The Flying Legion | Page 4

this! My head is at your feet. But let us speak of other things, O Master!"
The Master kept a moment's silence. He peered contemplatively at the dark silhouette of
the Arab, motionless, impassive in the dusk. Then he frowned a very little, which was as
near to anger as he ever verged. Thoughtfully he ate a couple of the little temmin wafers
and a few dates. Rrisa waited in silent patience.
All at once the Master spoke.
"It is my will that thou speak to me and declare this thing, Rrisa," said he, decisively.
"Say, thou, hath no man of the Nasara faith ever penetrated as far as to the place of thy
birth?"

"Lah (no), M'almé, never. But three did reach an oasis not far to westward of it, fifty
years ago, or maybe fifty-one."
"Ah, so?" exclaimed the Master, a touch of eagerness in his grave, impassive voice.
"Who were they?"
"Two of the French blood, Master, and one of the Russian."
"And what happened to them, then?"
"They--died, Master."
"Thou dost mean, thy people did slay them?"
"They died, all three," repeated Rrisa, in even tones. "The jackals devoured them and the
bones remained. Those bones, I think, are still there. In our dry country--bones remain,
long."
"Hm! Yea, so it is! But, tell me, thou, is it true that in thy country the folk slay all Nasara
they lay hands on, by cutting with a sharp knife? Cutting the stomach, so?" He made an
illustrative gesture.
"Since you do force me to speak, against my will, M'almé--you being of the Nasara
blood--I will declare the truth. Yea, that is so."
"A pleasant custom, surely! And why always in the stomach? Why do they never stab or
cut like other races?"
"There are no bones in the stomach, to dull the edges of the knives, M'almé."
"Quite practical, that idea!" the Master exclaimed. Then he fell silent again. He pressed
his questions no further, concerning the great Central Desert of the land. To have done so,
he knew, would have been entirely futile. Beyond a certain point, which he could gauge
accurately, neither gold nor fire would drive Rrisa. The Arab would at any hour of night
or day have laid down his life for the Master; but though it should mean death he would
not break the rites of his faith, nor touch the cursed flesh of a pig, nor drink the forbidden
drop of wine, nor yet betray the secret of his land.
All at once the Arab spoke, in slow, grave tones.
"Your God is not my God, Master," said he, impersonally. "No, the God of your people is
not the God of mine. We have our own; and the land is ours, too. None of the Nasara
may come thither, and live. Three came, that I have heard of, and--they died. I crave my
Master's bidding to depart."
"Presently, yea," the Master answered. "But I have one more question for thee. If I were
to take thee, and go to thy land, but were not to ask thy help there--if I were not to ask
thee to guide me nor yet to betray any secret--wouldst thou play the traitor to me, and

deliver me up to thy people?"
"My head is at your feet, M'almé. So long as you did not ask me to do such things as
would be unlawful in the eyes of Allah and the Prophet, and seek to force me to them,
this hand of mine would wither before it would be raised against the preserver of my life!
I pray you, M'almé, let me go!"
"I grant it. Ru'c'h halla!" (Go now!) exclaimed the Master, with a wave of the hand. Rrisa
salaamed again, and, noiseless as a wraith, departed.

CHAPTER II
"TO PARADISE--OR HELL"
For a time the Master sat in the thickening gloom, eating the dates and temmin wafers,
drinking the coffee, pondering in deep silence. When the simple meal was ended, he
plucked a little sprig of leaves from the khat plant in the bowl, and thrust them into his
mouth.
This khat, gathered in the mountains back of Hodeida, on the Red Sea not far from Bab el
Mandeb, had been preserved by a process known to only a few Coast Arabs. The plant
now in the bowl was part of a shipment that had been more than three months on the way;
yet still the fresh aroma of it, as the Master crushed the thick-set, dark-green leaves,
scented the darkening room with perfumes of Araby.
Slowly, with the contemplative appreciation of the connoisseur, the Master absorbed the
flavor and the wondrous stimulation of the "flower of paradise." The use of khat, his
once-a-day joy and comfort, he had learned more than fifteen years