The sharp click of a switch on the control-board sounded as the imams picked up the little, red-dripping bundles. Silently they threw these into the air and—all three dropped back to earth again, just as they had risen.
A growl burst, involuntarily, from the Olema's corded throat. The growl echoed through the massed horsemen. Bara Miyan's hand went to the butt of his pistol, half glimpsed under his jacket. That hand fell, numb.
"Look, O Sheik!" exclaimed the Master, pointing. The Olema turned; and there on the highest minaret of gold, the green flag had begun smoldering. As Brodeur adjusted his ray-focusser, the banner of the Prophet burst into bright flame, and went up in a puff of fire.
Only by setting teeth into his lip could the Sheik repress a cry. Dark of face, he turned to the Master. Smiling, the Master asked:
"Perhaps now, O Bara Miyan, thou wouldst ask thine imams to plant a date-stone, and make it in a few minutes bear fruit, even as the Prophet himself did? Try, if thou hast better fortune than with the birds! But have care not to be led into committing sin, as with these birds—for remember, thou hast shed blood and life hath not returned again, and El Barr is sacred from the shedding of blood!"
His tone was well calculated to make the lesson sink well to the
Olema's heart—a valuable lesson for the Legion's welfare. But the
Olema only replied:
"The blood of believers is meant. Not of animals—or Franks!"
"And wilt thou make further trial with me?" demanded the Master.
"No, by the Prophet! It is enough!" The Master's soul warmed toward the honesty of this bluff old Arab. "Thy magic is good magic. Give me thy salt, Frank, and take mine!"
The Master signaled to Brodeur as he drew forth his bag of salt. He stretched it out in his open palm; and all at once, bag, hand, and arm up to the elbow enveloped themselves in a whirling mist and vanished from sight, even as the Master's whole body had vanished in the cabin when Leclair had tried to arrest him.