"Fire, of course, _m'sieur_," the ace replied, "always has to be guarded against."

"Hardly on an all-metal liner. Now, here you see--and here--"

He finished his explanations, and, satisfied that all was safe, pa.s.sed into his own cabin. Rrisa, he found, had already unpacked his kit, and had arranged it to perfection. Even a copper bowl of khat, the "flower of paradise," was awaiting him.

The Master sat down, chewed a few leaves and indulged in a little time of what the Arabs call _kayf_, or complete relaxation and inner contemplation--a restful trick he had learned many years ago on the coast of Yemen. The ticking of the aluminum-cased chronometer, now marking a little past 2 a.m., soothed him, as did the droning hum of the propellers, the piping whistle of the ship-made hurricane round the fuselage, the cradling swing and rock of the air-liner hurling herself almost due east.

After some quarter-hour of absolute rest, he rang for his Arab orderly. Rrisa appeared at once. Already he had got himself into his military uniform, the one he had worn at Gallipoli when the Master had saved his life. As he stood there in the doorway, he swung his left foot out and back, with clicking heels, and made a smart salute.

"What does _M'alme_ desire?" asked he, in Arabic.

"I desire to know thy opinion of all this, Rrisa. Tell me, did thy great prophet, M'hamed, ever ride in such state through the air? Was Al Burak, his magic horse, on which he traveled to the paradise of the houris, more swift or mighty than this steed of mine?"

The Master speaking Arabic, weighted every word with its full meaning.

"Tell me, Rrisa, what of all this?"

"Your steed is very swift and very mighty. Your flying ship is very great," the Arab admitted. "But Allah and his Prophet are greater!

_Allahu akbar!_" (Allah is greatest!)

"Of course. But tell thou me, Rrisa, if I were to appear at Mecca in my _Nissr Arrib ela Sema_--my Eagle of the Sky--would not thy people give me great honors?"

"My head is at your feet, _M'alme_, and I am yours to do with as you will, even to the death, but I implore you, by the beard of the Prophet, do not do this thing!"

"And why not, Rrisa?"

"You and I, Master, are _akhawat_.[1] Therefore I can speak true words. You must not go to Mecca. No man of the _Nasara_ may go there--and live."

[Footnote 1: _Akhawat_ signifies in Arabic the tie of sworn brotherhood between an Arab and one of different blood.]

"Thou meanest that if we go to Mecca and they capture us, they will kill us all?"

"Yea, Master. And I too shall die, for being with you, though I count that as less than nothing."

The Master kept a moment's silence, pondering; while, without, the voices of empty heaven whistled by, from strut and wire, brace and stay. The wild mystery of that outer night, excluded by the close-drawn curtains, contrasted strongly with the light and the warm comfort of the cabin with its snug berth, its aluminum furniture, its shining walls where were affixed charts and maps, rules, photographs.

Under the clear, white light, Rrisa anxiously studied his master's face. Great anxiety had begun to make itself manifest in the Arab's voice and in his eyes. Another troubled look came, too, as he glanced at the chronometer.

It struck, sharply. The Arab, contrary to all his habits and training, spoke first, without being spoken to.

"Master," said he, timorously, "excuse the speech I offer without waiting. But I must ask. This is my hour of night prayer, and I must bow to Mecca. Whither, from here, lieth The City?"

The Master raised a hand, glanced at a compa.s.s set like a wrist-watch, peered a moment at one of the charts, and then nodded toward the door that led into the pilot-house.

Without delay, Rrisa faced that door and prostrated himself. The ancient cry: "_La Illaha illa Allah! M'hamed rasul Allah!_" was raised there in the cabin of the rushing Eagle of the Sky--surely the strangest place where Moslem prayer was ever offered since first the Prophet's green banner unfurled itself upon the desert air of Araby.

Devoutly Rrisa prayed, then with a "_Bismillah_!" (In the name of Allah!) arose and faced his master. The latter, wise in Eastern ways, remained gravely unsmiling. Never in all his dealings with the son of the East had he by word or look offended against Islam. There was, however, iron determination in his eyes as he demanded:

"Is it indeed true that in Mecca stands a building called the Ka'aba, also called _Bayt Ullah_, or Allah's House?"

"Yea, Master, that is true," answered the Arab, with strange eyes.

"And is it indeed covered with a wondrous silken and gold cloth, every year renewed, known as the _kiswah_?"

"Those words are true."

"All Moslems greatly revere the Ka'aba?"

"It is the center of our mighty faith, Master."

"And thou hast seen it with thine own eyes?"

"With my own eyes, Master, for I am a _Hadji_.[1]" Attentively the Arab was now watching the Master. Slowly he continued: "Prayer, with face to Mecca, alms-giving, the keeping of the fast of Ramadan, and the pilgrimage to the Ka'aba, these are our law. Yea, Master, I have myself seen the Ka'aba, and more than once!"

[Footnote 1: t.i.tle among the Arabs and Moslems in general for one who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, a journey which every good Moslem considers necessary for salvation.]

A certain trouble had now grown manifest in Rrisa's eyes. His lips moved silently, as if still praying; but no words were audible. The Master pondered a moment more, then demanded:

"Is it true there is a sacred Black Stone in the walls of the Ka'aba, precious to all followers of the Prophet, from Africa to China and to the farthest isles? Revered by all the two hundred and thirty million of your faith?"

"That is true, _M'alme_. I myself have touched and kissed the Black Stone."

"Mecca, the Ka'aba, and the Black Stone are forbidden to all heretics?" relentlessly pursued the Master.

"_Wallah_! Yea, so they are to--all who are not of Islam," Rrisa tried to soften the answer.

"They tell me," persisted the Master, "the Black Stone is in the western wall of the Ka'aba, about seven feet from the pavement."

"That is a lie!" flared Rrisa, with indignation. "It is in the northeast corner, at the very corner, Master. It is between four feet and five from the ground. That, and no other, is the true place, Master, the place of _Hajar el Aswad!_" (Black Stone.)

"Ah, yes, yes, the books lie," agreed the Master. "And they say, too, that certain of the Feringi have indeed touched and even kissed the Black Stone, and still lived."

Rrisa's face clouded. It burned coppery, with a flush of hot blood under that dark skin. By the clear white light in the cabin, the Master closely observed him. Idly he broke off a leaf of the khat, and nibbled at it.

"Is that the truth?" he inquired, pitilessly.

"I must speak truth to you, Master," confessed the Arab, with bitter shame. "Two of the Feringi--_Nasara_ men like yourself--have indeed touched and kissed it. Two that we know of. _Shaytan el Kabir_ (the Great Satan) may have permitted others to do that, but we know of only two who have done it--and lived."

"Thou meanest one named Burckhardt, and Sir Richard Burton?"

The Arab shuddered at sound of those names, and silently nodded. Then he burst out:

"Those were their names, _M'alme!_ Those two, disguised as _Hujjaj_, defiled the Black Stone, which was given by Allah to the first Arabs; and they both escaped. But many others who have tried--"

"Have died at the hands of thy people?"

"_Bismillah_! Yea!" A flash of pride irradiated the dark face of Rrisa. His figure drew itself erect. Beneath the veneer of civilization with which life among the Feringi had overlaid him, the Master sensed the wild, fierce, free soul of the desert man, to whom the death of the unbelieving dog is sweet.

"It is well," nodded the Master. Then, suddenly he stood up, faced the Arab, and bent on him a sternly penetrant look.