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The Master saw him in the wady, dimly visible through the ghostly white sand-shrouds spinning in the blue-whipped fire-glare. There on hands and knees the lieutenant was huddled. With eager hands he was tearing the hood of a za'abut a rough, woolen slave cloak, patched and ragged from the face of a prostrate figure more than half snowed under a sand-drift. "Nom de Dieu!" the Master heard him cry.
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