Arabs, Legionaries, Maghrabis alike falling in a tumult of raw passions, disappeared under trampling feet.
Deafening grew the uproar of howls, curses, shots.

The smell of dust and blood mingled with the aromatic perfume of the cressets.
The Master was shouting something, as he emptied his automatic into the pack of white-robed bodies, snarling brown faces, waving arms.

But what he was commanding, who could tell?
Like a storm-wave flinging froth ashore, the rush of the Moslems drove the Legionaries--fewer now--back into the treasure-chamber.

The Master, violent hands on "Captain Alden," swung her back, away; thrust her behind him.

Her eyes gleamed through the mask as she still fired.
The Master heard her laugh.
From dimness of gloom, within the doorway, two vague figures rained dagger-blows.