petrified with the horror of the last fewmoments. Her eyes were glued to the still figure on the rug before herwith the gaping wound in the breast, from which the blood was welling,staining the dark draperies of the woman's clothes, and creeping slowlydown to the rug on which the body lay. She was dazed, and odd thoughtsflitted through her mind. It was a pity, she thought stupidly, that theblood should spoil the rug. It was a lovely rug. She wondered what itwould have cost in Biskra--less, probably, than it would in London.Then she forgot the rug as her eyes travelled upward to the woman'sface. The mouth was open and the streak of blood was drying, but it wasthe eyes, protruding, agonised, that brought Diana abruptly to herself.She seemed to wake suddenly to the full realisation of what hadhappened and to her own peril. She felt physically sick for a moment,but she fought it down. Very slowly she raised her head, and, meetingIbraheim Omair's eyes fixed on her, she looked full at him across thedead woman's body and laughed! It was that or shriek. The curls wereclinging drenched on her forehead, and she wondered if her clenchedhands would ever unclose. She must make no sign, she must not scream orfaint, she must keep her nerve until Ahmed came. Oh, dear God, send himquickly! The laugh wavered hysterically, and she caught her lip betweenher teeth. She must do something to distract her attention from thatawful still shape at her feet. Almost unconsciously she grasped thecigarette case in her pocket and took it out, dragging her eyes fromthe horrible sight on which they were fixed, and chose and lit acigarette with slow care, flicking the still-burning match on to thecarpet between the feet of the negro who stood near her. He had notmoved since he had failed to stop the woman's entrance, and the twostationed behind the pile of cushions had stood motionless, their eyeshardly following the tragedy enacted before them. At a nod from thechief they came now and carried away the body of the woman. Onereturned in a moment, bringing fresh coffee, and then vanishednoiselessly.
Then Ibraheim Omair leaned forward with a horrible leer and beckoned toDiana, patting the cushions beside him. Mastering the loathing thatfilled her she sat down with all the unconcern she could assume. Theproximity of the man nauseated her. He reeked of sweat and grease andill-kept horses, the pungent stench of the native. Her thoughts wentback to the other Arab, of whose habits she had been forced into suchan intimate knowledge. Remembering all that she had heard of the desertpeople she had been surprised at the fastidious care he took ofhimself, the frequent bathing, the spotless cleanliness of his robes,the fresh wholesomeness that clung about him, the faint, clean smell ofshaving-soap mingling with the perfume of the Turkish tobacco that wasalways associated with him.
The contrast was hideous.
She refused the coffee he offered her with a shake of her head, payingno attention to his growl of protest, not even understanding it, for hespoke in Arabic. As she laid down the end of her cigarette with almostthe feeling of letting go a sheet anchor--for it had at least kept herlips from trembling--his fat hand closed about her wrist and he jerkedher towards him.
"How many rifles did the Frenchman bring to that son of darkness?" hesaid harshly.
She turned her head, surprised at the question, and met his bloodshoteyes fixed on hers, half-menacing, half-admiring, and looked away againhastily. "I do not know."
His fingers tightened on her wrist. "How many men had Ahmed Ben Hassanin the camp in which he kept you?"
"I do not know."
"I do not know! I do not know!" he echoed with a sudden savage laugh."You will know when I have done with you." He crushed her wrist untilshe winced with pain, and turned her head away further that she mightnot see his face. Question after question relating to the Sheik and histribe followed in rapid succession, but to all of them Diana remainedsilent, with averted head and compressed lips. He should not learnanything from her that might injure the man she loved, though hetortured her, though her life paid the price of her silence, as itprobably would. She shivered involuntarily. "Shall I tell you what theywould do to him?" She could hear the Sheik's voice plainly as on thenight when she had asked him what Gaston's fate would be at the handsof Ibraheim Omair. She could hear the horrible meaning he had put intothe words, she could see the terrible smile that had accompanied them.Her breath came faster, but her courage still held. She clungdesperately to the hope that was sustaining her. Ahmed must come intime. She forced down the torturing doubts that whispered that he mightnever find her, that he might come too late, that when he came shemight be beyond a man's desire.
Ibraheim Omair ceased his questioning. "Later you will speak," he saidsignificantly, and drank more coffee. And his words revived theagonising thoughts she had crushed down. Her vivid imagination conjuredup the same ghastly mental pictures that had appalled her when she hadapplied them to Gaston, but now it was herself who was the centralfigure in all the horrors she imagined, until the shuddering she triedto suppress shook her from head to foot, and she clenched her teeth tostop them chattering.
Ibraheim Omair kept his hold upon her, and presently, with a horribleloathing, she felt his hand passing over her arm, her neck, and downthe soft curves of her slim young body, then with a mutteredejaculation he forced her to face him.
"What are you listening for? You think that Ahmed Ben Hassan will come?Little fool! He has forgotten you already. There are plenty more whitewomen in Algiers and Oran that he can buy with his gold and his devilface. The loves of Ahmed Ben Hassan are as the stars in number. Theycome and go like the swift wind in the desert, a hot breath--and it'sfinished. He will not come, and if he does, he will not find you, forin an hour we shall be gone."
Diana writhed in his grasp. The hateful words in the guttural voice,pronounced in vile French, the leering, vicious face with the light ofadmiration growing in the bloodshot eyes, were all a ghastly nightmare.With a sudden desperate wrench she freed herself and fled across thetent--panic-stricken at last. But in her blind rush she tripped, andwith a swiftness that seemed incompatible with his unwieldinessIbraheim Omair followed her and caught her in his arms. Struggling hecarried her to the divan. For a moment he paused, and instinctivelyDiana lay still, reserving her strength for the final struggle.
"One hour, my little gazelle, one hour----" he said hoarsely, and benthis face to hers.
With a cry Diana flung her head aside and strained away from him,fighting with the strength of madness. She fought like a boy with aswift thought of gratitude for Aubrey's training, and twisting andwrithing she managed to slip through his grasp until her feet rested onthe ground. But his grip on her never relaxed;
he dragged her back tohim, resisting fiercely, ripping the thin shirt from her shoulders,baring her white, heaving bosom. Gasping, she struggled, until, littleby little, his arms closed round her again. She braced her handsagainst his chest, fending him from her till she felt the muscles inher arms must crack, but the crushing force of his whole weight wasbearing her steadily backwards, and downwards on to the soft cushionsbeside them. His hot breath was on her face, the sickening reek of hisclothes was in her nostrils. She felt her resistance growing weaker,her heart was labouring, beating with wild bounds that suffocated her,the strength was going from her arms, only a moment more and her forcewould be exhausted. Her brain was growing numbed, as it had been whenthe man who held her had murdered the woman before her eyes. If hewould only kill her now. Death would be easy compared with this. Thefaint hope that still lingered was almost extinguished. Ahmed had notcome, and in her agony the thought of him was a further torture. Thesneering words of Ibraheim Omair had not shaken her faith. He wouldcome, but he would come too late. He would never know now that sheloved him. Oh, God! How she loved him! Ahmed! Ahmed! And with thesoundless cry the last remnant of her strength went all at once, andshe fell weakly against the chief. He forced her to her knees, and,with his hand twined brutally in her curls, thrust her head back. Therewas a mad light in his eyes and a foam on his lips as he dragged theknife from his waistbelt and laid the keen edge against her throat. Shedid not flinch, and after a moment he dropped it with a horrible laugh.
"No, afterwards," he said, and picked her up unresistingly. He flungher on the cushions and for one awful moment she felt his hands on her.Then from outside came a sudden uproar and the sharp crack of rifles.Then in a lull in the firing the Sheik's powerful voice: "Diane!Diane!"
His voice and the knowledge of his nearness gave her new strength. Sheleaped up in spite of Ibraheim Omair's gripping hands. "Ahmed!" shescreamed once, then the chief's hand dashed against her mouth, but,frantic, she caught it in her teeth, biting it to the bone, and as hewrenched it away, shrieked again, "Ahmed! Ahmed!"
But it seemed impossible that her voice could be heard above thedemoniacal noise outside the tent, and she could not call again, for,with a snarl of rage, the chief caught her by the throat as he hadcaught the Arab woman. And like the Arab woman her hands tore at hisgripping fingers vainly. Choking, stifling with the agony in herthroat, her lungs seemed bursting, the blood was beating in her earslike the deafening roar of waves, and the room was darkening with thefilm that was creeping over her eyes. Her hands fell powerless to hersides and her knees gave way limply. He was holding her upright only bythe clutch on her throat. The drumming in her ears grew louder, thetent was fading away into blackness. Dimly, with no kind of emotion,she realised that he was squeezing the life out of her and she heardhis voice coming, as it were, from a great distance: "You will notlanguish long in Hawiyat without your lover. I will send him quickly toyou."
She was almost unconscious, but she heard the sneering voice breaksuddenly and the deadly pressure on her throat relaxed as the chief'shands rapidly transferred their grip to her aching shoulders, swingingher away from him and in front of him. To lift her head was agony, andthe effort brought back the black mist that had lessened with theslackening of Ibraheim Omair's fingers round her neck, but it clearedagain sufficiently for her to see, through a blurring haze, the outlineof the tall figure that was facing her, standing by the ripped-backdoorway.
There was a pause, a silence that contrasted oddly with the tumultoutside, and Diana wondered numbly why the Sheik did nothing, why hedid not use the revolver that was clenched in his hand Then slowly sheunderstood that he dared not fire, that the chief was holding her, aliving shield, before him, sheltering himself behind the only thingthat would deter Ahmed Ben Hassan's unerring shots. Cautiously IbraheimOmair moved backward, still holding her before him, hoping to gain theinner room. But in the shock of his enemy's sudden appearance hemiscalculated the position of the divan and stumbled against it, losinghis balance for only a moment, but long enough to give the man whoserevolver covered him the chance he wanted. With the cold ring of steelpressing against his forehead the robber chief's hands dropped fromDiana, and she slid weak and trembling on to the rug, clasping herpulsating throat, moaning with the effort that it was to breathe.
For a moment the two men looked into each other's eyes and theknowledge of death leaped into Ibraheim Omair's. With the fatalism ofhis creed he made no resistance, as, with a slow, terrible smile, theSheik's left hand reached out and fastened on his throat. It would bequicker to shoot, but as Diana had suffered so should her torturer die.All the savagery in his nature rose uppermost. Beside the pitiful,gasping little figure on the rug at his feet there was the memory ofsix mutilated bodies, his faithful followers, men of his own age whohad grown to manhood with him, picked men of his personal bodyguard whohad been intimately connected with him all his life, and who had servedhim with devotion and unwavering obedience. They and others who hadfrom time to time fallen victims to Ibraheim Omair's hatred of his morepowerful enemy. The man who was responsible for their deaths was in hispower at last, the man whose existence was a menace and whose life wasan offence, of whose subtleties he had been trained from a boy tobeware by the elder Ahmed Ben Hassan, who had bequeathed to him thetribal hatred of the race of whom Ibraheim Omair was head, and whosedying words had been the wish that his successor might himselfexterminate the hereditary enemy. But far beyond the feelings inspiredby tribal hatred or the remembrance of the vow made five years agobeside the old Sheik's deathbed, or even the death of his ownfollowers, was the desire to kill, with his bare hands, the man who hadtortured the woman he loved. The knowledge of her peril, that haddriven him headlong through the night to her aid, the sight of herhelpless, agonised, in the robber chief's hands, had filled him with amadness that only the fierce joy of killing would cure. Before he couldlisten to the clamouring of the new love in his heart, before he couldgather up into his arms the beloved little body that he was yearningfor, he had to destroy the man whose murders were countless and who hadat last fallen into his hands.
