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.
"Rrisa," said he, impressively, his voice slow, grave, sonorous, "only for me thy bones would today be moldering in the trenches at Gallipoli or maybe rotting in a Turkish grave.

The life that is in thee belongs to me! That is thy ancient law.

Is it not true ?" "It is true, Master.