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
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.