“That is a true Arab idea, Major,” smiled Leclair.  “To this extent you are brother to the Bedouin.  They call a man fatis, as a reproach, who dies any other way than fighting.  May you never—­may none of us—­ever suffer the disgrace of being fatis!”

“There’s not much danger of that!” put in the Master.  “That’s a big war-party, and we’re drifting ashore almost exactly where they’re waiting.  From the appearance of the group, they look like Beni Harb people—­’Sons of Fighting’ you know—­though I didn’t expect we’d sight any of that breed so far to westward.”

“Beni Harb, eh?” echoed the Frenchman, his face going grim.  “Ah, mes amis, it is with pleasure I see that race, again!” He sighted carefully through his glass, as Nissr sagged on and on, ever closer to the waves, ever nearer the hard, sun-roasted shores of Africa.  “Yes, those are Beni Harb men. Dieu!  May it be Sheik Abd el Rahman’s tribe!  May I have strength to repay the debt I owe them!”

“What debt, Lieutenant?” asked the chief.

Leclair shrugged his shoulders.

“A personal matter, my Captain!  A personal debt I owe them—­with interest!”

“You will have nearly a score and a half of good fighting men to help you settle your account,” smiled the Master.  Then, to Bohannan:  “It looks now, Major, as if you’d have a chance to try your sovereign remedy.”

“Faith!  Machine-guns, eh?”

“Yes, provided we get near enough to use them.”

“No vibrations this time, eh?” demanded the Celt, a bit of good-humored malice in his voice.  “Vibrations are all very well in their way, sir, but when it comes to a man-to-man fight—­”

“It’s not that, Major,” the chief interrupted.  “We haven’t the available power, now, for high-tension current.  So we must fall back on lesser means.

“You, sir, and Lieutenant Leclair, get the six gun-crews together at their stations.  When we drift in range, give the Beni Harb a few trays of blanks.  That may scatter them without any further trouble.  We want peace, but if it’s got to be war, very well.  If they show real fight, rake them hard!”

“They will show fight, surely enough, mon capitaine,” put in Leclair, as he and the major made their way to the oddly tiptilted door leading back into the main corridor.  “I know these folk.  No blank cartridges will scatter that breed.  Even the Turks are afraid of them.  They have a proverb:  ‘Feed the Beni Harb, and they will fire at Allah!’ That says it all.

“Mohammed laid a special curse on them.  I imagine your orderly, Rrisa, will have something to say when he learns that we have Beni Harb as opponents.  Now, sir, we shall make all haste to get the machine-guns into action!”