The orderly, bare-headed, was shielding eyes and face from the sand-blast, with hands that trembled.

His teeth were bared with hate as he peered at the prostrate heretic.
A tall, powerful figure of a man the Sheik was, lying there on his right side with his robe crumpled under him--the robe now flapping, whipping its loose ends in the high and rising wind.

His _tarboosh_ had been blown away, disclosing white hair.
That hair, too, writhed and flailed in the gusts that drove it full of sand, that drifted his whole body with the fine and stinging particles.

His beard, full and white, did not entirely conceal the three parallel scars on each cheek, the _mashali_, which marked him as originally a dweller at Mecca.
One sinewy brown arm was outflung, now almost wholly buried in the growing sand-drift.

The hand still gripped a long, gleaming rifle, its stock and barrel elaborately arabesqued in silver picked out with gold.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Master again, pulling at a thin crimson cord his questing fingers had discovered about the old man's neck.