Back over the floor of gold she ran.  Her fingers held a crimson cord, from which the key dangled.

“Those two—­they were guardians of this vault, of course!” she cried.  “Here is the key!”

A cheer burst from the Legionaries.  The Master clutched the key, pressed forward to the inner door.  A terrible intensity of emotion seized all the survivors, as he fitted the key to the ponderous lock.

“God!” the Irishman grunted, as the wards slid back.  The padlock clattered to the floor.  The hasp fell.  In swung the door.

Through it pressed the Legionaries, with lamps swinging, pistols in hand.  As the last of them entered, the outer door collapsed with a bursting clangor.  Lights gleamed; a white-robed tumult of raging men burst through.  Shots crackled; yells echoed; and the sound of many sandaled feet, furiously running, filled the outer chamber with sounds of ominous import.

“Ah, sacres cochons!” shouted Leclair, emptying his pistol at the pursuers.  The Master thrust him back.  The door clanged shut; down dropped another bar.

Bohannan laughed madly.  The fighting-blood was leaping in his veins.

“Oh, the grand fight!” he shouted.  “God, the grand old fight!”

Confused voices, crying out in Arabic, wheeled the Master from the door.

This inner chamber, very much smaller than the outer, was well lighted by still more lamps, though here all were of chased silver.

At the far end, four dim figures were visible.  Black faces peered in wonder.  The Legionaries caught sight of giant simitars, of fluttering white robes as the figures advanced.

“By Allah!” a hoarse shout echoed.  “Look, Mustapha!  The Feringi!”

In the shadows at the other end, the amazed Maghrabi swordsmen hesitated one precious moment.  White-rimmed eyes stared, teeth gleamed through distorted lips.

These gigantic mudirs, or Keepers of the Treasure, had expected the opening of the door to show them the Feringi, indeed, but preceded by Bara Miyan and surrounded by men of Jannati Shahr.

Now they beheld the dogs of unbelievers all alone, there, with guns in hands, with every sign of battle.  They had heard sounds of war, from without.  Their dull minds, slowly reacting, could not grasp the significance of all this.

“The Feringi, Yusuf,” cried another voice.  “And they are alone!  What meaneth this?”

“M’adri” (I know not), ejaculated still another.  “But kill—­kill!”

Their attack was hopeless, but its bravery ranked perfect.  Their shouting charge down the chamber, sabers high, ended in grunting sprawls of white.  Not half-naked like the low-caste Maghrabi outside, but clad in Arab fashion, they lay there, with Legionaries’ bullets in breast and brain.

The Master smiled, grimly, as he walked to one of the bodies and stirred it with his naked foot.  He swung above it a silver lamp he had pulled down from the wonderfully arabesqued wall.