"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. Without ado, the lean, wild man of the Sahara was led, in wrinkled burnous, with disheveled hair, wild eyes, and an expression of helpless despair, to where the Master stood. At sight of the massed horsemen, the grassy plain--a sight never yet beheld by him--and the distant golden, glimmering walls, a look of desperation flashed into his triple-scarred face. The whole experience of the past days had been a Jehannum of incomprehensible terrors. Now that the climax was at hand, strength nearly deserted him even to stand. But the proud Arab blood in him flared up again as he was thrust forward, confronting Bara Miyan. His head snapped up, his eyes glittered like a caged eagle's, the fine, high nostrils dilated; and there he stood, captive but unbeaten, proud even in this hour of death. Bara Miyan made no great speaking. All he asked was: "Art thou, indeed, that Shaytan called Abd el Rahman, the Reviler?" The desert Sheik nodded with arrogant admission.