"They are a special breed, Madame," replied the Frenchman. "The tribe
has been famous for them for generations. Monseigneur's horses are
known through all the Barbary States, and as far as France," he added,
with a little accent of pride creeping into his voice.

Diana looked at him speculatively. There was an inflection in his voice
each time he mentioned his master that indicated a devotion that she
was unable to accredit to the brute for whose treatment she was still
suffering. But her thoughts were broken into abruptly.

"There is Monseigneur," said the servant suddenly. He spoke as if she,
too, must be glad of his coming. Did the valet imagine for one moment
that she was here of her own free will? Or was it all a part of the
hypocrisy in which she seemed to be enveloped? She flashed one glance
at the horseman riding through the belt of trees that fringed the oasis
and an icy perspiration chilled her from head to foot. She shrank back
under the awning and into the coolness of the tent, raging against the
mastering fear that she could not overcome. But just inside the open
doorway she stood firm; even her fear could make her go no further. She
would meet him here, not cowering into the inner room like a trembling
creature skulking in the furthest corner of its cage. That much pride
at least was left.

From the shelter of the tent she watched the troop arrive at the open
space before her. The horse the Sheik was riding was jet black, and
Diana looked from the beautiful creature's satiny coat to the man's
white robes with angry contempt.

"Black and white! Black and white! Mountebank!" she muttered through