A little sand-grouse, known as _kata_ by the Arabs, came whirring by.

Far aloft, a falcon wheeled, keen-eyed for prey.

Once more the deadly scorpion peeped from the skull, an ugly, sullen, envenomed thing.
The Master held up the silver whistle, glinting in the last sun-glow.
They saw it, and understood.

All hearts thrilled, tightening with the familiar sense of discipline.

Fists gripped revolver-butts; feet shuffled into the sand, getting a hold for the quick, forward leap.
Keenly trilled the whistle.