knife? Cutting the stomach, so?" He made an illustrative gesture.

"Since you do force me to speak, against my will, _M'almé_--you being
of the _Nasara_ blood--I will declare the truth. Yea, that is so."

"A pleasant custom, surely! And why always in the stomach? Why do they
never stab or cut like other races?"

"There are no bones in the stomach, to dull the edges of the knives,
_M'almé_."

"Quite practical, that idea!" the Master exclaimed. Then he fell
silent again. He pressed his questions no further, concerning the
great Central Desert of the land. To have done so, he knew, would have
been entirely futile. Beyond a certain point, which he could gauge
accurately, neither gold nor fire would drive Rrisa. The Arab would at
any hour of night or day have laid down his life for the Master; but
though it should mean death he would not break the rites of his faith,
nor touch the cursed flesh of a pig, nor drink the forbidden drop of
wine, nor yet betray the secret of his land.

All at once the Arab spoke, in slow, grave tones.

"Your God is not my God, Master," said he, impersonally. "No, the God
of your people is not the God of mine. We have our own; and the land
is ours, too. None of the _Nasara_ may come thither, and live. Three
came, that I have heard of, and--they died. I crave my Master's
bidding to depart."

"Presently, yea," the Master answered. "But I have one more question