Others did the same.
At the machine-guns, the gunners settled themselves, waiting the Master's word of command to mow into the white foam of that insurging wave--a wave of frantic riders and of lathering Nedj horses, the thunder of whose hoofs moment by moment welled up into a heart-breaking chorus of power.
"Damn it all, sir!" the major exclaimed.

"When are you going to rip into them?
They'll be on us, in three minutes--in two! Give 'em Hell, before it's too late! Stop 'em!" Leclair smiled dryly behind his lean hand, as the Master emphatically shook a head in negation.
"No, Major," he said.

"No machine-guns yet.

You and your eternal machine-guns are sometimes a weariness to the flesh." He raised his voice, above the tumult of the approaching storm of men and horses.
"I suppose you've never even heard of the _La'ab el Barut_, the powder-play of the Arabs?
They are greeting us with their greatest display of ceremony--and you talk about machine-guns!" He turned, lifted his hand and called to the gunners: "No mistakes now, men! No accidents! The first man that pulls a trigger at these people, I'll shoot down with my own hand!" The lieutenant touched the Master's arm.
"We must give them a return salute, my Captain," he said in Arabic.
"To omit that would be a grave breach of the laws of host and guest--almost as bad as violating the salt!" The Master nodded.
"That is quite true, Lieutenant," he answered.

"Thank you for reminding me!" Once more he turned to the gunners.
"Load with blanks," he commanded, "and aim at an elevation of forty-five degrees.