Ali nodded and made his way to the side of Akmet who sat expressionless in the midst of the storm of enthusiastic applause from his countrymen in which the Athensians joined generously. Stooping, he whispered some words in Akmet’s ear at which the latter nodded imperceptibly and cast a swift reassuring glance toward Mr. Hampton before again dropping his eyes. Then Akmet’s fingers struck the lute again. A new note clanged—a warlike note, and Akmet began. There was no need for translator. The Arabs knew what he said. They sat big-eyed, open-mouthed, scarcely breathing, under the spell of the poet. Nobody else knew, but they did not need to know. It was as clear to them as if they understood every word. Clear, not alone from the emotions Akmet aroused within their own breasts but also from the story written on the faces of the singer’s countrymen. It was a tale of war. And the swarthy face of the singer, played upon by the leaping flame, portrayed every mood. His audience could see the warriors riding across the barren wastes of the Great Desert, could hear the clash of scimeters, the crackle of rifle fire, the whirring flight of arrows and, at length, the women wailing of death. When the climax came, it left all tense and wrung dry of emotion. As for Akmet, his face sunk into an expressionless mold, he put the lute away, and stared into the fire, while the Athensians applauded wildly and the Arabs flung themselves upon him as if merely to touch his robe would bring them happiness. Ali was lost in this wave of emotion like the rest. Presently he extricated himself, and made his way to Mr. Hampton’s side. “That,” he said, “was the finest story I ever heard. But I can’t translate it for you.” He turned abruptly and strode away. “Whew,” ejaculated Roy Stone. “The beggar is cocky.” “No,” said Mr. Hampton, “just stirred profoundly. Well, so was I. The Arabs, I have heard, are the greatest story tellers and poets in the world. They never write their stories, but sing or recite them, and thus they put into them infinitely more than the peoples who merely write.” “Well,” commented Jack, “no story I ever read held me so enthralled as I was tonight.” “And no play or movie I ever saw,” added Frank. “I guess that must be true about the Arabs if Akmet is a fair sample.” After some further desultory conversation, the four Americans retired for the night. Two Athensians were sent to the desert to relieve the two on guard over the airplane, and the little encampment amidst the ruins of Korakum sank into slumber. CHAPTER XXII. FRANK TO THE RESCUE. All the Americans arose early the next morning, for they were resolved, if possible, that the day should see Bob’s rescue carried out; at least, should see it begun.