The Jannati Shahr men began kicking off their babooshes and sliding their naked feet into light slippers, rows upon rows of which stood under the portico.  The Master and Leclair quickly put off their shoes and took slippers; the others followed suit.  But not without unwillingness did the Master make the change.

“This will put us at a very serious disadvantage,” thought he, “in case it comes to fighting.  These people are used to going almost barefooted.  We are not.  Still, there’s no help for it.  But I’d like infernally well to keep my shoes!”

All he said was: 

“Remember now, men, no women and no wine!  If this city is like the usual Arab towns, there will be neither in sight.  But if not, and temptations arise, remember my orders!  No drop of any kind of liquor—­and no flirtation.  I’ll deal summarily with any man who forgets himself.  There’s everything at stake now, in the next hour or two.  We can’t jeopardize it all for any nonsense!”

The major groaned, inwardly.  Thirsts were on his Celtic soul that longed for dalliance with the Orient; but he well knew that tone of voice, and sadly resigned himself to abstinence.

“Keep your revolvers loose in the holsters, men,” the Master added, as Bara Miyan gestured toward the slowly opening entrance of the citadel—­a massive door as all doors seemed in Jannati Shahr; a door of gold reinforced with huge teak beams.  “Watch for any sign of treachery, but don’t shoot until I give the order.  Then, shoot to kill!  And whatever you do, stick together.  Don’t separate, no matter what the provocation!  Now, follow me!”

A strange feeling of anxiety, almost of fear, had taken hold on the Master’s heart.  This fear was not in the least for himself or any of the men.  Hard-bitted adventurers all, they had gone into this expedition with their eyes open, well knowing that some must inevitably die before its close.  They had gambled at dice with Fate; and, losing, could have no complaint.

It was all for “Captain Alden” that the Master’s anxiety was now awakened.  Here was a woman, not only exposed to risks of death, but also of capture by Orientals—­and what it might mean to a white woman to be seized for some hidden harem in Jannati Shahr the Master knew only too well.  He found a moment’s pause to speak in a low tone to the “captain,” unheard by any of the others.

“Remember the mercy-bullet!” said he.  “If anything happens and there’s any risk of capture—­remember, the last one for yourself!”

“If the worst comes,” she whispered, “we can at least share death together!”

He gazed at her a moment, not quite fathoming her words, but with an inexplicable tightening round the heart.

“We can at least share death together!”

Why should those words so powerfully affect him?  What were these uncomprehended, new emotions stirring in his hard soul, tempered by war and by unnumbered stern adventurings?