except himself since her attempted escape, and to her tentative
suggestions that the rides with the valet might be resumed he had given
a prompt refusal. He hesitated now, and she was afraid he was going to
refuse again, and she looked up wistfully. "Please, Monseigneur," she
whispered humbly.

He looked at her for a moment with his chin squarer than usual. "Are
you going to run away again?" he asked bluntly.

Her eyes filled slowly with tears, and she turned her head away to hide
them. "No, I am not going to run away again," she said very low.

"Very well, I will tell him. He will be delighted, _le bon_
Gaston. He is your very willing slave in spite of the trick you played
him. He has a beautiful nature, _le pauvre diable_. He is not an
Arab, eh, little Diane?" The mocking smile was back in his eyes as he
turned her face up to his in the usual peremptory way. Then he held out
the revolver he had been cleaning with sudden seriousness. "I want you
to carry this always now when you ride. Ibraheim Omair is still in the
neighbourhood."

She looked at it blankly.

"But----" she stammered.

He knew what was in her mind, and he stooped and kissed her lightly. "I
trust you," he said quietly, and went out.

She followed him to the door, the revolver dangling from her hand, and
watched him mount and ride away. His horsemanship was superb and her