Each of the five pearls was of almost incalculable value; but one, an iridescent Oman, far surpassed the others.
This pearl was about the size of a man's largest thumb-joint.

Its shape was a smooth oval; its hue, even in that dim, wind-tossed light, showed a wondrous, tender opalescence that seemed to change and blend into rainbow iridescences as the staring Legionaries peered at it.
The other pearls, black and white alike, ranked as marvelous gems; but this crown-jewel of the Great Pearl Star eclipsed anything the Master--for all his wide travel and experience of life--ever had seen.
By way of strange contrast in values the pearls were separated from each other by worthless, little, smooth lumps of madrepore, or unfossilized coral.

These lumps were covered with tiny black inscriptions in archaic Cufic characters; though what the significance of these might be, the Master could not--in that gloom and howling drive of the sand-devils--even begin to determine.
The whole adornment, as it lay in the Master's palm, typified the Orient.

For there was gold; there were gems and bits of worthless dross intermingled; and there about it was drifting sand of infinite ages, darkness, flashes of light, color, mystery, wonder, beauty.
"God! What this means!" the Master repeated, as the three men cringed in the wady.

"Success, dominion, power!" "You mean--" put in Leclair, his voice smitten away by the ever-increasing storm that ravened over the top of the gully.
"What do I _not_ mean, Lieutenant?
No wonder the Apostate Sheik had to flee from Mecca and take refuge here in this impassable wilderness at the furthest rim of Islam! No wonder he has been hounded and hunted! The only miracle is that some of his own tribesmen have not betrayed him before now!" "Master, no Arab betrays his own sheik, right or wrong!" said Rrisa in a strange voice.