To Leclair he whispered in Arabic an ancient saying of the desert
folk: "'Allah hath given skill to three things, the hands of the
Chinese, the brains of the Franks, the tongues of the Arabs!'" He
added: "When the gas strikes them, they would think the Frankish brain
more wonderful than ever--if they could think at all!"
He slid his hand into the breast of his jacket, pulled a little cord
and drew out a silver whistle, the very same that he had used at
Gallipoli. As he slid it to his lips, they tautened. A flood of
memories surged over him. His fighting-blood was up, like that of
all the other Legionaries in that hasty trench-line along the white
sand-drifts.
A moment's silence followed. Outwardly, all was peace. No sound but
the waves broke the African stillness. A little sand-grouse, known as
_kata_ by the Arabs, came whirring by. Far aloft, a falcon wheeled,
keen-eyed for prey. Once more the deadly scorpion peeped from the
skull, an ugly, sullen, envenomed thing.
The Master held up the silver whistle, glinting in the last sun-glow.
They saw it, and understood. All hearts thrilled, tightening with
the familiar sense of discipline. Fists gripped revolver-butts; feet
shuffled into the sand, getting a hold for the quick, forward leap.
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