Every one was shouting; the real Ali Higg's men wanting to know what had happened, and Ali Baba's answering them with threats if they dared disobey and come closer.

The effect was exactly as if the figures on a motion-picture screen could be heard calling back and forth.
The two men whom we had captured with the woman Jael were silent, staring hard at Grim as if they saw a vision; and Yussuf, the prisoner we had made at the oasis, tried to talk to them, but they would not listen to him; the drama was too absorbing.

Jael herself, inclined to be panicky at first, was recovering self-possession by rapid stages, and grew silent.
She hardly looked like a woman until you came quite close to her, for she was dressed like a man, in the regular Bedouin cloak and head-gear, with a bandolier full of cartridges.

But her hair had come unbound, and one long reddish lock of it was over her shoulder.
She had a good-looking, strong face, badly freckled, and was probably about forty years old, although that much was hard guessing in the moonlight; for the rest, she looked like the incarnation of activity--standing still, but only by suppression.
"Now Jael Higg," said Grim, "we'll have no squeamishness about sex.

I'm in a tight place, and you'll obey orders or take the consequences.