And the whispered words sent a shock through her that seemed to wrench
her deadened nerves apart, galvanising her into sudden strength. She
sprang up with wild, despairing eyes, and hands clenched frantically
across her heaving breast; then, with a bitter cry, she dropped on to
the floor, her arms flung out across the wide, luxurious bed. It was
not true! It was not true! It could not be--this awful thing that had
happened to her--not to her, Diana Mayo! It was a dream, a ghastly
dream that would pass and free her from this agony. Shuddering, she
raised her head. The strange room swam before her eyes. Oh, God! It was
not a dream. It was real, it was an actual fact from which there was no
escape. She was trapped, powerless, defenceless, and behind the heavy
curtains near her was the man waiting to claim what he had taken. Any
moment he might come; the thought sent her shivering closer to the
ground with limbs that trembled uncontrollably. Her courage, that had
faced dangers and even death without flinching, broke down before the
horror that awaited her. It was inevitable; there was no help to be
expected, no mercy to be hoped for. She had felt the crushing strength
against which she was helpless. She would struggle, but it would be
useless; she would fight, but it would make no difference. Within the
tent she was alone, ready to his hand like a snared animal; without,
the place was swarming with the man's followers. There was nowhere she
could turn, there was no one she could turn to. The certainty of the
accomplishment of what she dreaded crushed her with its surety. All
power of action was gone. She could only wait and suffer in the
complete moral collapse that overwhelmed her, and that was rendered
greater by her peculiar temperament. Her body was aching with the grip
of his powerful arms, her mouth was bruised with his savage kisses. She
clenched her hands in anguish. "Oh, God!" she sobbed, with scalding
tears that scorched her cheeks. "Curse him! Curse him!"