Neither the meaning of his cry nor of the gesture could he have explained; but both came to him involuntarily, from the remote lore of his people.
He turned from the oncoming storm, leaning against the wind, clutching for his cap that the wind-devil had just whirled away.

After it he stumbled; and, falling to his knees, groped for it in the gloom.
"Thousand devils!" ejaculated the Frenchman.

"No time, now, for killing! Lucky if we get back ourselves, alive, to the beach! My Captain!" "What now ?" the Master flung at him, shielding mouth and eyes with cupped hands.
"To the wady, all of us! That may give protection till this blast of Hell passes!" A startled cry from Rrisa forestalled any answer.

The Arab's voice rose in a wild hail from the sand-filled dark: "O _M'alme_, _M'alme!_" "What, Rrisa ?" "Behold! I--_I have found him!_" "Found-- ?" shouted the Master, plunging forward.
Leclair followed close, staggering in the sudden gale.

"_Abd el Rahman ?_" "The old hyena, surely! _M'alme, M'alme! See!_" The white men stumbled with broken ejaculations to where Rrisa was crouched over a gaunt figure in the drifting sand.
"Is that he, Rrisa ?" cried the Master.