but at him. Her heart began to beat faster, and the colour slowly left
her face. "Take it. I wish it," he said quietly.

"No." It was little more than a gasp.

"You will wear it to please me," he went on in the same soft voice, and
the old hateful mockery crept into his eyes, "to please my artistic
soul. I have an artistic soul even though I am only an Arab."

"I will not!"

The mockery was wiped out of his eyes in a flash, giving place to the
usual ferocity, and his forehead knit in the dreaded heavy scowl.
"Diane, obey me!"

She clenched her teeth on her lower lip until a rim of blood stained
their whiteness. If he would only shout or bluster like the average
angry man she felt that she could brave him longer, but the cold quiet
rage that characterised him always was infinitely more sinister, and
paralysed her with its silent force. She had never heard him raise his
voice in anger or quicken his usual slow, soft tone, but there was an
inflection that came into his voice and a look that came into his eyes
that was more terrible than any outburst. She had seen his men shrink
when, standing near him, she had barely been able to hear what he had
said. She had seen a look from him silence a clamorous quarrel that had
broken out among his followers too close to his own tent for his
pleasure. And that inflection was in his voice and that look was in his
eyes now. It was no longer use to resist. The fear of him was an agony.
She would have to obey, as in the end he always forced her to obey. She
wrenched her eyes away from his compelling stare, her bosom heaving