The Flying Legion Part 49

Forward stepped the Master, with a word to Leclair to follow him but to stand a little in the rear. The old Sheik dismounted; and followed by another graybeard, likewise advanced. When the distance was but about eight feet between them, both halted. Silence continued, broken only by the dull drone of one engine still running on board the ship, by the creaking of saddle-leather, the whinny of a barb.

Lithe, powerful, alert, with his cap held over his heart, the Master stood there peering from under his thick, dark brows at the aged Sheik. A lean-faced old man the Sheik was, heavily bearded with white, his brows snowy, his eyes a hawk's, and the fine aquilinity of his nose the hallmark of pure Arab blood.

Hard as iron he looked, gravely observing, unabashed in face of these white strangers and of this mysterious flying house. The very spirit of the Arabian sun seemed to have been caught in his gleaming eyes, to glitter there, to reflect its pride, its ardor. He reminded one of a falcon, untamed, untamable. And his dress, its colors distinguishing him from the ma.s.s of his followers, still further proclaimed the rank he occupied.

His cherchia of jade-green silk was bound with a _ukal_, or fillet of camel's-hair; his burnous, also silk, showed tenderest shades of lavender and rose. Under its open folds could be seen a violet jacket with b.u.t.tons of filigree ivory. He had handed his gun to the man behind him, and now was unarmed save for a _gadaymi_, or semicircular knife, thrust into his silk sash of crimson, with frayed edges.

A leather bandolier, wonderfully tooled and filled with cartridges, pa.s.sed over his right shoulder to his left hip. His feet, high-arched and fine of line, were naked save for silk-embroidered _babooshes_.

The Master realized, as he gazed on this extraordinary old man, whose dignity was such that even the bizarre _melange_ of colors could not detract from it, that he was beholding a very different type of Arab from any he yet had come in contact with.

The aged Sheik salaamed. The Master returned the salutation, then covered himself and saluted smartly. In a deep, grave voice the old man said:

"_A'hla wasa'halan_!" (Be ye welcome!)

"_Bik.u.m_!" (I give thee thanks!) replied the Master.

"In Allah's name, who are ye?"

"Franks," the Master said, vastly relieved at this unexpected amity.

Strange contrast with the violent hostility heretofore experienced!

What might it mean? What might be hidden beneath this quiet surface?

Relief and anxiety mingled in the Master's mind. If treachery were intended, in just this manner would it speak.

"Men of Feringistan?" asked the aged Sheik. "And what do ye here?"

"We be fighting-men, all," replied the Master. He had already noted, with a thrill of admiration, the wondrous purity of the old man's Arabic. His use of final vowels after the noun, and his rejection of the p.r.o.noun, which apocope in the Arabic verb renders necessary in the everyday speech of the people, told the Master he was listening to some archaic, uncorrupted form of the language. Here indeed was n.o.bility of blood, breed, speech, if anywhere!

"Fighting-men, all," the Master repeated, while Leclair listened with keen enjoyment and the Legion stood attentive, with the white-burnoused hors.e.m.e.n giving ear to every word--astonished, no doubt, to hear Arabic speech from the lips of an unbeliever. "We have traveled far, from the Lands of the Books. Is it not meritorious, O Sheik? Doth not thy Prophet himself say: 'Voyaging is victory, and he who journeyeth not is both ignorant and blind?"'

The old man pondered a moment, then fell to stroking his beard. The act was friendly, and of good portent. He murmured:

"I see, O Frank, that thou hast read the Strong Book. Thou dost know our law, even though thou be from Feringistan. What is thy name?"

"Men know me only as The Master. And thine?"

"_Bara Miyan_ (The Great Sir), nothing more."

"Dost thou wish us well?" the Master put a leading question.

"_Kull'am antum bil khair_!" (May ye be well, every year!) said the old Sheik. The Master sensed a huge relief. Undoubtedly--hard as this was to understand, and much as it contradicted Rrisa's prediction--the att.i.tude of these Jannati Shahr folk was friendly. Unless, indeed, all this meant ambush. But to look into those grave, deep eyes, to see that furrowed countenance of n.o.ble, straight-forward uprightness, seemed to negative any such suspicion.

