For a moment the two men eyed each other silently.
"Strike, son of the Prophet!" cried the Master.
Up whirled the Olema's blade, flickering in the sun. The metallic
_click_ of the brass switch synchronized with that sweep; Brodeur
shifted the reflector by the fraction of a degree.
Bara Miyan's arm grew rigid, quivered a second, then dropped inert.
From his paralyzed hand the simitar fell to the grass. Brodeur threw
off the ray; and the Master, unsmiling, stooped, picked up the blade
and with a salaam handed it back, hilt-first, to the old man.
Only with his left hand could Bara Miyan accept it. He spoke no word,
neither did any murmur run through the massed horsemen. But the shadow
of a deep astonishment could not quite veil itself in the profound
caverns of the old man's eyes.
"Strike again, Bara Miyan," invited the Master. "The other arm,
perhaps, may not have lost its cunning!"
The Olema shook his head.
"No, by Allah!" he replied. "I know thy magic can numb the flesh, and
it is a good magic. It is strong. But by the rising of the stars--and
that is a great oath--the bullets of our long rifles can pierce thine
unbelieving body!"
"Then bring six of thy best riflemen and station them a dozen
paces from me," the Master challenged.
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