By the way Nissr was thumping her floats on the bottom, she seemed about to break up.  But, undismayed, the Legionaries armed themselves, girt on their war-gear and, cool-disciplined under fire, waited the order to leap into the sea.

Not even the sight of a still body in the starboard gallery—­a body from under which a snaky red line was crawling, zigzagging with each pitch of the liner—­gave them any pause.  This crew was well blooded, ready for grim work of give-and-take.

“A task for me, sir!” exclaimed “Captain Alden,” pointing at the body.  The Master refused.

“No time for nursing, now!” he negatived the plea.  “Unless you choose to remain behind?”

“Never, sir!”

“Can you swim with one arm?”

“With both tied!”

“Very well!  All ready, men!  Overboard, to the beach!  There, dig in for further orders.  No individual action!  No charge, without command!  Overboard—­come on—­who follows me?”

He vaulted the rail, plunged in a white smother, surged up and struck out for shore.  Rrisa was not half a second behind him.  Then came all the others (save only that still figure on the buffed metals), a deluge of leaping, diving men.

The surf suddenly became full of heads and shoulders, vigorous arms, fighting beachward.  Strong swimmers every one, the Legion battled its way ashore, out from under Nissr’s vast-spreading bulk, out from under her forward floats.  Not one Legionary but thrilled with the killing-lust, the eager spur of vengeance for Kloof, first victim of the Beni Harb’s attack.

Along the dune, perhaps five hundred yards back of the beach, very many heads now appeared.  The Arabs well knew themselves safe from attack, so long as these hated white swine of Ajam[1] were in the breakers.  Golden opportunity to pick them off, at ease!

[Footnote 1:  Arabs divide the world into two categories; themselves, and Ajam, or all non-Arabs.]

A long, ragged line of desert men appeared, in burnouses and benishes, or loose floating garments, and all heavily armed.  The last bleeding rays of the sunset flickered on the silver-mounted rifles as they spat fire into the heat-quivering air.

All about the swimmers, waterspouts jetted up.  Two men grunted, flailed wild arms and sank, with the water about them tinged red as the sunset.  Another sank face downward, a moment, then with only one arm, continued to ply for land, leaving a crimson trail behind.

None of the untouched Legionaries took any heed of this, or stopped their furious swimming to see what damage had been done or to offer help.  Life was at stake.  Every second in the breakers was big with death.  This was stern work, to be put through with speed.  But the faces of the swimming men grew hard to look upon.

The Master and Leclair were first to touch foot to the shelving bottom, all churned up by the long cavalry-charges of the sea-horses, and to drag themselves out of the smother.  Rrisa and Bohannan came next, then Enemark, and then the others—­all save Beziers and Daimamoto, French ace and Japanese surgeon, whose work was forever at an end.  Enemark, engineer and scientist, shot through the left shoulder, was dragged ashore, strangling, by eager hands.