Hissing with hardly audible sighs, the weapons fired their
stange pellets, and once again as over the woods on the Englewood
Palisades--really less than twenty-four hours ago, though it seemed
a month--the little greenish vapor-wisps floated down, down, sinking
gently on the Sahara air.
This attack, they knew, must be decisive or all would be hopeless. The
last supply of capsules was now being exhausted. Everything had been
staked on one supreme effort. Quickly the attackers discharged their
weapons; then, having done all that could be done, lay prone and
waited.
Once again that hollow moaning sound drifted in across the baked
expanse of the Sahara--a strange, empty sound, unreal and ominous.
Then came a stir of sultry breeze, from the east. It strengthened;
and a fine, crepitant sliding of sand-particles became audible. Rrisa
stirred uneasily.
"Master," he whispered, "we should not delay. If the _jinnee_ of the
waste overtake us, we may be lost."
"The _jinnee_ of the waste?" the Master answered, in a low tone. "What
nonsense is this?"
"The simoom, Master--the storm of sand. We call it the work of evil
spirits!"
The Master made no reply, save to command silence.
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