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,

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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."




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