Furious as an army of _jinnee_ with wild cries, screams, howls, as
they stood in their stirrups 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.
Pages:
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380