"It is well," nodded the Master. Then, suddenly he stood up, faced the
Arab, and bent on him a sternly penetrant look.

"Rrisa," said he, impressively, his voice slow, grave, sonorous, "only
for me thy bones would today be moldering in the trenches at Gallipoli
or maybe rotting in a Turkish grave. The life that is in thee belongs
to me! That is thy ancient law. Is it not true?"

"It is true, Master. _Nahnu malihin._" (We have eaten salt together.)

"And the salt is still in thy stomach?[1]"

[Footnote 1: Some Arab tribes hold that the salt binds protection for
only twenty-four hours and at the end of that time must be renewed,
otherwise it is "not in their stomachs."]

"Aye, Master. You are still _dakhil_ (protected) to me."

"Thou art mine to do with as I will?"

"I am the Master's!"

"Treason to me, Rrisa, is treason to thy holy laws. Surely, such
treason would plunge thy soul far into the depths of Eblis. When thy
time cometh to walk across the burning pit, on the bridge as fine and
sharp as the edge of a simitar, if it be laden with treachery to one
who hath saved thy life and whose salt thou hast eaten, surely it
shall not pass over, but shall fall. Far into the deeps of Jehannum it
shall fall, where the Prophet says: 'Stones and men shall be the fuel
of the everlasting flame!'"