None
drank from cupped palm. Dry-mouthed, hot, panting, the Legionaries
still obeyed. And thus the rare wine of Araby ran guttering to the
unseen blackness of the mystery river far below.
The Master, hands on hips, watched this labor; and as he watched he
laughed.
"Whatever comes to us, men," judged he, "we are here and now doing
great evil to the men of El Barr. My only regret is that we haven't
time to return up through the labyrinth, to the jewel-crypt, fill the
skins with jewels and dump them all down this shaft like the wine.
These Moslem swine would then remember us, many a long day. Ah, well,
some day we may come back--who knows?"
He fell silent, while the last of the skins were being filled and
lashed. The last, that is to say, needed by the Legionaries. Ten in
all, were now blown up and securely tied. But a good many more still
remained full of the rare wine.
With his simitar, the Master slashed these quickly, one by one.
"They took our blood," he cried. "We have taken theirs--and their
wine, too. And have destroyed Myzab and the Black Stone, no doubt.
Well, it's a bargain!"
"C'est egal!" exclaimed Leclair. "More than that, eh, my Captain?"
The Master returned to the shaft, his bare feet red through the run
and welter of the wine on the stone floor.
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