A sudden burst of machine-gun fire, from the upper starboard gallery, crashed out into the sultry, quivering air.  The kick and recoil of the powerful Lewis sent a fine, swift shudder through the fabric of the wounded Eagle.

“There goes a tray of blanks,” said the Master.  “Perhaps that will rout them out, eh?  Once we can get them on the run—­”

Leclair laughed scornfully.

“Those dog-sons will not run from blanks, no, nor from shotted charges!” he declared.  “Pariahs in faith, despoilers of the Haram—­the sacred inner temple—­still this breed of Rafaz (heretic) is bold.  Ah, ‘these dogs bare their teeth to fight more willingly than to eat.’  It will come to hot work soon, I think!”

Keenly he scanned the dunes, eager for sight of a white tarboosh, or headgear, at which to take a pot-shot.  Nothing was visible but sand—­though here, there, a gleam of steel showed where the Arabs had nested themselves down in the natural rampart with their long-barreled rifles cuddled through carefully scooped rifts in the sand.

Again the machine-gun chattered.  Another joined it, but no dust-spurts leaped from the dune, where now a continual play of fire was leaping out.  The Beni Harb, keenly intelligent, sensed either that they were being fired at with blanks, or that the marksmanship aboard the air-liner was execrable.  A confused chorus of cries and jeers drifted down from the sand-hills; and all at once a tall, gaunt figure in a brown and white striped burnous, with the hood drawn up over the head, leaped to sight.

This figure brandished a tremendously long rifle in his left hand.  His right was thrust up, with four fingers extended—­the sign of wishing blindness to enemies.  A splendid mark this Arab made.  The Master drew a fine bead on him and fired.

Both he and Leclair laughed, as the Arab pitched forward in the sand.  Unseen hands dragged the warrior back, away, out of sight.  A slug crashed through the upper pane of the port window, flattened itself against the main corridor door and dropped to the sofa-locker.

The Master reached for the phone and switched in the connection with the upper starboard gallery.

“Major Bohannan!” he ordered.  “No more blanks!  The real thing, now—­but hold your fire till we drift over the dune!”

“Drift over!” echoed Leclair.  “But, monsieur, we’ll never even make the beach!”

“So?” asked the chief.  He switched to the engine-room.

“Frazier!  Lift her a little, now!  Rack everything—­strain everything—­break everything, if you must, but lift her!”

“Yes, sir!” came the engineer’s voice.  “I’ll scrap the engines, sir, but I’ll do that!”

Almost as if a mocking echo of the command and the promise, a dull concussion shuddered through Nissr.  The drone of the helicopters sank to a sullen murmur; and down below, waves began combing angrily over the gallery.