“Tell me, Rrisa, what of all this?”

“Your steed is very swift and very mighty.  Your flying ship is very great,” the Arab admitted.  “But Allah and his Prophet are greater! Allahu akbar!” (Allah is greatest!)

“Of course.  But tell thou me, Rrisa, if I were to appear at Mecca in my Nissr Arrib ela Sema—­my Eagle of the Sky—­would not thy people give me great honors?”

“My head is at your feet, M’alme, and I am yours to do with as you will, even to the death, but I implore you, by the beard of the Prophet, do not do this thing!”

“And why not, Rrisa?”

“You and I, Master, are akhawat.[1] Therefore I can speak true words.  You must not go to Mecca.  No man of the Nasara may go there—­and live.”

[Footnote 1:  Akhawat signifies in Arabic the tie of sworn brotherhood between an Arab and one of different blood.]

“Thou meanest that if we go to Mecca and they capture us, they will kill us all?”

“Yea, Master.  And I too shall die, for being with you, though I count that as less than nothing.”

The Master kept a moment’s silence, pondering; while, without, the voices of empty heaven whistled by, from strut and wire, brace and stay.  The wild mystery of that outer night, excluded by the close-drawn curtains, contrasted strongly with the light and the warm comfort of the cabin with its snug berth, its aluminum furniture, its shining walls where were affixed charts and maps, rules, photographs.

Under the clear, white light, Rrisa anxiously studied his master’s face.  Great anxiety had begun to make itself manifest in the Arab’s voice and in his eyes.  Another troubled look came, too, as he glanced at the chronometer.

It struck, sharply.  The Arab, contrary to all his habits and training, spoke first, without being spoken to.

“Master,” said he, timorously, “excuse the speech I offer without waiting.  But I must ask.  This is my hour of night prayer, and I must bow to Mecca.  Whither, from here, lieth The City?”

The Master raised a hand, glanced at a compass set like a wrist-watch, peered a moment at one of the charts, and then nodded toward the door that led into the pilot-house.

Without delay, Rrisa faced that door and prostrated himself.  The ancient cry:  “La Illaha illa Allah!  M’hamed rasul Allah!” was raised there in the cabin of the rushing Eagle of the Sky—­surely the strangest place where Moslem prayer was ever offered since first the Prophet’s green banner unfurled itself upon the desert air of Araby.

Devoutly Rrisa prayed, then with a “Bismillah!” (In the name of Allah!) arose and faced his master.  The latter, wise in Eastern ways, remained gravely unsmiling.  Never in all his dealings with the son of the East had he by word or look offended against Islam.  There was, however, iron determination in his eyes as he demanded: