May you never--may none of us--ever suffer the disgrace of being _fatis_!" "There's not much danger of that!" put in the Master.

"That's a big war-party, and we're drifting ashore almost exactly where they're waiting.

From the appearance of the group, they look like Beni Harb people--'Sons of Fighting' you know--though I didn't expect we'd sight any of that breed so far to westward." "Beni Harb, eh ?" echoed the Frenchman, his face going grim.

"Ah, _mes amis_, it is with pleasure I see that race, again!" He sighted carefully through his glass, as _Nissr_ sagged on and on, ever closer to the waves, ever nearer the hard, sun-roasted shores of Africa.
"Yes, those are Beni Harb men.

_Dieu_! May it be Sheik Abd el Rahman's tribe! May I have strength to repay the debt I owe them!" "What debt, Lieutenant ?" asked the chief.
Leclair shrugged his shoulders.
"A personal matter, my Captain! A personal debt I owe them--with interest!" "You will have nearly a score and a half of good fighting men to help you settle your account," smiled the Master.