No one stirred.  But a murmur arose, eager, delighted: 

“Go on!  Go on—­tell us more!”

“Absolute obedience to me is to be the first rule,” continued the Master.  “The second is to be sobriety.  There shall be no drinking, carousing, or gambling.  This is not to be a vulgar, swashbuckling, privateering revel, but—­”

A slight disturbance at the door interrupted him.  He frowned, and rapped on the table, for silence.  The disturbance, however, continued.  Someone was trying to enter there against Rrisa’s protests.

“I did not bring you up, sir,” the Arab was saying, in broken English.  “You cannot come in!  How did you get here?”

“I’m not in the habit of giving explanations to subordinates, or of bandying words with them,” replied the man, in a clear, rather high-pitched but very determined voice.  The company, gazing at him, saw a slight, well-knit figure of middle height or a little less, in aviator’s togs.  “I’m here to see your master, my good fellow, not you!”

The man at the head of the table raised a finger to his lips, in signal of silence from them all, and beckoned the Arab.

“Let him come in!” he ordered, in Rrisa’s vernacular.

“A, M’alme” submitted the desert man, standing aside and bowing as the stranger entered.  The Master added, in English: 

“If he comes as a friend and helper, uninvited though he be, we welcome him.  If as an enemy, traitor, or spy, we can deal justice to him in short order.  Sir, advance!”

The stranger came to the foot of the table.  Men made way for him.  He stood there a moment in silence, dropped his gauntlets on the table and seemed peering at the Master.  Then all at once he drew himself up, sharply, and saluted.

The Master returned the salute.  A moment’s silence followed.  No man was looking elsewhere than at this interloper.

Not much could be seen of him, so swaddled was he in sheepskin jacket, aviator’s helmet, and goggles.  Leather trousers and leggings completed his costume.  The collar of the jacket, turned up, met the helmet.  Of his face, only the chin and lower part of the cheeks remained visible.

The silence tautened, stretched to the breaking-point.  All at once the master of Niss’rosh demanded, incisively: 

“Your name, sir?”

“Captain Alfred Alden, of the R.A.F.”

“Royal Air Force man, eh?  Are you prepared to prove that?”

“I am.”

“If you’re not, well—­this won’t be exactly a salubrious altitude for you.”

“I have my papers, my licenses, my commission.”

“With you here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well,” answered the Master, “I will examine them in due time.  English, American, or—?”

“I am a Canadian.” answered the aviator.  “I have seen nearly two years’ active service.  I rank as an ace.  I bear three wounds and have been cited several times.  I have the Distinguished Service Cross.  What more need I tell you, sir?”