all, alike, converged toward the gate.

But to these, the little party of four gave no heed. Other men
absorbed their interest--sleeping men, now more and more thickly
scattered all along the stockade. Save for a slight, saline tang
to the air--an odor by no means unpleasant--nothing remained of the
lethal gas.

But its victims still lay there, prone, in every possible attitude of
complete and overpowering abandonment. And all, as the party of four
passed, were quickly disarmed. Up and down the open space, other
Legionaries were at the same work.

The Master and his companions reached the gate-house first of any
in the party. The gate was massive, of stout oaken planks heavily
strapped with iron. About it, and the gate-house, a good many
guards were lying. All showed evidence of having dropped asleep with
irresistible suddenness.

Some were gaping, others foolishly grinning as if their last sensation
had been agreeable--as indeed it had been--while others stared
disconcertingly. The chin of one showed an ugly burn where his Turkish
cigarette had sagged, and had smoldered to extinction on the flesh.

One had a watch in his hand, while another gripped a newspaper. In the
gate-house, two had fallen face downward on the table that occupied
the center of the rough room; checker-pieces lay scattered from the
game they had been playing. Several men sprawled just outside the
little house, on the platform. Under the incandescents, the effect
grew weird.