THE SAND-DEVILS With hands that quivered in unison with his nerves, now no longer impassive, the strange chief of this still stranger expedition took from Rrisa the leather sack.

Over the top of the wady a million sand-devils were screeching.

The slither of the dry snow--the white, fine snow of sand--filled all space with a whispering rustle that could be heard through the shouting of the simoom.
Sand was beating on them, everywhere, in the darkness lighted only by the tortured beach-fire.

The stinging particles assailed eyes, ears, mouth; it whitened clothing, sifted into hair, choked breath.

But still the Legionaries could not take shelter under their coats.