The Haram appeared to have become a vast pool of brown faces and
agitated white _ihrams_ (pilgrim robes) of weaving brown hands,
of gleaming weapons. This pool, roaring to heaven, showed strange,
violent currents in flow and refluent ebb of hate.
To descend into that maelstrom of frenzied murder-lust took courage
of the highest order. But neither Bohannan nor the Frenchman had even
paled. Not one of their men showed any hesitancy whatever.
"Ready, sir," said the major, crisply. "Faith, give the signal and
down we go; and we'll either bring back what we're going after, or
we'll all come back and report ourselves dead!"
"Just a minute, Major," the Master answered. He had opened a small
door of the box containing the apparatus he had just clamped to the
rail, and had taken out a combination telephone earpiece and receiver.
With this at mouth and ear, he leaned over the rail. His lips moved in
a whisper inaudible even to those in the lower gallery with him.
An astonishing change, however, swept over the infuriated mob in the
Haram and throughout the radiating streets. One would have thought a
bolt from heaven had struck the Moslems dumb. The angry tumult died;
the vast hush that rose to _Nissr_ was like a blow in the face,
so striking was its contrast with the previous uproar.
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