And when he did turn to her again the joy she would feel in his embrace
would be an agony for the love that was not there. His careless kisses
would scorch her and the strength of his arms would be a mockery. But
would he ever turn to her again? If anything happened to Gaston--if
what he had suggested became a fact and the servant fell a victim to
the blood feud between the two tribes? She knew he would be terribly
avenged, and what would her part be? She wondered dully if he would
kill her, and how. If the long, brown fingers with their steely
strength would choke the life out of her. Her hands went up to her
throat mechanically. He stopped near her to light a fresh cigarette,
and she was trying to summon up courage to speak to him of Gaston when
the covering of the doorway was flung open and Gaston himself stood in
the entrance.
"Monseigneur--" he stammered, and with his two hands outstretched, palm
uppermost, he made an appealing gesture.
The Sheik's hand shot out and gripped the man's shoulder. "Gaston!
Enfin, mon ami!" he said slowly, but there was a ring in his low
voice that Diana had never heard before.
For a moment the two men stared at each other, and then Ahmed Ben
Hassan gave a little laugh of great relief. "Praise be to Allah, the
Merciful, the Compassionate," he murmured.
"To his name praise!" rejoined Gaston softly, then his eyes roved
around the tent towards Diana, and there was no resentment in them, but
only anxiety.
"Madame is----" he hesitated, but the Sheik cut him short.
"Madame is quite safe," he said dryly, and pushed him gently towards
the door with a few words in rapid Arabic. He stood some time after
Gaston had gone to his own quarters looking out into the night, and
when he came in, lingered unusually over closing the flap. Diana stood
hesitating. She was worn out and her long riding-boots felt like lead.
She was afraid to go and afraid to stay. He seemed purposely ignoring
her. The relief of Gaston's return was enormous, but she had still to
reckon with him for her attempted flight. That he said no word about it
at the moment meant nothing; she knew him too well for that. And there
was Silver Star, the finest of all his magnificent horses--she had yet
to pay for his death. The strain that she had gone through since the
morning was tremendous, she could not bear much more. His silence
aggravated her breaking nerves until she felt that her nerves would go.
He had moved over to the writing-table and was tearing the wrapping off
a box of cartridges preparatory to refilling the magazine of his
revolver. The little operation seemed to take centuries. She started at
each separate click. She gripped her hands and passed her tongue over
her dry lips. If he would not speak she must, she could endure it no
longer.