From time to time Saint Hubert spoke to her, and the quiet courage of

his voice steadied her breaking nerves. As they passed the scene of the

ambuscade he told her of Gaston. It was there that the first band of

waiting men met them, warned already of their coming by a couple of

Arabs whom the Vicomte had sent on in advance with the news.

The dawn was breaking when they reached the camp. Diana had a glimpse

of rows of unusually silent men grouped beside the tent, but all her

mind was concentrated on the long, limp figure that was being carefully

lifted down from the sweating horse. They carried him into the tent and

laid him on the divan, beside which Henri had already put out all the

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implements that his master would need.

While Saint Hubert, with difficulty, cleared the tent of the Sheik's

men Diana stood beside the divan and looked at him. He was soaked in

blood that had burst through the temporary bandages, and his whole body

bore evidence of the terrible struggle that had gone before the blow

that had felled him. One blood-covered hand hung down almost touching

the rug. Diana lifted it in her own, and the touch of the nerveless

fingers sent a sob into her throat. She caught her lip between her

teeth to stop it trembling as she laid his hand down on the cushions.

Saint Hubert came to her, rolling up his shirt-sleeves significantly.

"Diane, you have been through enough," he said gently. "Go and rest

while I do what I can for Ahmed. I will come and tell you as soon as I

am finished."

She looked up fiercely. "It's no good telling me to go away, because I

won't. I must help you. I can help you. I shall go mad if you don't let

me do something. See! My hands are quite steady." She held them out as

she spoke, and Saint Hubert gave in without opposition.

The weakness that had sent her trembling into his arms the day before

had been the fear of danger to the man she loved, but in the face of

actual need the courage that was so much a part of her nature did not

fail her. He made no more remonstrances, but set about his work

quickly. And all through the horrible time that followed she did not

falter. Her face was deadly pale, and dark lines showed below her eyes,

but her hands did not shake, and her voice was low and even. She

suffered horribly. The terrible wound that the Nubian's knife had made

was like a wound in her own heart. She winced as if the hurt had been

her own when Saint Hubert's gentle, dexterous fingers touched the

Sheik's bruised head. And when it was over and Raoul had turned aside

to wash his hands, she slipped on to her knees beside him. Would he

live? The courage that had kept her up so far had not extended to

asking Saint Hubert again, and a few muttered words from Henri, to

which the Vicomte had responded with only a shrug, had killed the words

that were hovering on her lips. She looked at him with anguished eyes.




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