“Strike again, Bara Miyan,” invited the Master.  “The other arm, perhaps, may not have lost its cunning!”

The Olema shook his head.

“No, by Allah!” he replied.  “I know thy magic can numb the flesh, and it is a good magic.  It is strong.  But by the rising of the stars—­and that is a great oath—­the bullets of our long rifles can pierce thine unbelieving body!”

“Then bring six of thy best riflemen and station them a dozen paces from me,” the Master challenged.  “Let them look well to their cartridges.  It is not I who load the guns with bullets made of soft black-lead, as the Effendi Robert-Houdin did long ago to the confusion of the Marabouts in Algeria.  No, let thy men load their own rifles.  But,” and his voice grew mocking, “let their aim be good.  Death is nothing, O Bara Miyan, but clumsy shooting means much pain.”

His tone galled the aged Sheik, despite that impassive exterior.  Bara Miyan beckoned, and with a command brought six riflemen from their horses.

“Load well, and shoot me this Frank!” exclaimed the Olema.  A fire was burning in his eyes.

“Aywa!” (Even so!) replied one of the riflemen.  “Allah will make it easy for us!”

“Have no fear, Bara Miyan,” another said.  “Not so easily shall El Kisa (the People of the Garment) be overcome by the Feringi!”

Tension held Arabs and Legionaries, alike.  All remained calm, though had you watched “Captain Alden,” you would have seen her fingers twisting together till the blood almost started through the skin.

The Master walked a few paces, turned and faced the squad.

“Ready, men of Jannati Shahr?” asked he, with a smile.

“We are ready, Unbeliever!”

“Then fire!”

Up came the rifles.  Brodeur turned a knurled disk, and from one of the boxes on the grass a sudden, whining hum arose, like millions of angry hornets.

“Fire!” repeated the Master.

Six rifle-hammers fell with dull clicks.  Nothing more.

The Master smiled in mockery.

“O Bara Miyan,” said he, “let thy men reload and fire again!  Perhaps the sweat of a great anxiety hath wet their powder!”

“Thou must indeed be Khalil Allah” (a friend of Allah), he admitted.  “No doubt thou art a great caid in thy own country.  It is strong magic, Frank.  But now behold what mine imams can do!”

The riflemen, disgruntled but still, Arab-like, holding their impassivity, returned to their horses and mounted again.  At another call of Bara Miyan, three imams came from among the horsemen.  They were dressed alike, in brilliant saffron gandouras, with embroidered muslin turbans from under which hung daliks, or sacred plaits of hair; and each carried a plain white cloth in his hand.

In complete silence they showed the Legionaries both sides of these cloths, then spread them on the grass.  In not more than two minutes, a slight fluttering became visible.  This increased and grew more agitated.  One by one, the imams gathered up the cloths, opened them and exhibited three bluish-black birds with vivid scarlet crests.