We've got fighting ahead, and we'd better
quench whatever thirst there is for wealth, first."
No one made any move. Only Bohannan's mind had been unsettled by the
hoard, to the extent of wanting to possess it. Now that death loomed,
empty pockets were as good, to all the rest, as any other sort.
"You're all a pack of damned fools!" Bohannan sneered. "You could die
richer than Rockefeller, every man-jack of you, and you--you don't
want to! Sure, it's _you_ that's mad, not me!"
No one answered. They all stood peering down at him, their faces
tense, wounded, dirty; their eyes gleaming strangely; the shadow of
Azrael's wing already enfolding them. Then, a few detached themselves
from the little group and wandered off into the gloom, away from the
pits. Leclair muttered:
"I prefer loading my automatic, to loading my pockets! Odd, the major
is, eh? Ah well, _a chacun sa chimere!_"
"Everybody's weapons fully loaded?" the Master demanded. "Be sure they
are! And don't forget the mercy-bullets, men. These Arabs are rather
ingenious in their tortures. They make a specialty of crucifying
unbelievers--upside down. That sort of thing won't do, for us not for
fighting-men of the Legion!"
Bohannan, laughing, stood up.
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