Neither the meaning of his cry nor
of the gesture could he have explained; but both came to him
involuntarily, from the remote lore of his people.
He turned from the oncoming storm, leaning against the wind, clutching
for his cap that the wind-devil had just whirled away. After it he
stumbled; and, falling to his knees, groped for it in the gloom.
"Thousand devils!" ejaculated the Frenchman. "No time, now, for
killing! Lucky if we get back ourselves, alive, to the beach! My
Captain!"
"What now?" the Master flung at him, shielding mouth and eyes with
cupped hands.
"To the wady, all of us! That may give protection till this blast of
Hell passes!"
A startled cry from Rrisa forestalled any answer. The Arab's voice
rose in a wild hail from the sand-filled dark:
"O _M'alme_, _M'alme!_"
"What, Rrisa?"
"Behold! I--_I have found him!_"
"Found--?" shouted the Master, plunging forward.
Leclair followed close, staggering in the sudden gale. "_Abd el
Rahman?_"
"The old hyena, surely! _M'alme, M'alme! See!_"
The white men stumbled with broken ejaculations to where Rrisa was
crouched over a gaunt figure in the drifting sand.
"Is that he, Rrisa?" cried the Master.
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