The sun was nearly gone, now, and dusk would not be long in closing its chalice down over the light-wearied world.

Leclair, entrenched beside the Master, whispered: "They do not understand, these dog-brothers--may Allah make their faces cold!" He grinned, frankly, with sparkling eyes and white teeth.
"Already we have their beards in our hands!" The Master's only answer was to draw from his pocket an extra lethal gun, hand it over and, in a whisper, hastily instruct the Frenchman how to use it.

Then he cried, loudly: "Ready, men! Fire!" All along the line, the faint, sighing hiss of the strange weapons sounded.

Over the top of the dune little, almost inaudible explosions began taking place as--_plop! plop! plop!_--the capsules burst.

Not now could their pale virescence be seen; but the Master smiled again, at realization that already the lethal gas was settling down upon the horde of Shiah outcasts.
To Leclair he whispered in Arabic an ancient saying of the desert folk: "'Allah hath given skill to three things, the hands of the Chinese, the brains of the Franks, the tongues of the Arabs!'" He added: "When the gas strikes them, they would think the Frankish brain more wonderful than ever--if they could think at all!" He slid his hand into the breast of his jacket, pulled a little cord and drew out a silver whistle, the very same that he had used at Gallipoli.