This was, indeed, the Arab of her imaginings, this gross, unwieldy

figure lying among the tawdry cushions, his swollen, ferocious face

seamed and lined with every mark of vice, his full, sensual lips parted

and showing broken, blackened teeth, his deep-set, bloodshot eyes with

a look in them that it took all her resolution to sustain, a look of

such bestial evilness that the horror of it bathed her in perspiration.

His appearance was slovenly, his robes, originally rich, were stained

and tumbled, the fat hands lying spread out on his knees were engrained

with dirt, showing even against his dark skin. His heavy face lit up

with a gleam of malicious satisfaction as Diana came towards him, his

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loose mouth broadened in a wicked smile. He leaned forward a little,

weighing heavily on the hands that were on his knees, his eyes roving

slowly 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 uttered

his 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 coffee

noisily.

Diana kept her eyes fixed on him, and under their unwavering stare he

seemed to be uneasy, his own inflamed eyes wandering ceaselessly over

her, 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 and

beckoning her to come nearer to him. She hesitated, and as she paused

uncertainly, there was a flutter of draperies behind her, and the Arab

woman from the inner room, evading the negro who stepped forward to

stop her, flung herself at the feet of Ibraheim Omair, clinging to his

knees with a low wailing cry. In a flash Diana realised the meaning of

the 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 lord

had aroused all the jealousy of the reigning favourite. A wave of

disgust mingled with the fear that was torturing her. She jerked her

head angrily, fighting against the terror that was growing on her, and

for a moment her lashes drooped and hid her eyes. When she looked up

again the woman was still crouched at the old Arab's feet, imploring

and distraught.

Ibraheim Omair looked down on her curiously, his lips drawn back from

his blackened teeth in an evil grin, and then shook her off violently

with a swift blow in the mouth, but the woman clung closer, with

upturned, 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 beast

the robber chief caught her by the throat and held her for a moment,

her frantic, clutching hands powerless against his strong grasp, then

slowly drew the long knife from the ample folds of his waist-cloth, and

as slowly drove it home into the strangling woman's breast. With savage

callousness, before he released his hold of her, he wiped the stained

knife carefully on her clothing and replaced it, and then flung the

dead body from him. It rolled over on the rug midway between him and

Diana.




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