The fringes of the tribe were trickling up the sands, backward, away, toward the line of purple-hazed dunes that lined the coast.

More and more of the war-party followed.

Gradually all passed up the wady, over the dunes and vanished.
"They are going to ambush us, my Captain," said Leclair.

"'In rice, strength; in the Beni Harb, manhood!'" Nearer the land, ever sagging down but still afloat--though now at times some of the heavier surges broke in foam over the rail of the lower gallery--the Eagle of the Sky drifted on, on.

Hardly a half-mile now lay between air-liner and shore.