And he carried his opinions against that of Tollemache who was anxious to see again the little princess' black, hooded eyes, and against that of Abderrahman Yahiah Khan and “The Basin” whose appetite for the rich loot of Tamerlanistan was increasing with each passing day; and he went ahead with his careful, methodical preparations until, nearly a week later, a great wave of excitement surged through the camp of the rebels.
It began with the Arab gunner, a deserter from the Turkish army who was presiding over the destinies of the machine gun that protected the silken tents of the leaders, suddenly shading his eyes, looking steadily down the Darb-i-Sultani, then bending feverishly to his weapon, working the screw-levers with brown, nimble fingers and sliding the gun so that the ugly, blunt muzzle pointed due east, with a wicked, snapping recoil, like a beast of prey sniffing for blood.
Tollemache Wade happened to be passing.
“What's up, Mehmet?” he asked.
The Arab pointed—and gave a shrill, throaty yell of warning which electrified the camp into instant action.
Arabs and Persians and rebel Tamerlanis and riffraff of all Asia that had joined Abderrahman Yahiah Khan came tumbling out of tents and huts, strapping on carbines and revolvers, swords and daggers as they ran … with a babel of cries, in soft, purring Persian, in limpid Turkish, in virile, guttural Arabic and high-pitched Tartar …
“Zid! Zid! Yah Ullah!”—
