Hold your fire till I give the word!" "It is well, _Effendi_!" approved the lieutenant, his eyes gleaming with Gallic enthusiasm.

"These are no People of the Black Tents, no Beni Harb, nor thieving Meccans.

These are men of the very ancient, true Arabic blood--and we must honor them!" Already the rushing powder-play was within a few hundred yards.
The roar of hoofs, the smashing volleys of fire, raging of the kettle-drums, wild-echoing yells of the white company deafened the Legionaries' ears.
What a sight that was--archaic chivalry in all the loose-robed flight and flashing magnificence of rushing pride! Not one, not even the least imaginative of the Legion, but felt his skin crawl, felt his blood thrill, with stirrings of old romance at sight of this strange, exalting spectacle! In the van, an ancient horseman with bright colors in his robe was riding hardest of all, erect in his high-horned saddle, reins held loose in a master-hand, gold-mounted rifle with enormously long barrel flourished on high.
Tall old chief and slim white horse of purest barb breed seemed almost one creature.

Instinctively the Master's service-cap came off, at sight of him.

The lieutenant's did the same.