"Impossible, but--_Dieu_!--it is true!" "What is true ?" "Incredible, yet--_voila_!" "In Allah's name, Lieutenant!" the Master ejaculated, "compose yourself! Explain! Who is this Arab, here ?" "No Arab, sir! No, no!" "Not an Arab?
Well, what is he, then ?" "Ah, these scars, my Captain! Behold--see the slave dress, the weals of the branding-iron on cheek and brow! Ah, for pity! See the starved body, the stripes of the lash, the feet mangled by the bastinado! What horrible things they have done to him--ah, God have pity on us!" Tears gleamed on the stern fighter's cheeks, there in the ghostly blue firelight--tears that washed little courses through the dust and sand now griming his face.

The French airman, hard in battle and with heart of steel and flame, was crying like a child.
"What now?
Who is it ?" shouted the Master.

"A European ?" "Yes, my Captain! A Frenchman!" "A Frenchman.

You don't mean to say it--is--" "Yes, yes! My orderly! Lebon!" "God!" exclaimed the Master.

"But--" A cry from Rrisa interrupted him, a cry that flared down-wind with strange, wild exultation.