CHAPTER XLVI

BOHANNAN BECOMES A MILLIONAIRE

Like men in a dream, after the first wild emotions had died, the Legionaries peered down into this sea of light.  Smoke from the lamps rose toward the dim, low-arched roof.  Blood from the Maghrabi’s wounds slowly spread and clotted on the golden floor.

Without, a confused murmur told of resuming preparations to smash in the door.  And through it all, the dry clicking of the gems made itself audible, as the major sifted them with shaking fingers.

“Well, men,” the Master laughed dryly, “here they are!  Here are the jewels of Jannati Shahr.  Old Bara Miyan would probably have given us a peck or two of them, for Myzab and the Great Pearl Star and the Black Stone, if those hadn’t been destroyed—­”

“How do you know they’ve been destroyed?” the major cried.  “How do you know but what we’ll be rescued, here?”

“If the bombardment had been going to begin, I think we’d have heard something of it, by now.  My judgment tells me there’ll be no explosive dropped on Jannati Shahr.

“We’ve got to fight this thing through, unaided.  And at any rate, we don’t have to limit ourselves to a peck or two of jewels.  We’ve got them all, now—­or they’ve got us!”

The irony of his tone made no impression on Bohannan.  His mercurial temperament seemed to have gone quite to pieces, in view of the hoard.  He cried: 

“Come on, then, boys!  Fill up!”

And with a wild laugh he began scooping the gems, hap-hazard, into the pockets of his torn, battle-stained uniform.  Jewels of fabulous price escaped his fingers, like so many pebbles in a sand-pit, and fell clicking to the golden floor.  With shaking hands the major dredged into the pit before him, mad with a very frenzy of greed.

“Stop!” cried the Master, sternly.  “No nonsense, now!”

“What?” retorted Bohannan, angrily.  His bruised, cut face reddened ominously.

“Drop those jewels, sir!”

“Why?”

“Principally because I order you to!” The Master’s voice was cold, incisive.  “They’re worthless, now.  No make-weights!  We can’t have make-weights at a time like this.  To think of jewels at such an hour!  Throw them back!”

A flash of rage distorted the major’s face.  His blue eyes burned with strange fire.

“Never!” he shouted, crouching there at the brink of the jewel-pit.  “Call it insubordination, mutiny, anything you like, but I’m going to have my fill of these!  Faith, but I will, now!”

“Sir—­”

“I don’t give a damn!  Jewels for mine!” His voice rose gusty, raw, wild.  “I’ve been a soldier of fortune all my life, and that’s how I’m going to die.  Poor, most of the time.  Well, I’m going to die rich!”

His philippic against poverty and discipline tumbled out in a torrent of wild words, strongly tinged with the Irish accent that marked his passionate excitement.  He sprang to his feet, and—­raging—­faced his superior officer.  He shouted: