sides, and Gaston went towards his master, who towered above the crowd
around him.

Diana turned away with an exclamation of disgust. It was enough to have
seen a display of such brutality; it was too much to stand by while his
fellow-savages acclaimed him for his cruelty.

She went slowly back into the tent, shaken with what she had seen, and
stood in undecided hesitation beside the divan. The helpless feeling
that she so often experienced swept over her with renewed force. There
was nowhere that she could get away from him, no privacy, no respite.
Day and night she must endure his presence with no hope of escape. She
closed her eyes in a sudden agony, and then stiffened at the sound of
his voice outside.

He came in laughing, a cigarette dangling from one blood-stained hand,
while with the other he wiped the perspiration from his forehead,
leaving a dull red smear. She shrank from him, looking at him with
blazing eyes. "You are a brute, a beast, a devil! I hate you!" she
choked furiously.

For a moment an ugly look crossed his face, and then he laughed again.
"Hate me by all means, _ma belle_, but let your hatred be
thorough. I detest mediocrity," he said lightly, as he passed on into
the other room.

She sank down on to the couch. She had never felt so desperate, so
powerless. She stared straight before her, shivering, as she went over
the scene she had just witnessed, her fingers picking nervously at the
jade-green silk of her dress. She longed for some power that would