Utter peace, indeed, it seemed.  Nothing more soothing could have been imagined than the soft wooing of repletion and of silken cushions, the dim sunlight through the smoke of incense and tobacco, the gentle bubbling of the water-pipes, the half-heard courting of pigeons somewhere aloft in the embrasures of the clerestory windows.

All possibility of warfare seemed to have vanished.  Under the magic spell of this enchanted, golden hall, even the grim Maghrabis, black and motionless along the tapestried walls, seemed to have sunk to the role of mere spectators.

The Arabs’ glances, though subtly curious, appeared to hold little animosity.  Now that they had broken bread together, cementing the Oath of the Salt, might not hospitality have become inviolable?  True, some looks of veiled hostility were directed against “Captain Alden’s” strangely masked face, as the woman sat there cross-legged like the rest, indifferently smoking cigarettes.  For what the Arab cannot understand is always antipathetic to him.  But this hostility was not marked.  The spirits of the Legion, including those of the Master himself, rose with a sense of greater security.

Even Bohannan, chronic complainer, forgot to cavil and began to bask in contentment.

“Faith, but this is a good imitation of Lotus-land, after all,” he murmured to Janina, at his side.  “I wouldn’t mind boarding at this hotel for an indefinite period.  Meals excellent; waitresses beat anything on Broadway; atmosphere very restful to wandering gentlemen.  Now if I could only get acquainted with one of these lovely Fatimas, and find out where the bar is—­the bar of El Barr!  Very good!  Faith, very good indeed!”

He laughed at his own witticism and blew perfumed smoke toward the dim, golden roof.  But now his attention was riveted by the silent entrance of six dancing-girls, that instantly brought him to keen observation.

Their dance, barefooted and with a minimum of veils, swayed into sinuous beauty to the monotonous music of kettle-drums, long red flutes and guitars of sand-tortoise shell with goat-skin heads—­music furnished by a dozen Arabs squatting on their hunkers half-way down the hall.  The gracious weaving of those lithe, white bodies of the girls as they swayed from sunlit filigree to dim shadow, stirred even the coldest heart among the Legionaries, that of the Master himself.  As for Bohannan, his cup of joy was brimming.

The dance ended, one of the girls sang with a little foreign accent, very pleasing to the ears of the Master and Leclairs the famous chant of Kaab el Ahbar: 

  A black tent, swayed by the desert wind
  Is dearer to me, dearer to me
  Than any palace of the city walls. 
  Dearer to me!

  [1]_And the earth met with rain!_

  A handful of dates, a cup of camel’s milk
  Is dearer to me, dearer to me
  Than any sweetmeat in the city walls. 
  Dearer to me!