Surf still foamed about her floats and lower gallery--surf all spangled with the phosphorescence that the Arabs call "jewels of the deep"-- but unless some sudden squall should fling itself against the coast, every probability favored the liner taking no further damage.
In silence, save for the occasional easing of positions along the trench, the Legionaries waited.

Strange dim colors appeared along the desert horizons, half visible in the gloom--funeral palls of dim purple, with pale, ghostly reflections almost to mid-heaven.
Some of the men had tobacco and matches that had escaped being wet; and cigarettes were rolled, passed along, lighted behind protections that would mask the match-gleam from the enemy.

The comforting aroma of smoke drifted out on the desert heat.

As for the Master, from time to time he slipped a khat leaf into his mouth, and remained gravely pondering.
At length his voice sounded along the trench.
"Men of the Flying Legion," said he, "this situation is grave.

We can't escape on foot, north or south.