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 mass 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 buttons 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, passed 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 _mélange_ 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 wasá'halan_!" (Be ye welcome!) "_Bikum_!" (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 pronoun, 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 nobility 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 horsemen 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: