About sixty feet from the floor, a row of clerestory windows, unglazed, admitted arrows of sunlight through a golden fretwork; and these arrows, piercing the incense vapor, checkered intricate patterns on the enormous, deep-piled Persian rugs of rose, lilac, and misty blue.

Tables and chairs, of course, there were none.  A dakkah, or platform, in horseshoe shape, at the far end, covered with rugs and cushions, and with water-jars, large copper fire-pans, coffee-pots of silver, and shishahs (water-pipes) told where the feast was to be offered.

From a side door, as a silken curtain was drawn back, some fifteen slave-girls entered—­whiter than their masters and in tight jackets and loose, silk trousers.  These girls brought copper basins of rose-water for the Arabs’ “lesser ablution” before a meal.  Bara Miyan smiled slightly as he gestured the Legionaries also to wash hands and faces; but the Master, little relishing the idea of using this same water after the Arabs, shook his head.

Not thus slyly could the Olema inflict humiliation on unbelievers.  A hard look crept into the Master’s eyes.  This covert insult, after the exchange of salt, boded very ill.

In silence the Legionaries watched the Arabs dry their hands and faces on towels given them by the slave-girls, who then noiselessly withdrew.  All the Arabs prostrated themselves and prayed.  The Master was the only one who noticed one significant fact:  that now the kiblah, or direction of prayer, was not to the north-west, where lay Mecca, but—­judging by the sun—­was almost due west, toward the spot where lay the Black Stone.  This reassured him once more.

“They recognize the Stone, right enough,” thought he.  “As long as nothing happens to that, we hold the whip-hand of them.  Our only real danger is that something might happen to it.  But a few hours, now, will end all this.  And in a few hours, what can happen?”

The Arabs ceased their droning supplications to Allah, which had been rising with hypnotically soothing murmurs through the incensed air, and now followed Bara Miyan toward the raised platform.  The old Sheik beckoned his guests.  All disposed themselves comfortably among the cushions.  The Legionaries ignored what seemed a disposition on the part of the Arabs to separate them—­to scatter them along the platform.

“Keep together, men,” the Master commanded.  “Group yourselves closely here, in the middle.  Say nothing.  Watch everything.  Make no move without specific orders.  If it comes to a fight, and I am killed, Leclair will command you.  His knowledge of Arabic temporarily ranks him above Bohannan.  Don’t shoot unless it comes to hard necessity; but if you do shoot, make every bullet count—­and save the last one for yourselves!”

Bara Miyan clapped his hands.  Through two arched doorways, to right and left, entered a silent file of the huge, half-naked Maghrabi men.  All were unarmed; but the muscles of their heavy shoulders, the gorilla-like dangle of their steel-fingered hands produced an effect more ominous even than the gleam of simitars in the dim cressets’ light would have been.