It paused there, listening to the deep, regular breathing within.

Then a lean, brown hand was laid on the sill.

It still seemed to hesitate.
Something gleamed vaguely in that hand--a crooked _jambiyeh_, needle-sharp at the point, keen-edged and balanced for the stroke that silently slays.
Motionless, unbreathing even, the shadow waited a long minute.

Then all at once over the sill it writhed, quick, lithe as a starved panther.
Dagger in hand, the shadow slid to the berth where lay the Master of the Legionaries.

There Rrisa paused, listening to the slow respiration of the White Sheik with whom he had shared the inviolable salt, to whom he owed life itself.
Up, in the gloom, came the dagger-blade.
Over the unconscious Master it poised, keen, cold, avenging in the dark of the cabin where lay the three supreme treasures of all Islam..