"Art thou sure ?" "As that my mother bore me! See the old jackal, the son of Hareth! (the devil).

Ah, see, see!" "_Dieu_!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in his own tongue.

"It is none other!" With a hand of great rejoicing, he stirred the unconscious Sheik--over whom the sand was already sifting as the now ravening simoom lashed it along.
Forgotten now were all his fears of death in the sand-storm.

This delivery of the hated one into his hands had filled him with a savage joy, as it had the two others.
"Ah, _mon vieux!_" he cried.

"It is only the mountains that never meet, in time!" The Master laughed, one of those rare flashes of merriment that at infrequent intervals pierced his austerity.