He had handed his gun to the man behind him, and now was unarmed save for a _gadaymi_, or semicircular knife, thrust into his silk sash of crimson, with frayed edges.
A leather bandolier, wonderfully tooled and filled with cartridges, passed over his right shoulder to his left hip.

His feet, high-arched and fine of line, were naked save for silk-embroidered _babooshes_.
The Master realized, as he gazed on this extraordinary old man, whose dignity was such that even the bizarre _melange_ of colors could not detract from it, that he was beholding a very different type of Arab from any he yet had come in contact with.
The aged Sheik salaamed.

The Master returned the salutation, then covered himself and saluted smartly.

In a deep, grave voice the old man said: "_A'hla wasa'halan_!" (Be ye welcome!) "_Bikum_!" (I give thee thanks!) replied the Master.
"In Allah's name, who are ye ?" "Franks," the Master said, vastly relieved at this unexpected amity.
Strange contrast with the violent hostility heretofore experienced! What might it mean?
What might be hidden beneath this quiet surface?
Relief and anxiety mingled in the Master's mind.

If treachery were intended, in just this manner would it speak.
"Men of Feringistan ?" asked the aged Sheik.