"We have come to bring ye wondrous gifts," the Master volunteered, wanting to strike while the iron was hot.

"That is well," a.s.sented Bara Miyan. "But never before have the Franks come to this center of the Empty Abodes."

"Even Allah had to say 'Be!' before anything was!" (_i.e._, there must be a first time for everything).

This answer, pat from a favorite verse of the Koran, greatly pleased Bara Miyan. He smiled gravely, and nodded.

"Allah made all men," he affirmed. "Mayhap the Franks and we be brothers. Have ye come by way of Mecca?"

"Yea. And sorry brotherhood did the Mecca men offer us, O Sheik! So, too, the men of Beni Harb. Together, they slew five of us. But we be fighting-men, Bara Miyan. We took a great vengeance. All that tribe of Beni Harb we brushed with the wing of Azrael, save only the Great Apostate. And from the men of the 'Navel of the World'--Mecca--we exacted greater tribute than even death!"

The Master's voice held a quiet menace that by no means escaped Bara Miyan. Level-eyed, he gazed at the white man. Then he advanced two paces, and in a low voice demanded:

"Abd el Rahman still lives?"

"He lives, Bara Miyan."

"Where is the Great Apostate?"

"In our flying house, a prisoner."

"_Bismillah_! Deliver him unto me, and thy people and mine shall be as brothers!"

"First let us share the salt!"

Speaking, the Master slid his hand into the same pocket that contained the Great Pearl Star, and took out a small bag of salt. This he opened, and held out. Bara Miyan likewise felt in a recess of his many-hued burnous. For a moment he hesitated as if about to bring out something. But he only shook his head.

"The salt--not yet, O White Sheik!" said he.

"We have brought thy people precious gifts," began the Master, again.

Behind him he heard an impatient whisper--the major's voice, quivering with eagerness:

"Ask him if this place is really all gold! Faith, if I could only talk their lingo! Ask him!"

"I shall place you under arrest, if you interfere again," the Master retorted, without turning round.

"What saith the White Sheik?" asked Bara Miyan, hearing the strange words of a language his ears never before had listened to.

"Only prayer in my own tongue, Bara Miyan. A prayer that thine and mine may become _akhawat_"[1]

[Footnote 1: Friends bound by an oath to an offensive and defensive alliance.]

"Deliver unto me Abd el Rahman, and let thine _imams_ (priests) work stronger magic than mine," said the old Sheik with great deliberation, "and I will accept thy gifts and we will say: '_Nahnu malihin_!' (We have eaten salt together!) And I will make thee gifts greater than thy gifts to me, O White Sheik. Then thou and thine can fly away to thine own country, and bear witness that there be Arabs who do not love to slay the Feringi, but count all men as brethren.

"But if thou wilt not deliver Abd el Rahman to me, or test thy magic against my magic, then depart now, in peace, before the setting of the sun. I have spoken!"

"Take him at his word, my Captain!" murmured Leclair. "We can get no better terms. Even these are a miracle!"

"My opinion, exactly," replied the Master, still facing Bara-Miyan, who had now stepped back a few paces and was flanked by two huge Arabs, in robes hardly less chromatic, who had silently advanced.

"I accept," decided the Master. He turned, ordered Enemark and L'Heureux to fetch out the Apostate, and then remained quietly waiting. Silence fell on both sides, for a few minutes. The Arabs, for the most part, remained staring at _Nissr_, to them no doubt the greatest miracle imaginable. Still, minds trained to believe in the magic carpet of Sulayman and quite virgin of any knowledge of machinery, could easily account for the airship's flying by means of _jinnee_ concealed in its entrails.

As for the Legionaries, their attention was divided between the strange white host, still sitting astride those high-necked, slim-barreled Nedj horses, and the luring glimmer of the golden walls.

In a few minutes, however, all attention on both sides was sharply drawn by the return of the two Legionaries with the Apostate.