Tall old chief and slim white horse of purest barb breed seemed almost
one creature. Instinctively the Master's service-cap came off, at
sight of him. The lieutenant's did the same. Both men stepped forward,
cap over heart. These two, if no others, understood the soul of
Arabia.
Suddenly the old Sheik uttered a cry. An instant change came over the
rushing horde. With one final volley, silence fell. The kettle-drums
ceased their booming. Every rider leaned far back in his pearl-inlaid,
jewel-crusted saddle, reining in his horse.
And in a moment, as innumerable unshod hoofs dug the heavy turf, all
that thundering host--which but a second before had seemed inevitably
bound to trample down the Legion under a hurricane of white-lathered
horses and frenzied, long-robed men--came to a dead halt of silence
and immobility.
It was as if some magician's wand, touching the crest of an inbreaking
storm-wave, had instantaneously frozen it, white-slavering foam and
all, to motionless rigidity.
Ahead of all, standing erect and proud in his arabesque stirrups, with
the green banner floating overhead, the chief of this whole marvelous
band was stretching out the hand of salaam.
Pages:
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382