She snuggled to him closer and closer and closer and closer and closer than that. Her magnificent long black lashes dusted off his cheek. She smoothed back the fair hair that had been so strange to her in company with the jet whiskers that once he had worn. She thought of Cyril Gristmille and then she clung to him like a little leech--only, you know, a warm leech. "My prince--my prince--my Sheik Amut Never Ben King," she sighed gustfully. Entranced he grasped her to him fiercely his lips against her lips! Their eyes were blazing, their veins throbbing, their bodies writhing as he whispered tensely, tickling her under the chin: "Tweetsy, tweetsy, Verbeena mine!" Beyond the tent flap they saw the silver shaft of the magic moon and caught glimpses of the stately palms where the dates clustered into the years and to their ears came the sweet, silvery, insistent, impassioned twillipping of the sandworms, the neighing of the beloved horses, the music of the mules and the vibrant sweet cough of the camels. In delicious hectic harmony their pulses beat mutually at 110. [Illustration: HOHENZOLLERN ANT. SON IMPERIAL SAHARA BREWERIES OUR TRADE MARK: HOCH DER BOCK!] Transcriber's Notes: Archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation retained. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shriek, by Charles Somerville