He carried her into the bedroom, hesitating beside the couch before he
put her down. Surely one moment out of a lifetime might be granted to
him. He would never have the torturing happiness of holding her in his
arms again, would never again clasp her against the heart that was
crying out for her with the same mad passion that had swept over him
yesterday. He looked down longingly on the pale face lying against his
arm, and his features contracted at the sight of the cruel marks
marring the whiteness of her delicate throat. The love that all his
life he had longed for, that he had sought vainly through many
countries, had come to him at last, and it had come too late. The
helpless loveliness lying in his arms was not for him. It was Ahmed
whom she loved, Ahmed who had waked to such a tardy recognition of the
priceless gift that she had given him, Ahmed whom he must wrest from
the grim spectre that was hovering near him lest the light that shone
in her violet eyes should go out in the blackness of despair. And yet
as he looked at her with eyes filled with hopeless misery a demon of
suggestion whispered within him, tempting him. He knew his friend as no
one else did.
What chance of happiness had any woman with a man like
Ahmed Ben Hassan, at the mercy of his savage nature and passionate
changeable moods? What reason to suppose that the love that had flamed
up so suddenly at the thought that he had lost her would survive the
knowledge of repossession? To him, all his life, a thing desired had
upon possession become valueless. With the fulfilment of acquisition
had come always disinterest. The pleasure of pursuit faded with
ownership. Would this hapless girl who had poured out such a wealth of
love at the feet of the man who had treated her brutally fare any
better at his hands? Her chance was slight, if any. Ahmed in the full
power of his strength again would be the man he had always been,
implacable, cruel, merciless. Saint Hubert's own longing, his
passionate, Gallic temperament, were driving him as they had driven him
the 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. Then
he trembled, and a great fear of himself came over him. Ahmed was his
friend. Who was he that he should judge him? He could at least be
honest with himself, he could own the truth. He coveted what was not
his, and masked his envy with a hypocrisy that now appeared
contemptible. The clasp of his arms around her seemed suddenly a
profanation, and he laid her down very gently on the low couch, drawing
the thin coverlet over her, and went back slowly to the other room.