The same feeling of unreality that she had experienced once before the
first day in the Sheik's camp came over her. The intense stillness--for
the Arabs had ceased shouting--the hot, dry sand with the shimmering
heat haze rising like mist from its whispering surface, the cloudless
deep blue sky overhead, the band of menacing horsemen circling nearer
and nearer, the dead Dancer, with Gaston's horse standing quietly
beside his prostrate companion, and lastly, the man beside her, brave
and devoted to the end, all seemed fantastic and unreal. She viewed it
dispassionately, as if she were a spectator rather than a participant
in the scene. But for a moment only, then the reality of the situation
came clearly to her again. Any minute might mean death for one or other
or both of them, and with an instinctive movement she pressed closer to
Gaston. They were both silent, there seemed nothing to say. The valet's
left hand clenched over hers at the involuntary appeal for
companionship that she made, and she felt it contract as a bullet
gashed his forehead, blinding him for a moment with the blood that
dripped into his eyes. He let go her hand to brush his arm across his
face, and as he did so the Arabs with suddenly renewed shouting bore
down upon them.
Gaston turned sharply and Diana read his purpose in the horror in his
eyes. She held up her head with a little nod and the same brave smile
on her white lips. "Please," she whispered, "quickly!" A spasm crossed
his face, "Turn your head," he muttered desperately. "I cannot do it if
you----"
There was a rattle of shots, and with a gasp he crumpled up against
her. For a moment it was pandemonium. Standing over Gaston's body she
fired her last shot and flung the empty revolver in the face of a man
who sprang forward to seize her. She turned with a desperate hope of
reaching Gaston's horse, but she was hemmed in, and for a second she
stood at bay, hands clenched and teeth set, braving the wild faces that
surrounded her, and were closing in upon her, with flashing defiant
eyes. Then she was conscious of a crashing blow on her head, the ground
heaved up under her feet, everything went black before her eyes, and
without a sound she fell senseless.
Late in the afternoon Saint Hubert was still writing in the big tent.
Henri had deciphered the notes that had baffled his master in the
morning, and the Vicomte had taken advantage of the solitude to do some
long-neglected work. He had forgotten the time, forgotten to be
surprised at Diana's continued absence, immersed in the interesting
subject he was dealing with, and not realising the significance of her
delayed return. Ahmed had spoken of the proximity of his hereditary
enemy, but Saint Hubert had not grasped how near the robber Sheik had
ventured.