of knowing that he had made her love him--of flattering himself on the
power he exercised over her? Did he care that he was able to torture
her heart with a refinement of cruelty that took all and gave nothing?
Did he wish her to crawl abjectly to his feet to give him the pleasure
of spurning her contemptuously, or was it only that he wanted her
senses merely to respond to his ardent, Eastern temperament? Her face
grew hot and shamed. She knew the fiery nature that was hidden under
his impassive exterior and knew the control he exercised over himself,
knew, too, that the strain he put upon himself was liable to be broken
with unexpected suddenness. It was an easy thing to rule his wild
followers, and she guessed that the relaxation that he looked for in
the privacy of his own tent meant more to him than he would ever have
admitted, than perhaps he even know. The hatred and defiance with which
she had repelled him had provoked and amused him, but it had also at
times angered him.

He was very human, and there must have been moments when he wanted a
willing mate rather than a rebellious prisoner. She gave a quick sigh
as she looked at him. He was so strong, so vigorous, so intensely
alive. It was going to be very difficult to anticipate his moods and be
subservient to his temper. She sighed again wearily. If she could but
make him and keep him happy. She ruffled her loose curls, tugging them
with a puzzled frown, a trick that was a survival of her nursery days,
when she clutched frantically at her red-gold mop to help her settle
any childish difficulty.

She knelt up suddenly on the cushions of the divan. "Why do you hate
the English so bitterly, Monseigneur?" She had dropped almost
unconsciously into Gaston's mode of address for some time; it was often
awkward to give him no name, and she shrank from using his own; and the