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Updated: June 19, 2025
The Master's curt syllables, however, instantly dispelled any illusions he might have entertained on that score. "Drop them all out that open window, there," commanded the Master. "What, sir? Good Pommery? Veuve?" "No argument, Bohannan! Out they go!" Dismayed, the Celt did the other's bidding, while Alden smiled grimly. Far below, glass crashed and jangled.
Banking around! We may catch a burst of machine-gun fire, in a minute. Or, no she's coming up on our tail, Major. I think she's going to try and board us!" "You going to let her?" protestingly demanded Bohannan. His hand twitched against the butt of the Lewis. "In two seconds I could sight an aft gun, sir, and blow that machine Hell-for-leather!"
"We're heading due east now," with a glance at the wall-compass and large-scale chart of Northern Africa. "We're now between Mauretania and Southern Algeria, bound for Fezzan, the Libyan Desert, and Nubia on the Red Sea. That is a clear reach of more than three thousand miles of solid desert." "Oh, we're all right, as long as we stay in the desert," Bohannan affirmed.
Though one window had been slid partly open the window on the sill of which the sleeping aviator had lain a scent of cigarette-smoke still permeated the place. The Master sniffed with disgust. Then suddenly, to the great astonishment of Bohannan, he commanded: "Bring me that champagne, in the saloon. All of it!" The major opened wide eyes, but unquestioningly obeyed.
This band of hardy adventurers, stout-hearted and armed with service-revolvers, remained rather closely grouped, with the Arabs flanking and following them. At their head rode old Bara Miyan with the Master, who well bestrode his saddle with burnished metal peaks and stitching of silver thread. After them came the three imams, Major Bohannan, Leclair, and "Captain Alden."
Beyond, a blanched salt-plain gleamed hoar-white in the on-coming dusk; and farther off, the dunes began again. Strangely enough, the Master laughed. He turned and beckoned, silently. The others joined him. "From the west!" he whispered. "This is no pursuit! It is a caravan going to Jannati Shahr!" Bohannan chuckled, and patted his revolver. "Faith, but Allah is being good to us!" he muttered.
From the bulkheads they snatched down the little fire-grenades. The Master went first. Bohannan was second, with Rrisa a close third. Leclair in his forward rush almost stumbled over Alden. The "Captain," masked and still unrecognized as a woman by any save the Master, was thrust back from the door by the Celt, as she too tried to enter. "No, not you!" he shouted.
"Didn't think it would work, did you? Well, which do you choose now, Major bullets or vibrations?" "This this is extraordinary!" exclaimed Bohannan. His glasses traveled to and fro, sweeping the fringelike fan of the attackers, still five or six miles away. "Faith, but this is " The binoculars lowered slowly, as Bohannan watched a falling plane.
God, but I'm glad to see you!" Their hands met and clasped. The Master led Bohannan to the table and gestured toward a chair. Bohannan threw his hat on the table with a large, sweeping gesture typical of his whole character, and sat down. And for a moment, they looked at each other in silence. A very different type, this, from the dark, sinewed master of Niss'rosh.
Here he found the crew assembled by Bohannan and Leclair ready for the perilous descent they were about to make. He leaned over the rail, unmindful of the ragged patter of bullets from below, and with a judicial eye observed the prospect. His calm contrasted forcibly with the frenzied surging of the pilgrim mobs below, a screaming, raging torrent of human passion.
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