Unmindful, the Italian was already frantically attacking the Myzab.

Blow after blow he rained upon it with the sharp, cutting edge of the pick, that at every stroke sank deep into the massive gold, shearing it in deep gashes.
A perfect hail of rifle-fire riddled the air all about him, but still he labored with sweat streaming down his face all blackened with dirt and cement.

From _Nissr_, far above, cries and shouts rang down at him, mingled with the sharp spitting of the machine-guns from the lower gallery.

The guns in the nacelle, too, were chattering; the Haram filled itself with a wild turmoil; the scene beggared any attempt at description, there under the blistering ardor of the Arabian sun.
All at once Dr.Lombardo inserted the blade of the pick under the golden spout, pried hard, bent it upward.

He stamped it down again with his boot-heel, dropped the pick and grappled it with both straining hands.