As for the Legionaries, their attention was divided between the strange white host, still sitting astride those high-necked, slim-barreled Nedj horses, and the luring glimmer of the golden walls.  In a few minutes, however, all attention on both sides was sharply drawn by the return of the two Legionaries with the Apostate.

Without ado, the lean, wild man of the Sahara was led, in wrinkled burnous, with disheveled hair, wild eyes, and an expression of helpless despair, to where the Master stood.  At sight of the massed horsemen, the grassy plain—­a sight never yet beheld by him—­and the distant golden, glimmering walls, a look of desperation flashed into his triple-scarred face.

The whole experience of the past days had been a Jehannum of incomprehensible terrors.  Now that the climax was at hand, strength nearly deserted him even to stand.  But the proud Arab blood in him flared up again as he was thrust forward, confronting Bara Miyan.  His head snapped up, his eyes glittered like a caged eagle’s, the fine, high nostrils dilated; and there he stood, captive but unbeaten, proud even in this hour of death.

Bara Miyan made no great speaking.  All he asked was: 

“Art thou, indeed, that Shaytan called Abd el Rahman, the Reviler?”

The desert Sheik nodded with arrogant admission.

Bara Miyan turned and clapped his hands.  Out from among the horsemen two gigantic black fellows advanced.  Neither one was Arab, though no doubt they spoke the tongue.  Their features were Negroid, of an East African type.

The dress they wore distinguished them from all the others.  They had neither tarboosh nor burnous, but simply red fezes; tight sleeveless shirts of striped stuff, and trousers of Turkish cut.  Their feet were bare.

Strange enough figures they made, black as coal, muscled like Hercules, and towering well toward seven feet, with arms and hands in which the sinews stood out like living welts.  Their faces expressed neither intelligence nor much ferocity.  Submission to Bara Miyan’s will marked their whole attitude.

“Sa’ad,” commanded Bara Miyan, “seest thou this dog?”

“Master, I see,” answered one of the gigantic blacks, speaking with a strange, thick accent.

“Lead him away, thou and Musa.  He was brought us by these zawwar (visitors).  Thy hands and Musa’s are strong.  Remember, no drop of blood must be shed in El Barr.[1] But let not the dog see another sun.  I have spoken.”

[Footnote 1:  Literally “The Plain.”  This name, no doubt, originally applied only to the vast inner space surrounded by the Iron Mountains, seems to have come to be that of Jannati Shahr itself, when spoken of by its inhabitants.  El Barr is probably the secret name that Rrisa would not divulge.]

The gigantic executioner—­the strangler—­named Sa’ad, seized Abd el Rahman by the right arm.  Musa, his tar-hued companion, gripped him by the left.  Never a word uttered the Apostate as he was led away through the horsemen.  But he gave one backward look, piercing and strange, at the Master who had thus delivered him to death—­a look that, for all the White Sheik’s aplomb, strangely oppressed him.