ups and discharged their weapons toward the
sky, the horsemen of Jannati Shahr drove down upon the little group of
Legionaries.

The major loosened his revolver in its holster. Others did the same.
At the machine-guns, the gunners settled themselves, waiting the
Master's word of command to mow into the white foam of that insurging
wave--a wave of frantic riders and of lathering Nedj horses,
the thunder of whose hoofs moment by moment welled up into a
heart-breaking chorus of power.

"Damn it all, sir!" the major exclaimed. "When are you going to rip
into them? They'll be on us, in three minutes--in two! Give 'em Hell,
before it's too late! Stop 'em!"

Leclair smiled dryly behind his lean hand, as the Master emphatically
shook a head in negation.

"No, Major," he said. "No machine-guns yet. You and your eternal
machine-guns are sometimes a weariness to the flesh." He raised his
voice, above the tumult of the approaching storm of men and horses.
"I suppose you've never even heard of the _La'ab el Barut_, the
powder-play of the Arabs? They are greeting us with their greatest
display of ceremony--and you talk about machine-guns!"

He turned, lifted his hand and called to the gunners:

"No mistakes now, men! No accidents! The first man that pulls a
trigger at these people, I'll shoot down with my own hand!"

The lieutenant touched the Master's arm.

"We must give them a return salute, my Captain," he said in Arabic.
"To omit that would be a grave breach of the laws of host and
guest--almost as bad as violating the salt!"

The Master nodded.

"That is quite true, Lieutenant," he answered. "Thank you for
reminding me!"

Once more he turned to the gunners.

"Load with blanks," he commanded, "and aim at an elevation of
forty-five degrees. Hold your fire till I give the word!"

"It is well, _Effendi_!" approved the lieutenant, his eyes gleaming
with Gallic enthusiasm. "These are no People of the Black Tents, no
Beni Harb, nor thieving Meccans. These are men of the very ancient,
true Arabic blood--and we must honor them!"

Already the rushing powder-play was within a few hundred yards.
The roar of hoofs, the smashing volleys of fire, raging of the
kettle-drums, wild-echoing yells of the white company deafened the
Legionaries' ears.

What a sight that was--archaic chivalry in all the loose-robed flight
and flashing magnificence of rushing pride! Not one, not even the
least imaginative of the Legion, but felt hi