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Updated: May 14, 2025
For a moment the two men eyed each other silently. "Strike, son of the Prophet!" cried the Master. Up whirled the Olema's blade, flickering in the sun. The metallic click of the brass switch synchronized with that sweep; Brodeur shifted the reflector by the fraction of a degree. Bara Miyan's arm grew rigid, quivered a second, then dropped inert.
Bara Miyan's hand went to the butt of his pistol, half glimpsed under his jacket. That hand fell, numb. "Look, O Sheik!" exclaimed the Master, pointing. The Olema turned; and there on the highest minaret of gold, the green flag had begun smoldering. As Brodeur adjusted his ray-focusser, the banner of the Prophet burst into bright flame, and went up in a puff of fire.
The golden passageway flung from wall to wall screams, curses in shrill barbaric voices, clangor of steel whirled from scabbards, echoes of shots loud-roaring in that narrow space. Bara Miyan's pistol, struck up by the woman's hand, spat fire over the Master's head just as the Olema himself went down with blood spurting from a jugular severed by the major's bullet.
Strange enough figures they made, black as coal, muscled like Hercules, and towering well toward seven feet, with arms and hands in which the sinews stood out like living welts. Their faces expressed neither intelligence nor much ferocity. Submission to Bara Miyan's will marked their whole attitude. "Sa'ad," commanded Bara Miyan, "seest thou this dog?"
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