TOIL AND PURSUIT Before midnight the storm died with a suddenness even greater than that of its onset.

Like a tangible flock of evil birds or of the spirits Victor Hugo has painted in _Les Djinns_, the sand-storm blew itself out to sea and vanished.

The black sky opened its eyes of starlight, once again; gradually calm descended on the desert, and by an hour after midnight the steady east wind had begun to blow again.
The "wolf's tail," or first gray streak of dawn along the horizon, found the Legion all astir.

Lebon had long since been told of his rescue; he and his lieutenant had embraced and had given each other a long story--the enslaved man's story making Leclair's face white with rage, his heart a furnace of vengeance on all Islam.
The Sheik, dimly understanding that these devils of Feringistan had by their super-magic overwhelmed him and his tribe with sleep-magic and storm-magic of the strongest, lay bound hand and foot, sullenly brooding.

No one could get a word from Abd el Rahman; not even Rrisa, who exhausted a wonderful vocabulary of imprecation on him, until the Master sternly bade him hold his peace.
A gaunt, sunken-eyed old hawk of the desert he lay there in the sand, unblinkingly defiant.