"Yes, yes! My orderly! Lebon!"
"God!" exclaimed the Master. "But—"
A cry from Rrisa interrupted him, a cry that flared down-wind with strange, wild exultation. The Arab had just risen from the sand, near the unconscious, in-drifting form of the Sheik, Abd el Rahman.
In his hands he was holding something—holding a leather sack with a broken cord attached to it. This cord in some way had been severed by the Sheik's rifle when the old man had fallen. The leather sack had rolled a few feet away. Now, with hands that shook so that the Arab could hardly control them, Rrisa was holding out this sack as he staggered through the blinding sand-storm towards his chief.
"Al Hamdu Lillah!" (Praise to the Lord of the Three Worlds!) choked Rrisa in a strange voice, fighting for his very breath. "See—see what I—have found!"
Staring, blinking, trying to shelter his eyes against the demons of the storm, the Master turned toward him.
"What, Rrisa?"
Down into the wady stumbled the Arab, gray-powdered with clinging sand.
"Oh," he choked, "it has been taken from these yezid, these abusers of the salt! Now we rescue it from these cut-off ones! From the swine and brothers of the swine it has been taken by Allah, and put back into the hands of Rrisa, Allah's slave! See, M'almé, see!"
The shaking hands extended the leather sack. At it the Master stared, his face going dead white.