The Sheik Retold(50)

***

The lamp was already lit when I opened my heavy eyes. A bitter taste haunted my mouth. I turned my head toward the clock beside me. The tiny chime sounded seven times. More than twelve hours had passed since I had drunk the drugged coffee. Twelve hours! I knew why he had done it and tried to be grateful, but the thought of what might have happened while I had lain like a log was horrible. I dressed with feverish haste, thankful that everything was laid out in readiness for my waking, though the Arab girl herself was not visible.

When I entered the outer room, it was filled with Arabs, many of whom I did not recognize, yet I knew they must belong to the reinforcements that Ahmed had sent for. Two, who appeared to be minor chiefs, were talking in low tones to Saint Hubert, who looked worn and tired. The rest were grouped silently about the divan, gaping at the still-unconscious sheik. Nearest to him stood Yusef in an attitude of deepest dejection, with eyes that looked like a whipped dog. I stood in the background until the tent gradually emptied.

Taking notice of me at last, the vicomte guided me to a chair. "Sit down," he said almost gruffly. "You look like a ghost."

"Because you drugged that coffee," I reproached. "If he had died today while I was asleep, I don't think I could ever have forgiven you."

"My dear child," he said gravely, "you don't know how near you were to collapse. If I had not made you sleep, I should have had three patients on my hands instead of two."

"I'm sorry. I am very ungrateful," I replied with a tremulous smile.

Saint Hubert brought a chair for himself and dropped into it wearily. By appearances the strain of the past twenty-four hours had been tremendous, but I still worried that his care and skill might prove unequal to save his friend's life.

Henri came in, and I roused myself to ask after Gaston. His reply was still noncommittal. We relapsed into silent watchfulness again until Saint Hubert rose and bent over the sheik with his fingers on his wrist. When he laid the lifeless hand down again, I covered it with my own.

"His hand is so big for an Arab's," I spoke my thoughts unconsciously aloud.

"He is not an Arab," replied Saint Hubert with sudden, impatient vehemence. "He is English."





CHAPTER ELEVEN


"English?" I repeated in utter bewilderment. "How can that be? He doesn't even look English."

"Quand-meme, he is the son of one of your English peers. His father is the Earl of Glencaryll."

"But I know him!" I said. "He was a friend of my father. I saw him only a few months ago when Aubrey and I passed through Paris. He is such a magnificent-looking old man, so fierce and sad." My hand came over my mouth with an exclamation. "Oh! Now I know why that awful scowl of Ahmed's has always seemed so familiar. Lord Glencaryll has the identical expression. It is the famous Caryll scowl."

I looked from Saint Hubert to the unconscious man on the divan and back to Saint Hubert. "But I still don't understand. If he is English, why is he here?"

"Has he never told you anything about himself?"

"No." I shook my head in embarrassment.

Saint Hubert looked equally uncomfortable. I did not move or meet his gaze but sat with one hand clasped over the sheik's and the other shading my eyes. I did not wish to show my eagerness but waited and hoped he would share more about this enigmatic man who had taken possession of me body and soul.

"Ahmed does not look English because his mother was a Spanish lady, many of whom have Moorish blood in their veins. The characteristics can crop up even after centuries, as is so with Ahmed, and his life in the desert has accentuated this. Ahmed's history is quite a complex and curious one," the vicomte went on.

"What do you mean?"

"For it to make any sense to you, I suppose I must tell you the whole story from the beginning." He dropped back into his chair and propped up his feet. "I warn you that it is a long one."

"I do not mind." I tried not to sound overly eager, but I was already hanging on every word. "Please tell it to me."

"As you wish, mademoiselle." He inclined his head to me and then lit a cigarette. "Thirty-six years ago, after my mother passed, my father came to this place in his desire to get away from all that reminded him of her. He had first met the former Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan through the purchase of some horses, but over time their relationship ripened into an intimate friendship.

“It was during my father's visit that a party of the sheik's men arrived with a woman they had found wandering in the desert. When questioned, the woman could give no account of herself, as the effects of the sun or other causes had put her temporarily out of her senses. Not knowing what to do with her, they brought her to their chief. This sheik was a wonderful man, very enlightened and much wrapped up in his tribe. She was treated tenderly by him, as Arabs are very gentle with anyone who is mad—'Allah has touched them!' For days it was doubtful she would recover, as her condition was aggravated by the fact that she was shortly to become a mother.

“After a time, she regained her senses, but nothing could make her say anything about herself. She was quite young, and her accent hinted at Spanish origins, but she would admit nothing, not even her nationality. Questions only resulted in terrible fits of hysteria. In due course of time, the child was born—a boy." Saint Hubert nodded toward the sheik. "There was an element of mystery that clung to her that took hold of the superstitious Arabs. The baby came to be looked upon as something more than human and was adored by all the tribe.