her clenched teeth. Then as he swung to the ground every thought fell
from her but the terror he inspired. She waited, breathless, the swift
racing of her heart an actual physical pain.

He lingered, fondling the great black horse, and even after it had been
led away he stood looking after it, talking to a tall young Arab who
had ridden in with him. At last he turned and came leisurely towards
the tent. He paused at the door to speak to the Frenchman, a
picturesque, barbaric figure, with flowing robes and great white cloak,
the profile of his lean face clean cut against the evening sky, the
haughty poise of his head emphasised by the attitude in which he was
standing, arrogant, dominating. He moved his hands when he spoke with
quick, expressive gestures, but his voice was slow and soft, pitched in
a deep musical key, but with all its softness unmistakably
authoritative. He pointed with outstretched, steady hand to something
beyond her line of vision, and as he turned to enter the tent he
laughed softly, and she shivered involuntarily. Then he swept in, and
she drew back from him with lowered eyes. She would not look at him;
she would not meet his look. His presence was an offence, she was
scorched with shame. Every fibre of her being cried out in protest at
his proximity. She wished with passionate fierceness that she could
die. She shook feverishly and caught her quivering lip between her
teeth to keep it still, and the red-gold curls lay wet against her
forehead. Her breast heaved stormily with the rapid beating of her
heart, but she held herself proudly erect. He crossed the tent with a
long noiseless stride.

"I hope that Gaston took care of you properly and gave you everything
that you wanted?" he said easily, stooping to a little table to light a
cigarette. The coolness of his words and manner were like a dash of