The smile on his face deepened and his fingers tightened slowly ontheir hold. But with the strangling clasp of Ahmed Ben Hassan's handsupon him the love of life waked again in Ibraheim Omair and hestruggled fiercely. Crouched on the floor Diana watched the two bigfigures swaying in mortal combat with wide, fearful eyes, her handsstill holding her aching throat. Ibraheim Omair wrestled for his life,conscious of his own strength, but conscious also of the greaterstrength that was opposed to him. The Sheik let go the hold upon histhroat and with both arms locked about him manoeuvred to get theposition he required, back to the divan. Then, with a wrestler's trick,he swept Ibraheim's feet from under him and sent his huge bodysprawling on to the cushions, his knee on his enemy's chest, his handson his throat. With all his weight crushing into the chief's breast,with the terrible smile always on his lips, he choked him slowly todeath, till the dying man's body arched and writhed in his last agony,till the blood burst from his nose and mouth, pouring over the handsthat held him like a vice.
Diana's eyes never left the Sheik's face, she felt the old paralysingfear of him rushing over her, irresistibly drowning for the moment eventhe love she had for him. She had seen him in cruel, even savage moods,but nothing that had ever approached the look of horrible pleasure thatwas on his face now. It was a revelation of the real man with the thinlayer of civilisation stripped from him, leaving only the primitivesavage drunk with the lust of blood. And she was afraid, with ashuddering horror, of the merciless, crimson-stained hands that wouldtouch her, of the smiling, cruel mouth that would be pressed on hers,and of the murderous light shining in his fierce eyes. But for thedying wretch expiating his crimes so hideously she felt no pity, he wasbeyond all sympathy. She had seen him murder wantonly, and she knewwhat her own fate would have been if Ahmed Ben Hassan had not come. Andthe retribution was swift. The Sheik was being more merciful to himthan the robber chief had been to many, a few moments o
f agony insteadof hours of lingering torture.
The noise outside the tent was growing louder as the fighting rolledback in its direction, and once or twice a bullet ripped through thehangings. One that came closer than the others made Diana turn her headand she saw what Ahmed Ben Hassan, absorbed in the fulfilment of hishorrible task, had not even thought of--the three big negroes and adozen Arabs who had stolen in silently from the inner room. For once,in the intoxication of the moment, the Sheik was careless and caughtoff his guard. Agony leaped into her eyes. The fear of him was wipedout in the fear for him. She tried to warn him, but no sound would comefrom her throbbing throat, and she crawled nearer to him and touchedhim. He dropped the dead chief back into the tumbled cushions andlooked up swiftly, and at the same moment Ibraheim Omair's men made arush. Without a word he thrust her behind the divan and turned to meetthem. Before his revolver they gave way for a moment, but the burlyNubians behind swept the Arabs forward. Three times he fired and one ofthe negroes and two Arabs fell, but the rest hurled themselves on him,and Diana saw him surrounded. His strength was abnormal, and for someminutes the struggling mass of men strained and heaved about him. Dianawas on her feet, swaying giddily, powerless to help him, cold withdread. Then above the clamour that was raging inside and out she heardSaint Hubert's voice shouting, and with a shriek that seemed to rip hertortured throat she called to him. The Sheik, too, heard, and with adesperate effort for a moment won clear, but one of the Nubians wasbehind him, and, as Saint Hubert and a crowd of the Sheik's own menpoured in through the opening, he brought down a heavy club withcrashing force on Ahmed Ben Hassan's head, and as he fell another drovea broad knife deep into his back. For a few minutes more the trampingfeet surged backward and forward over the Sheik's prostrate body. Dianatried to get to him, faint and stumbling, flung here and there by thefighting, struggling men, until a strong hand caught her and drew heraside. She strained against the detaining arm, but it was one ofAhmed's men, and she gave in as a growing faintness came over her.Mistily she saw Saint Hubert clear a way to his friend's side, and thenshe fainted, but only for a few moments. Saint Hubert was still on hisknees beside the Sheik when she opened her eyes, and the tent was quitequiet, filled with tribesmen waiting in stoical silence. The camp ofIbraheim Omair had been wiped out, but Ahmed Ben Hassan's men lookedonly at the unconscious figure of their leader.
