Two soft-footed Arab servants brought a hastily prepared supper. It was
a ghastly meal. He never spoke or showed in any way that he was
conscious of her presence. She had had nothing to eat all day, but the
food nearly choked her and she could hardly swallow it, but she forced
herself to eat a little. It seemed interminable until the servants
finally withdrew, after bringing two little gold-cased cups of native
coffee. She gulped it down with difficulty. The Sheik had resumed his
restless pacing, smoking cigarette after cigarette in endless
succession. The monotonous tramp to and fro worked on Diana's nerves
until she winced each time he passed her, and, huddled on the divan,
she watched him continually, fascinated, fearful.
He never looked at her. From time to time he glanced at the watch on
his wrist and each time his face grew blacker. If he would only speak!
His silence was worse than anything he could say. What was he going to
do? He was capable of doing anything. The suspense was torture. Her
hands grew clammy and she wrenched at the soft open collar of her
riding-shirt with a feeling of suffocation.
Twice Yusef came to report, and the second time the Sheik came back
slowly from the door where he had been speaking to him and stopped in
front of Diana, looking at her strangely.
She flung out her hands instinctively, shrinking further back among the
cushions, her eyes wavering under his. "What are you going to do to
me?" she whispered involuntarily, with dry lips.
He looked at her without answering for a while, as if to prolong the
torture she was enduring, and a cruel look crept into his eyes. "That
depends on what happens to Gaston," he said at length slowly.
"Gaston?" she repeated stupidly. She had forgotten the valet, in all
that had occurred since the morning she had forgotten his very
existence.
"Yes--Gaston," he said sternly. "You do not seem to have thought of
what might happen to him."
She sat up slowly, a puzzled look coming into her face. "What could
happen to him?" she asked wonderingly.
He dragged back the flap of the tent and pointed out into the darkness.
"Over there in the south-west, there is an old Sheik whose name is
Ibraheim Omair. His tribe and mine have been at feud for generations.
Lately I have learned that he has been venturing nearer than he has
ever before dared. He hates me. To capture my personal servant would be
more luck than he could have hoped for."