The Sheik: A Novel

by E. M. Hull

Ahmed Ben Hassan did not go back through the defile, he turned into a little path that Diana had overlooked and which skirted the hills. In about half-an-hour the troop met them, riding slowly from the opposite direction. She did not raise her eyes as they approached, but she heard Yusef's clear tenor voice calling out to the Sheik, who answered shortly as the men fell in behind him. Back over the ground that she had traversed so differently. She knew that it had been madness from the first. She should have known that it could never succeed, that she could never reach civilisation alone. She had been a fool ever to imagine that she could win through. The chance that had thrown her again into the Sheik's power might just as easily have thrown her into the hands of any other Arab. Luck had helped Ahmed Ben Hassan even as she herself had unknowingly played into his hands when he had captured her first. Fate was with him. It was useless to try and struggle against him any more. Her brain was a confused medley of thoughts that she was too tired to unravel, strange, conflicting ideas chasing wildly through her mind. She did not understand them, she did not try. The effort of thinking made her head ache agonisingly. She was conscious of a great unrest, a dull aching in her heart and a terrible depression that was altogether apart from the fear she felt of the Sheik. She gave up trying to think; she was concerned only with trying to keep her balance.

She lifted her head for the first time and looked at the magnificent sky. The sun had almost set, going down in a ball of molten fire, and the heavens on either side were a riot of gold and crimson and palest green, shading off into vivid blue that grew blacker and blacker as the glory of the sunset died away. The scattered palm trees and the far-off hills stood out in strong relief. It was a country of marvellous beauty, and Diana's heart gave a sudden throb as she realised that she was going back to it all. She was drooping wearily, unable to sit upright any longer, and once or twice she jolted heavily against the man who rode behind her. His nearness had ceased to revolt her; she thought of it with a dull feeling of wonder. She had even a sense of relief at the thought of the strength so close to her. Her eyes rested on his hands, showing brown and muscular under the folds of his white robes. She knew the power of the long, lean fingers that could, when he liked, be gentle enough. Her eyes filled with sudden tears, but she blinked them back before they fell. She wanted desperately to cry. A wave of terrible loneliness went over her, a feeling of desolation, and a strange, incomprehensible yearning for what she did not know. As the sunset faded and it grew rapidly dusk a chill wind sprang up and she shivered from time to time, drooping more and more with fatigue, at times only half conscious. She had drifted into complete oblivion, when she was awakened with a jerk that threw her back violently against the Sheik, but she was too tired to more than barely understand that they had stopped for something, and that there were palm trees near her. She felt herself lifted down and a cloak wrapped round her, and then she remembered nothing more. She awoke slowly, shaking off a persistent drowsiness by degrees. She was still tired, but the desperate weariness was gone, and she was conscious of a feeling of well-being and security. The cool, night air blew in her face, dissipating her sleepiness. She became aware that night had fallen, and that they were still steadily galloping southward. In a few moments she was wide awake, and found that she was lying across the saddle in front of the Sheik, and that he was holding her in the crook of his arm. Her head was resting just over his heart, and she could feel the regular beat beneath her cheek. Wrapped warmly in the cloak and held securely by his strong arm at first she was content to give way only to the sensation of bodily rest. It was enough for the moment to lie with relaxed muscles, to have to make no effort of any kind, to feel the soothing rush of the wind against her face, and the swift, easy gallop of The Hawk as he carried them on through the night. Them! With a start of recollection she realised fully whose arm was round her, and whose breast her head was resting on. Her heart beat with sudden violence. What was the matter with her? Why did she not shrink from the pressure of his arm and the contact of his warm, strong body? What had happened to her? Quite suddenly she knew—knew that she loved him, that she had loved him for a long time, even when she thought she hated him and when she had fled from him. She knew now why his face had haunted her in the little oasis at midday—that it was love calling to her subconsciously. All the confusion of mind that had assailed her when they started on the homeward journey, the conflicting thoughts and contrary emotions, were explained. But she knew herself at last and knew the love that filled her, an overwhelming, passionate love that almost frightened her with its immensity and with the sudden hold it had laid upon her. Love had come to her at last who had scorned it so fiercely. The men who had loved her had not had the power to touch her, she had given love to no one, she had thought that she could not love, that she was devoid of all natural affection and that she would never know what love meant. But she knew now—a love of such complete surrender that she had never conceived. Her heart was given for all time to the fierce desert man who was so different from all other men whom she had met, a lawless savage who had taken her to satisfy a passing fancy and who had treated her with merciless cruelty. He was a brute, but she loved him, loved him for his very brutality and superb animal strength. And he was an Arab! A man of different race and colour, a native; Aubrey would indiscriminately class him as a "damned nigger." She did not care. It made no difference. A year ago, a few weeks even, she would have shuddered with repulsion at the bare idea, the thought that a native could even touch her had been revolting, but all that was swept away and was nothing in the face of the love that filled her heart so completely. She did not care if he was an Arab, she did not care what he was, he was the man she loved. She was deliriously, insanely happy. She was lying against his heart, and the clasp of his arm was joy unspeakable. She was utterly content; for the moment all life narrowed down to the immediate surroundings, and she wished childishly that they could ride so for ever through eternity. The night was brilliant. The stars blazed against the inky blackness of the sky, and the light of the full moon was startlingly clear and white. The discordant yelling of a pack of hunting jackals came from a little distance, breaking the perfect stillness. The men were riding in unusual silence, though a low exclamation or the subdued jingle of accoutrements was heard occasionally, once some one fired at a night creature that bounded out from almost under his horse's feet. But the Sheik flung a word of savage command over his shoulder and there were no more shots. Diana stirred slightly, moving her head so that she could see his face showing clearly in the bright moonlight, which threw some features into high relief and left the rest in dark shadow. She looked at him with quickening breath. He was peering intently ahead, his eyes flashing in the cold light, his brows drawn together in the characteristic heavy scowl, and the firm chin, so near her face, was pushed out more doggedly than usual.

He felt her move and glanced down. For a moment she looked straight into his eyes, and then with a low, inarticulate murmur she hid her face against him. He did not speak, but he shifted her weight a little, drawing her closer into the curve of his arm.

It was very late when they reached the camp. Lights flashed up in the big tent and on all sides, and they were surrounded by a crowd of excited tribesmen and servants. In spite of the hard day's work The Hawk started plunging and rearing, his invariable habit on stopping, which nothing could break, and at a word from the Sheik two men leaped to his head while he transferred Diana to Yusef's outstretched arms. She was stiff and giddy, and the young man helped her to the door of the tent, and then vanished again into the throng of men and horses.

Diana sank wearily on to the divan and covered her face with her hands. She was trembling with fatigue and apprehension. What would he do to her? She asked herself the question over and over again, with shaking, soundless lips, praying for courage, nerving herself to meet him. At last she heard his voice and, looking up, saw him standing in the doorway. His back was turned, and he was giving orders to a number of men who stood near him, for she could hear their several voices; and shortly afterwards half-a-dozen small bands of men rode quickly away in different directions. For a few moments he stood talking to Yusef and then came in. At the sight of him Diana shrank back among the soft cushions, but he took no notice of her, and, lighting a cigarette, began walking up and down the tent. She dared not speak to him, the expression on his face was terrible.

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, 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.