With hands that trembled a little, he drew out this cord.

Then he uttered an exclamation of intense disappointment.
There was nothing at the end of the crimson loop, save a _lamail_, or pocket Koran.

Leclair muttered a curse, and moved away, peering toward the fire, spying out the wady through the now almost choking sand-drive--the wady where they certainly must soon take refuge or be overwhelmed by the buffeting lash of sand whirled on the breath of the shouting tempest.
Even in the Master's anger, he did not throw the Koran away.

Too astute, he, for any such act in presence of Rrisa.

Instead, he bound the Arab to fresh devotion by touching lips and forehead, and by handing him the little volume.