swerved close in beside her, and the man, rising in his stirrups and
leaning towards her, flung a pair of powerful arms around her, and,
with a jerk, swung her clear of the saddle and on to his own horse in
front of him. His movement had been so quick she was unprepared and
unable to resist. For a moment she was stunned, then her senses came
back to her and she struggled wildly, but, stifled in the thick folds
of the Arab's robes, against which her face was crushed, and held in a
grip that seemed to be slowly suffocating her, her struggles were
futile. The hard, muscular arm round her hurt her acutely, her ribs
seemed to be almost breaking under its weight and strength, it was
nearly impossible to breathe with the close contact of his body. She
was unusually strong for a girl, but against this steely strength that
held her she was helpless. And for a time the sense of her helplessness
and the pain that any resistance to the arm wrapped round her gave her
made her lie quiet. She felt the Arab check his horse, felt the
chestnut wheel, spinning high on his hind legs, and then bound forward
again.

Her feelings were indescribable. She did not know what to think. Her
mind felt jarred. She was unable to frame any thoughts coherently. What
had happened was so unexpected, so preposterous, that no conclusion
seemed adequate. Only rage filled her--blind, passionate rage against
the man who had dared to touch her, who had dared to lay his hands on
her, and those hands the hands of a native. A shiver of revulsion ran
through her. She was choking with fury, with anger and with disgust.
The ignominy of her plight hurt her pride badly. She had been
outridden, swept from her saddle as if she were a puppet, and compelled
to bear the proximity of the man's own hateful body and the restraint
of his arms. No one had ever dared to touch her before. No one had ever
dared to handle her as she was being handled now. How was it going to