He dropped her hands and turned abruptly, going back to the doorway, looking out into the darkness. "It is very late. We must start early. Go and lie down," he said gently, but it was an order in spite of the gentleness of his voice.
She shrank back trembling, with piteous, stricken face and eyes filled with a great despair. She knew him and she knew it was the end. Nothing would break his resolution. She looked at him with quivering lips through a mist of tears, looked at him with a desperate fixedness that sought to memorise indelibly his beloved image in her heart. The dear head so proudly poised on the broad shoulders, the long strong limbs, the slender, graceful body. He was all good to look upon. A man of men. Monseigneur! Monseigneur! Mon maitre et seigneur. No! It would never be that any more. A rush of tears blinded her and she stepped back uncertainly and stumbled against the little writing-table. She caught at it behind her to steady herself, and her fingers touched the revolver he had laid down. The contact of the cold metal sent a chill that seemed to strike her heart. She stood rigid, with startled eyes fixed on the motionless figure in the doorway—one hand gripping the weapon tightly and the other clutching the silken wrap across her breast. Her mind raced forward feverishly, there were only a few hours left before the morning, before the bitter moment when she must leave behind her for ever the surroundings that had become so dear, that had been her home as the old castle in England had never been. She thought of the long journey northward, the agonised protraction of her misery riding beside him, the nightly camps when she would lie alone in the little travelling tent, and then the final parting at the wayside station, when she would have to watch him wheel at the head of his men and ride out of her life, and she would strain her eyes through the dust and sand to catch the last glimpse of the upright figure on the spirited black horse. It would be The Hawk, she thought suddenly. He had ridden Shaitan to-day, and he always used one or other of the two for long journeys. It was The Hawk he had ridden the day she had made her bid for freedom and who had carried the double burden on the return journey when she had found her happiness. The contrast between that ride, when she had lain content in the curve of his strong arm, and the ride that she would take the next day was poignant. She closed her teeth on her trembling lip, her fingers tightened on the stock of the revolver, and a wild light came into her sad eyes. She could never go through with it. To what end would be the hideous torture? What was life without him?—Nothing and less than nothing. She could never give herself to another man. She was necessary to no one. Aubrey had no real need of her; his selfishness wrapped him around with a complacency that abundantly satisfied him. One day, for the sake of the family he would marry—perhaps was already married if he had been able to find a woman in America who would accept his egoism along with his old name and possessions. Her life was her own to deal with. Nobody would be injured by its termination. Aubrey, indeed, would benefit considerably. And he–? His figure was blurred through the tears that filled her eyes.
Slowly she lifted the weapon clear of the table with steady fingers and brought her hand stealthily from behind her. She looked at it for a moment dispassionately. She was not afraid. She was conscious only of an overwhelming weariness, a longing for rest that should still the gnawing pain in her breast and the throbbing in her head…. A flash and it would be over, and all her sorrow would melt away…. But would it? A doubting fear of the hereafter rushed over her. What if suffering lived beyond the border-line? But the fear went as suddenly as it had come, for with it came remembrance that in that shadowy world she would find one who would understand—her own father, who had shot himself, mad with heartbroken despair, when her mother died in giving her birth.
She lifted the revolver to her temple resolutely.
There had been no sound to betray what was passing behind him, but the extra sense, the consciousness of imminent danger that was strong in the desert-bred man, sprang into active force within the Sheik. He turned like a flash and leaped across the space that separated them, catching her hand as she pressed the trigger, and the bullet sped harmlessly an inch above her head. With his face gone suddenly ghastly he wrenched the weapon from her and flung it far into the night.
For a moment they stared into each other's eyes in silence, then, with a moan, she slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet in an agony of terrible weeping. With a low exclamation he stooped and swept her up into his arms, holding her slender, shaking figure with tender strength, pressing her head against him, his cheek on her red-gold curls.
"My God! child, don't cry so. I can bear anything but that," he cried brokenly.
But the terrible sobs went on, and fearfully he caught her closer, straining her to him convulsively, raining kisses on her shining hair. "Diane, Diane," he whispered imploringly, falling back into the soft French that seemed so much more natural. "Mon amour, ma bien-aimee. Ne pleures pas, je t'en prie. Je t'aime, je t'adore. Tu resteras pres de moi, tout a moi."
She seemed only half-conscious, unable to check the emotion that, unloosed, overwhelmed her. She lay inert against him, racked with the long shuddering sobs that shook her. His firm mouth quivered as he looked down at his work. Gathering her up to his heart he carried her to the divan, and the weight of her soft slim body sent the blood racing madly through his veins. He laid her down, and dropped on his knees beside her, his arm wrapped round her, whispering words of passionate love.
Gradually the terrible shuddering passed and the gasping sobs died away, and she lay still, so still and white that he was afraid. He tried to rise to fetch some restorative, but at the first movement she clung to him, pressing closer to him. "I don't want anything but you," she murmured almost inaudibly.
His arm tightened round her and he turned her face up to his. Her eyes were closed and the wet lashes lay black against her pale cheek. His lips touched them pitifully.
"Diane, will you never look at me again?" His voice was almost humble.
Her eyes quivered a moment and them opened slowly, looking up into his with a still-lingering fear in them. "You won't send me away?" she whispered pleadingly, like a terrified child.
A hard sob broke from him and he kissed her trembling lips fiercely. "Never!" he said sternly. "I will never let you go now. My God! If you knew how I wanted you. If you knew what it cost me to send you away. Pray God I keep you happy. You know the worst of me, poor child—you will have a devil for a husband."
The colour stole back slowly into her face and a little tremulous smile curved her lips. She slid her arm up and round his neck, drawing his head down. "I am not afraid," she murmured slowly. "I am not afraid of anything with your arms round me, my desert lover. Ahmed! Monseigneur!"