Saint Hubert glanced up hastily as Diana came to his side. "You are allright?" he asked anxiously, but she did not answer. What did it matterabout her?
"Is he going to die?" she said huskily, for speaking still hurthorribly.
"I don't know--but we must get away from here. I need more appliancesthan I have with me, and we are too few to stay and risk a possibleattack if there are others of Ibraheim Omair's men in theneighbourhood."
Diana looked down on the wounded man fearfully. "But the ride--thejolting," she gasped.
"It has got to be risked," replied Saint Hubert abruptly.
Of the long, terrible journey back to Ahmed Ben Hassan's camp Diananever remembered very much. It was an agony of dread and apprehension,of momentary waiting for some word or exclamation from the powerfulArab who was holding him, or from Saint Hubert, who was riding besidehim, that would mean his death, and of momentary respites from fear andfaint glimmerings of hope as the minutes dragged past and the word shewas dreading did not come. Once a sudden halt seemed to stop her heartbeating, but it was only to give a moment's rest to the Arab whosestrength was taxed to the uttermost with the Sheik's inert weight, butwho refused to surrender his privilege to any other. Moments ofsemi-unconsciousness, when she swayed against the arm of the watchfultribesman riding beside her, and his muttered ejaculation of "Allah!Allah!" sent a whispered supplication to her own lips to the God theyboth worshipped so differently. He must not die. God would not be socruel.
From time to time Saint Hubert spoke to her, and the quiet courage ofhis voice steadied her breaking nerves. As they passed the scene of theambuscade he told her of Gaston. It was there that the first band ofwaiting men met them, warned already of their coming by a couple ofArabs whom the Vicomte had sent on in advance with the news.
The dawn was breaking when they reached the camp. Diana had a glimpseof rows of unusually silent men grouped beside the tent, but all hermind was concentrated on the long, limp figure that was being carefullylifted down from the sweating horse. They carried him into the tent andlaid him on the divan, beside which Henri had already put out all theimplements that his master would need.
While Saint Hubert, with difficulty, cleared the tent of the Sheik'smen Diana stood beside the divan and looked at him. He was soaked inblood that had burst through the temporary bandages, and his whole bodybore evidence of the terrible struggle that had gone before the blowthat had felled him. One blood-covered hand hung down almost touchingthe rug. Diana lifted it in her own, and the touch of the nervelessfingers sent a sob into her throat. She caught her lip between herteeth to stop it trembling as she laid his hand down on the cushions.Saint Hubert came to her, rolling up his shirt-sleeves significantly.
"Diane, you have been through enough," he said gently. "Go and restwhile I do what I can for Ahmed. I will come and tell you as soon as Iam finished."
She looked up fiercely. "It's no good telling me to go away, because Iwon't. I must help you. I can help you. I shall go mad if you don't letme do something. See! My hands are quite steady." She held them out asshe spoke, and Saint Hubert gave in without opposition.
