"We must give them a return salute, my Captain," he said in Arabic.
"To omit that would be a grave breach of the laws of host and
guest--almost as bad as violating the salt!"
The Master nodded.
"That is quite true, Lieutenant," he answered. "Thank you for
reminding me!"
Once more he turned to the gunners.
"Load with blanks," he commanded, "and aim at an elevation of
forty-five degrees. Hold your fire till I give the word!"
"It is well, _Effendi_!" approved the lieutenant, his eyes gleaming
with Gallic enthusiasm. "These are no People of the Black Tents, no
Beni Harb, nor thieving Meccans. These are men of the very ancient,
true Arabic blood--and we must honor them!"
Already the rushing powder-play was within a few hundred yards.
The roar of hoofs, the smashing volleys of fire, raging of the
kettle-drums, wild-echoing yells of the white company deafened the
Legionaries' ears.
What a sight that was--archaic chivalry in all the loose-robed flight
and flashing magnificence of rushing pride! Not one, not even the
least imaginative of the Legion, but felt his skin crawl, felt his
blood thrill, with stirrings of old romance at sight of this strange,
exalting spectacle!
In the van, an ancient horseman with bright colors in his robe was
riding hardest of all, erect in his high-horned saddle, reins held
loose in a master-hand, gold-mounted rifle with enormously long barrel
flourished on high.
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