The buzzer of the Master’s phone broke the silence between the two men, a silence undertoned by the throb and hum of the now effectively operating engines.

“Well, what is it?” the Master queried.

“Promising oasis, mon capitaine,” came the voice of Leclair from the upper starboard gallery.  “Through my glass I can make out extensive date-palm groves, pomegranate orchards, and gardens.  There must be plenty of water there.  We should take water, eh?”

“Right!” the Master answered.  He got up and turned to Bohannan.

“Major,” commanded he, “have Simonds and a crew of six stand by, in the lower gallery, to descend in the nacelle.  Rrisa is to go.  They will need him, to interpret.  Give them a few of the trinkets from that assortment we brought for barter, and a little of our Arabic money.”

“Yes, sir.  But you know only two of the detachable tanks are left.”

“Two will suffice.  Have them both lowered, together with the electric-drive pump.  Don’t annoy me with petty details.  You are in charge of this job now.  Attend to it!”

He passed into the pilot-house, leaned at the window and with his glasses inspected the deep green patch, dark as the profoundest sea, that marked the oasis.  A little blind village nestled there, with mud-brick huts, a watch-tower and a tiny minaret; date-grounds and fields of corn, melons, and other vegetables spread a green fringe among the groves.

CHAPTER XXIX

“LABBAYK!”

As Nissr slowed near the oasis, the frightened Arabs—­who had been at their ghanda, or mid-day meal—­swarmed into the open.  They left their mutton, cous-cous, date-paste, and lentils, their chibouques with perfumed vapor and their keef-smoking, and manifested extreme fear by outcries in shrill voices.  Under the shadows of the palms, that stood like sentinels against the blistering sands, they gathered, with wild cries.

No fighting-men, these.  The glasses disclosed that they were mostly old men, women, children.  Young men were few.  The fighters had probably gone with the caravan, seen a while before.  There came a little ragged firing; but a round of blanks stopped that, and sent the villagers skurrying back into the shelter of the palms, mimosas, and jamelon trees.

Nissr poised at seven hundred and fifty feet and let down tanks, nacelle, and men.  There was no resistance.  The local naib came with trembling, to make salaam.  Water was freely granted, from the sebil, or public fountain—­an ancient tank with century-deep grooves cut in its solid stone rim by innumerable camel-hair ropes.  The flying men put down a hose, threw the switch of the electric pump, and in a few minutes half emptied the fountain.  The astonishment of the villagers passed all bounds.

“These be men of great magic,” said the naib, to Rrisa, after the tanks had been hoisted to Nissr, and a dozen sacks of fresh dates had been purchased for the trinkets plus two ryals (about two dollars).  “Tell me of these ‘People of the Books!’”