The weakness that had sent her trembling into his arms the day beforehad been the fear of danger to the man she loved, but in the face ofactual need the courage that was so much a part of her nature did notfail her. He made no more remonstrances, but set about his workquickly. And all through the horrible time that followed she did notfalter. Her face was deadly pale, and dark lines showed below her eyes,but her hands did not shake, and her voice was low and even. Shesuffered horribly. The terrible wound that the Nubian's knife had madewas like a wound in her own heart. She winced as if the hurt had beenher own when Saint Hubert's gentle, dexterous fingers touched theSheik's bruised head. And when it was over and Raoul had turned asideto wash his hands, she slipped on to her knees beside him. Would helive? The courage that had kept her up so far had not extended toasking Saint Hubert again, and a few muttered words from Henri, towhich the Vicomte had responded with only a shrug, had killed the wordsthat were hovering on her lips. She looked at him with anguished eyes.
Only a few hours before he had come to her in all the magnificence ofhis strength. She looked at the long limbs lying now so still, soterribly, suggestively still, and her lips trembled again, but herpain-filled eyes were dry. She could not cry, only her throat ached andthrobbed perpetually. She leaned over him whispering his name, and asudden hunger came to her to touch him, to convince herself that he wasnot dead. She glanced back over her shoulder at Saint Hubert, but hehad gone to the open doorway to speak to Yusef, and was standing outunder the awning. She bent lower over the unconscious man; his lipswere parted slightly, and the usual sternness of his mouth was relaxed.
"Ahmed, oh, my dear!" she whispered unsteadily, and kissed him withlips that quivered against the stillness of his. Then for a moment shedropped her bright head beside the bandaged one on the pillow, but whenthe Vicomte came back she was kneeling where he had left her, her handsclasped over one of the Sheik's and her face hidden against thecushions.
Saint Hubert put his hand on her shoulder. "Diane, you are torturingyourself unnecessarily. We cannot know for some time how it will gowith him. Try and get some sleep for a few hours. You can do no good bystaying here. Henri and I will watch. I will call you if there is anychange, my word of honour."
She shook her head without looking up. "I can't go. I couldn't sleep."
Saint Hubert did not press it. "Very well," he said quietly, "but ifyou are going to stay you must take off your riding-boots and put onsomething more comfortable than those clothes."
She realised the sense of
what he was saying, and obeyed him without aword. She even had to admit to herself a certain sensation of reliefafter she had bathed her aching head and throat, and substituted athin, silk wrap for the torn, stained riding-suit.
Henri was pouring out coffee when she came back, and Saint Hubertturned to her with a cup in his outstretched hand. "Please take it. Itwill do you good," he said, with a little smile that was not reflectedin his anxious eyes.
She took it unheeding, and, swallowing it hastily, went to the side ofthe divan again. She slid down on to the rug where she had kneltbefore. The Sheik was lying as she had left him. For a few moments shelooked at him, then drowsily her eyes closed and her head fell forwardon the cushions, and with a half-sad smile of satisfaction Saint Hubertgathered her up into his arms.
He carried her into the bedroom, hesitating beside the couch before heput her down. Surely one moment out of a lifetime might be granted tohim. He would never have the torturing happiness of holding her in hisarms again, would never again clasp her against the heart that wascrying out for her with the same mad passion that had swept over himyesterday. He looked down longingly on the pale face lying against hisarm, and his features contracted at the sight of the cruel marksmarring the whiteness of her delicate throat. The love that all hislife he had longed for, that he had sought vainly through manycountries, had come to him at last, and it had come too late. Thehelpless loveliness lying in his arms was not for him. It was Ahmedwhom she loved, Ahmed who had waked to such a tardy recognition of thepriceless gift that she had given him, Ahmed whom he must wrest fromthe grim spectre that was hovering near him lest the light that shonein her violet eyes should go out in the blackness of despair. And yetas he looked at her with eyes filled with hopeless misery a demon ofsuggestion whispered within him, tempting him. He knew his friend as noone else did. What chance of happiness had any woman with a man likeAhmed Ben Hassan, at the mercy of his savage nature and passionatechangeable moods? What reason to suppose that the love that had flamedup so suddenly at the thought that he had lost her would survive theknowledge of repossession? To him, all his life, a thing desired hadupon possession become valueless. With the fulfilment of acquisitionhad come always disinterest. The pleasure of pursuit faded withownership. Would this hapless girl who had poured out such a wealth oflove at the feet of the man who had treated her brutally fare anybetter at his hands? Her chance was slight, if any. Ahmed in the fullpower of his strength again would be the man he had always been,implacable, cruel, merciless. Saint Hubert's own longing, hispassionate, Gallic temperament, were driving him as they had driven himthe day before. The longing to save her from misery was acute, that,and his own love, prompted by the urging of the desire within him. Thenhe trembled, and a great fear of himself came over him. Ahmed was hisfriend. Who was he that he should judge him? He could at least behonest with himself, he could own the truth. He coveted what was nothis, and masked his envy with a hypocrisy that now appearedcontemptible. The clasp of his arms around her seemed suddenly aprofanation, and he laid her down very gently on the low couch, drawingthe thin coverlet over her, and went back slowly to the other room.
He sent Henri away and sat down beside the divan to watch with afeeling of weariness that was not bodily. The great tent was verystill, a pregnant silence seemed to hang in the air, a brooding hushthat strained Saint Hubert's already overstrained nerves. He had needof all his calm, and he gripped himself resolutely. For a time AhmedBen Hassan lay motionless, and then, as the day crept on and the earlyrays of the warm sun filled the tent, he moved uneasily, and began tomutter feverishly in confused Arabic and French. At first the wordsthat came were almost unintelligible, pouring out with rapidindistinctness, then by degrees his voice slowed, and hesitating,interrupted sentences came clearly from his lips. And beside him, withhis face buried in his hands, Raoul de Saint Hubert thanked Godfervently that he had saved Diana the added torture of listening to therevelations of the past four months.
The first words were in Arabic, then the slow, soft voice lapsed intoFrench, pure as the Vicomte's own.
"Two hours south of the oasis with the three broken palm trees by thewell.... Lie still, you little fool, it is useless to struggle. Youcannot get away, I shall not let you go.... Why have I brought youhere? You ask me why? _Mon Dieu!_ Are you not woman enough toknow? No! I will not spare you. Give me what I want willingly and Iwill be kind to you, but fight me, and by Allah! you shall pay thecost!... I know you hate me, you have told me so already. Shall I makeyou love me?... Still disobedient? When will you learn that I ammaster?... I have not tired of you yet, you lovely little wildthing, _garcon manque...._ You say she is cowed; I say she iscontent--content to give me everything I ask of her.... For four monthsshe has fought me. Why does it give me no pleasure to have broken herat last? Why do I want her still? She is English and I have made herpay for my hatred of her cursed race. I have tortured her to keep myvow, and still I want her.... Diane, Diane, how beautiful you are!...What devil makes me hate Raoul after twenty years? Last night she onlyspoke to him, and when he went I cursed her till I saw the terror inher eyes. She fears me. Why should I care if she loves him.... I knewshe was not asleep when I went to her. I felt her quivering besideme.... I wanted to kill Raoul when he would not come with me, but forthat I would have gone back to her.... Allah! how long the day hasbeen.... Has it been long to her? Will she smile or tremble when Icome?... Where is Diane?... Diane, Diane, how could I know how much youmeant to me? How could I know that I should love you?... Diane, Diane,my sunshine. The tent is cold and dark without you.... Ibraheim Omair!That devil and Diane! Oh, Allah! Grant me time to get to her.... Howthe jackals are howling.... See, Raoul, there are the tents.... Diane,where are you?... Grand Dieu! He has been torturing her!... You knewthat I would come, _ma bien aimee_, only a few moments while Ikill him, then I can hold you in my arms. _Dieu!_ If you knew howmuch I loved you.... Diane, Diane, it is all black. I cannot see you,Diane, Diane...."
And hour after hour with weary hopelessness the tired voice wenton--"Diane, Diane...."