Bohannan whistled his scimitar through the air.
"Very fine I call it!" he exclaimed, with a joyful laugh. "Some little
game of tag, what? And our Moslem friends are still 'it!' We're still
ahead!"
"And likely to be, till our friends bring powder, mine that door, and
blow it in!" The Master added: "We've still a few minutes--maybe more.
Now, then--"
A shrill cry in French, from Lebon, drew all eyes away to the left of
the small chamber.
"_Voila_!" the lieutenant's orderly was vociferating. They saw his
distorted, torture-broken hand wildly gesticulating toward the floor.
"My Lieutenant, behold!"
"In the name of God, what now?" Leclair demanded, scimitar in hand.
The silver lamps struck high-lights from that gleaming blade, as he
turned toward his orderly. Never had he seen the man seized and shaken
by excitement as at this moment. "What hast thou found, Lebon? What?"
"But behold--behold!" choked the orderly. Articulation failed him. He
stammered into unintelligible cries. The Legionaries crowded toward
him. And in the dumb stupefaction that overcame them, the roaring
tumult at the door was all forgotten. The sentence of death hanging
above them, faded to nothing.
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