He swung above it a silver lamp he had pulled down from the wonderfully arabesqued wall.
"Four scimitars added to our equipment will be useful, at close quarters," he opined very coolly, unmindful of the dull uproar now battering at the inner door.

"Pick up the cutlery, men, and don't forget the admirable qualities of the _arme blanche_!" Himself, he took one of the long, curved blades.

The major, Leclair, and Ferrara--an expert swordsman he had been, in the Italian army--possessed themselves of the others.
Bohannan whistled his scimitar through the air.
"Very fine I call it!" he exclaimed, with a joyful laugh.

"Some little game of tag, what?
And our Moslem friends are still 'it!' We're still ahead!" "And likely to be, till our friends bring powder, mine that door, and blow it in!" The Master added: "We've still a few minutes--maybe more.
Now, then--" A shrill cry in French, from Lebon, drew all eyes away to the left of the small chamber.
"_Voila_!" the lieutenant's orderly was vociferating.

They saw his distorted, torture-broken hand wildly gesticulating toward the floor.
"My Lieutenant, behold!" "In the name of God, what now ?" Leclair demanded, scimitar in hand.
The silver lamps struck high-lights from that gleaming blade, as he turned toward his orderly.