The lieutenant touched the Master’s arm.

“We must give them a return salute, my Captain,” he said in Arabic.  “To omit that would be a grave breach of the laws of host and guest—­almost as bad as violating the salt!”

The Master nodded.

“That is quite true, Lieutenant,” he answered.  “Thank you for reminding me!”

Once more he turned to the gunners.

“Load with blanks,” he commanded, “and aim at an elevation of forty-five degrees.  Hold your fire till I give the word!”

“It is well, Effendi!” approved the lieutenant, his eyes gleaming with Gallic enthusiasm.  “These are no People of the Black Tents, no Beni Harb, nor thieving Meccans.  These are men of the very ancient, true Arabic blood—­and we must honor them!”

Already the rushing powder-play was within a few hundred yards.  The roar of hoofs, the smashing volleys of fire, raging of the kettle-drums, wild-echoing yells of the white company deafened the Legionaries’ ears.

What a sight that was—­archaic chivalry in all the loose-robed flight and flashing magnificence of rushing pride!  Not one, not even the least imaginative of the Legion, but felt his skin crawl, felt his blood thrill, with stirrings of old romance at sight of this strange, exalting spectacle!

In the van, an ancient horseman with bright colors in his robe was riding hardest of all, erect in his high-horned saddle, reins held loose in a master-hand, gold-mounted rifle with enormously long barrel flourished on high.

Tall old chief and slim white horse of purest barb breed seemed almost one creature.  Instinctively the Master’s service-cap came off, at sight of him.  The lieutenant’s did the same.  Both men stepped forward, cap over heart.  These two, if no others, understood the soul of Arabia.

Suddenly the old Sheik uttered a cry.  An instant change came over the rushing horde.  With one final volley, silence fell.  The kettle-drums ceased their booming.  Every rider leaned far back in his pearl-inlaid, jewel-crusted saddle, reining in his horse.

And in a moment, as innumerable unshod hoofs dug the heavy turf, all that thundering host—­which but a second before had seemed inevitably bound to trample down the Legion under a hurricane of white-lathered horses and frenzied, long-robed men—­came to a dead halt of silence and immobility.

It was as if some magician’s wand, touching the crest of an inbreaking storm-wave, had instantaneously frozen it, white-slavering foam and all, to motionless rigidity.

Ahead of all, standing erect and proud in his arabesque stirrups, with the green banner floating overhead, the chief of this whole marvelous band was stretching out the hand of salaam.

“Fire!” cried the Master.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

BARA MIYAN, HIGH PRIEST

The crash of six machine-guns clattered into a chattering tumult, muzzles pointed high over the heads of the Jannati Shahr men.  Up into the still, hot air jetted vicious spurts of flame.