“Up Jenkins!” cried Swank gaily. I crushed him with a look. But my caution was useless. At his end of the table Lord Wimpole was already far gone in drink. He was playing a harmonica, his favorite pastime when thus afflicted. Back of his chair Effendi patiently awaited his final collapse. His mental attitude was particularly quarrelsome and as the libations gained their mastery he became more and more provocative until Lady Wimpole rose with a sigh and moved toward the tent entrance. There she turned and her lips silently framed the words “Follow me,” a command I was able to obey almost instantly as my host was engaged in an interminable story which he had told twice before.
Stepping beyond the circle of light I peered into the gloom. Lady Sarah’s figure was dimly visible, a patch of gray against the blackness. Joining her we strolled well beyond ear-shot. And yet we did not speak.
What was in our hearts lay too deep for words. It was the moment of supreme renunciation. She looked long and searchingly in my eyes and at last words came.
“My Sheik!” she murmured, resting her hands on my shoulders.
I drew her, trembling, to me.
“Lady Sarah,” I whispered, lifting her heavy fringe of bobbed hair that she might hear my low heart’s cry, “my Sarah of the Sahara, we have had our little hour, thee and I. Now, by the law of thy people we must part. But by the law of my adopted people, the Moplahs, thou art mine, my desert woman, my sweet sand lark.”
She drew back affrighted. Though I had spoken before in an exalted strain I had never so definitely approached the topic of love. Then she took my hand again.
“O, El-Dhub,—” she said, “what you say is sweet and true. Thy words are as the nightingale’s song. My heart and my love are indeed thine, but see how I am encompassed ... By all the laws of my people I am bound to my over-lord yonder.... I can not free myself....”
From the glowing tent burst a wild strain of harmonica music, fierce, exultant.
“God pity me!” I cried. “Farewell!”