The cover of this coffee-pot rose into a tall, minaret-like spike.

On the tray stood also a small cup having no handle; a dish of dates; a few wafers made of the Arabian cereal called _temmin_; and a little bowl of _khat_ leaves.
"_M'alme, al khat aja_" (the khat has come), said Rrisa.
He placed the tray on the table at his master's side, and was about to withdraw when the other stayed him with raised hand.
"Tell me, Rrisa," he commanded, still speaking in Arabic, "where wert thou born?
Show thou me, on that map." The Arab hesitated a moment, squinting by the dim light that now had faded to purple dusk.

Then he advanced a thin forefinger, and laid it on a spot that might have indicated perhaps three hundred miles southeast of Mecca.

No name was written on the map, there.
"How dost thou name that place, Rrisa ?" demanded the Master.
"I cannot say, Master," answered the Arab, very gravely.

As he stood there facing the western afterglow, the profound impassivity of his expression--a look that seemed to scorn all this infidel civilization of an upstart race--grew deeper.
To nothing of it all did he owe allegiance, save to the Master himself--the Master who had saved him in the thick of the Gallipoli inferno.