“We can try, sir,” Frazier affirmed grimly.  Unshaven, haggard, dirty, and streaked with sweat, he made a strange figure by contrast with the trim, military-looking chap who only a week before had started with the other Legionaries, now no less altered than he.

“Very well,” said the Master decisively.  “Our prospects are good.  The wounded are coming on.  Counting Lebon, we have twenty-five men.  I will have all stores reloaded at once.  Be ready in one hour, sir.  Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” And Frazier, saluting again, returned to the ravaged but once more efficient engine-room.

All hands plunged into the surf, wading ashore—­for it was now high-tide—­and in short order reloaded the liner.  In forty-five minutes stores, machine-guns, and everything had been brought aboard, the cables to the posts in the beach had been cast off and hauled in, and all the Legionaries were at their posts.  The ports were closed.  Everything was ready for the supreme test.

The Master was last to come aboard.  Still dripping seawater, he clambered up the ladder from the lower gallery to the main corridor, and made his way into the pilot-house.  Bohannan was with him, also Leclair and Captain Alden.

The engines had already been started, and the helicopters had begun to turn, flickering swiftly in their turbine-tubes.  The Master settled himself in the pilot’s seat.  All at once a buzzer sounded close at hand.

“Well, what now?” demanded the Master into the phone communicating with the upper port gallery.

“Smoke to southward, sir.  Coming up along the Coast.”

“Smoke?  A steamer?”

“Can’t see, sir.”  It was the voice of Ferrara that answered.  “The smoke is behind the long point to southward.  But it is coming faster than a merchant vessel.  I should say, sir, it was a torpedo-boat or a destroyer, under forced draft.  And it’s coming—­it’s coming at a devil of a clip, sir!”

CHAPTER XXVIII

ONWARD TOWARD THE FORBIDDEN CITY

The Master rang for full engine-power, and threw in all six helicopters with one swift gesture.

“Major,” commanded he, as Nissr’s burned and wounded body began to quiver through all its mutilated fabric; “Major, man the machine-guns again.  All stations! Quick!”

Bohannan departed.  The droning of the helicopters rose to a shrill hum.  The Master switched in the air-pressure system; and far underneath, white fountains of spumy water leaped up about the floats, mingled with sand and mud all churned to frenzy under the bursting energy of the compressed air released through thousands of tubules.

Nissr trembled, hesitated, lifted a few inches, settled back once more.

Again the buzzer sounded.  The noise of rapid feet became audible above, in the upper galleries.  Ferrara called into the phone: