With a curse on the heretic Beni Harb, and a murmur of thanks to Allah for this wondrous hour, Rrisa caught up a short javelin, of the kind called mirzak. The lieutenant chose a wide-bladed sword.
"Remember only one thing, my brothers in arms!" exclaimed the Master.
"But that is most vital!" He spoke in Arabic.
"And what may it be?" asked the Frenchman, in the same tongue.
"I do not know whether old Sheik Abd el Rahman is with this party or not, but if either of you find him, kill him not! Deliver him to me!"
"Listen, Master!" exclaimed Rrisa, and thrust the point of his javelin deep into the sand.
"Well, what now, Rrisa?"
"Shall we, after all, kill these sleeping swine-brothers?"
"Eh, what? Thy heart then, hath turned to water? Thou canst not kill?
They attacked us—this is justice!"
"And if they live, they will surely wipe us out!" put in the Frenchman, staring in the gloom. "What meaneth this old woman's babble, son of the Prophet?"
"It is not that my heart hath turned to water, nor have the fountains of mine eyes been opened to pity," answered Rrisa. "But some things are worse than death, to all of Arab blood. To be despoiled of arms or of horses, without a fight, makes an Arab as the worm of the earth. Then he becometh an outcast, indeed! 'If you would rule, disarm'," he quoted the old proverb, and added another: "'Man unarmed in the desert is like a bird shorn of wings.'"