The Sheik

The Vicomte came back, bringing a chair for Diana, and put her into it with gentle masterfulness. "Sit down," he said almost gruffly. "You look like a ghost."

She looked up at him reproachfully. "You drugged that coffee, Raoul. If he had died to-day while I was asleep I don't think I could ever have forgiven you."

"My dear child," he said gravely, "you don't know how near you were to collapse. If I had not made you sleep I should have had three patients on my hands instead of two."

"I am very ungrateful," she murmured, with a tremulous little smile.

Saint Hubert brought a chair for himself and dropped into it wearily. He felt very tired, the strain of the past twenty-four hours had been tremendous. He had a very real fear that was fast growing into a conviction that his skill was going to prove unequal to save his friend's life, and beside that anxiety and his physical fatigue he had fought a bitter fight with himself all day, tearing out of his heart the envy and jealousy that filled it, and locking away his love as a secret treasure to be hidden for always. His devotion to Ahmed Ben Hassan had survived the greatest test that could be imposed upon it, and had emerged from the trial strengthened and refined, with every trace of self obliterated. It had been the hardest struggle of his life, but it was over now, and all the bitterness had passed, leaving only a passionate desire for Diana's happiness that outweighed every other thought. One spark of comfort remained. He would not be quite useless. His help and sympathy would be necessary to her, and even for that he was grateful.

He looked across the divan at her, and the change that the last few hours had made in her struck him painfully. The alert, vigorous boyishness that had been so characteristic was gone. Her slim figure drooping listlessly in the big chair, her white face with the new marks of suffering on it, and her wide eyes burning with dumb misery, were all purely womanly. And yet though he resented the change he wished it could have gone further. The restraint she was putting on herself was unnatural. She asked no questions and she shed no tears. He could have borne them both easier than the silent anguish of her face. He feared the results of the emotion she was repressing so rigidly.

There was a long silence.

Henri came in once and Diana roused herself to ask for Gaston, and then relapsed into silent watchfulness again. She sighed once, a long quivering sigh that nearly broke Saint Hubert's heart. He rose and bent over the Sheik with his fingers on his wrist, and as he laid the nerveless hand down again she leaned nearer and covered it with her own.

"His hand is so big for an Arab's," she said softly, like a thought spoken aloud unconsciously.

"He is not an Arab," replied Saint Hubert with sudden, impatient vehemence. "He is English."

Diana looked up at him swiftly with utter bewilderment in her startled eyes. "I don't understand," she faltered. "He hates the English."

"Quand-meme, he is the son of one of your English peers. His mother was a Spanish lady; many of the old noble Spanish families have Moorish blood in their veins, the characteristics crop up even after centuries. It is so with Ahmed, and his life in the desert has accentuated it. Has he never told you anything about himself?"

She shook her head. "Sometimes I have wondered–" she said reflectively. "He seemed different from the others, and there has been so much that I could never understand. But then again there were times when he seemed pure Arab," she added in a lower voice and with an involuntary shiver.

"You ought to know," said Saint Hubert. "Yes!" he went on firmly, as she tried to interrupt him. "It is due to you. It will explain so many things. I will take the responsibility. His father is the Earl of Glencaryll."

"But I know him," said Diana wonderingly. "He was a friend of my father. I saw him only a few months ago when Aubrey and I passed through Paris. He is such a magnificent-looking old man, so fierce and sad. Oh, now I know why that awful frown of Ahmed's has always seemed so familiar. Lord Glencaryll frowns like that. It is the famous Caryll scowl. But I still don't understand." She looked from Saint Hubert to the unconscious man on the divan and back to Saint Hubert with a new trouble growing in her eyes.

"I had better tell you the whole story," said Raoul, dropping back into his chair.