Every rider leaned far back in his pearl-inlaid, jewel-crusted saddle, reining in his horse.
And in a moment, as innumerable unshod hoofs dug the heavy turf, all that thundering host--which but a second before had seemed inevitably bound to trample down the Legion under a hurricane of white-lathered horses and frenzied, long-robed men--came to a dead halt of silence and immobility.
It was as if some magician's wand, touching the crest of an inbreaking storm-wave, had instantaneously frozen it, white-slavering foam and all, to motionless rigidity.
Ahead of all, standing erect and proud in his arabesque stirrups, with the green banner floating overhead, the chief of this whole marvelous band was stretching out the hand of salaam.
"_Fire_!" cried the Master..