CHAPTER XXII.
BELEAGUERED "La Illaha illa Allah! M'hamed rasul Allah!" Raw, ragged, exultant, a scream of passion, joy, and hate, it rose like the voice of the desert itself, vibrant with wild fanaticism, pitiless and wild.
The wolflike, high-pitched howl of the Arab outcasts--the robber-tribe which all Islam believed guilty of having pillaged the Haram at Mecca and which had for that crime been driven to the farthest westward confines of Mohammedanism--this war-howl tore its defiance through the wash and reflux of the surf.
The pattering hail of slugs continued to zoon from the sand-hills, bombarding the vast-spread wings and immense fuselage of Nissr.

For the most part, that bombardment was useless to the Beni Harb.

A good many holes, opened up in the planes, and some broken glass, were about the Arabs' only reward.
None of the bullets could penetrate the metal-work, unless making a direct hit.

Many glanced, spun ricochetting into the sea, and with a venomous buzzing like huge, angry hornets, lost themselves in quick, white spurts of foam.
But one shot at least went home.

Sheltered though the Legion was, either inside the fuselage or in vantage-points at the gun-stations, one incautious exposure timed itself to meet a notched slug.