"Perhaps that will rout them out, eh?
Once we can get them on the run--" Leclair laughed scornfully.
"Those dog-sons will not run from blanks, no, nor from shotted charges!" he declared.

"Pariahs in faith, despoilers of the Haram--the sacred inner temple--still this breed of _Rafaz_ (heretic) is bold.
Ah, 'these dogs bare their teeth to fight more willingly than to eat.' It will come to hot work soon, I think!" Keenly he scanned the dunes, eager for sight of a white _tarboosh_, or headgear, at which to take a pot-shot.

Nothing was visible but sand--though here, there, a gleam of steel showed where the Arabs had nested themselves down in the natural rampart with their long-barreled rifles cuddled through carefully scooped rifts in the sand.
Again the machine-gun chattered.

Another joined it, but no dust-spurts leaped from the dune, where now a continual play of fire was leaping out.

The Beni Harb, keenly intelligent, sensed either that they were being fired at with blanks, or that the marksmanship aboard the air-liner was execrable.