They had heard sounds of war,
from without. Their dull minds, slowly reacting, could not grasp the
significance of all this.
"The Feringi, Yusuf," cried another voice. "And they are alone! What
meaneth this?"
"_M'adri_" (I know not), ejaculated still another. "But _kill--kill_!"
Their attack was hopeless, but its bravery ranked perfect. Their
shouting charge down the chamber, sabers high, ended in grunting
sprawls of white. Not half-naked like the low-caste Maghrabi outside,
but clad in Arab fashion, they lay there, with Legionaries' bullets in
breast and brain.
The Master smiled, grimly, as he walked to one of the bodies and
stirred it with his naked foot. He swung above it a silver lamp he had
pulled down from the wonderfully arabesqued wall.
"Four scimitars added to our equipment will be useful, at close
quarters," he opined very coolly, unmindful of the dull uproar now
battering at the inner door. "Pick up the cutlery, men, and don't
forget the admirable qualities of the _arme blanche_!"
Himself, he took one of the long, curved blades. The major, Leclair,
and Ferrara--an expert swordsman he had been, in the Italian
army--possessed themselves of the others.
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