Rrisa's face clouded. It burned coppery, with a flush of hot blood
under that dark skin. By the clear white light in the cabin, the
Master closely observed him. Idly he broke off a leaf of the khat, and
nibbled at it.

"Is that the truth?" he inquired, pitilessly.

"I must speak truth to you, Master," confessed the Arab, with bitter
shame. "Two of the Feringi--_Nasara_ men like yourself--have indeed
touched and kissed it. Two that we know of. _Shaytan el Kabir_ (the
Great Satan) may have permitted others to do that, but we know of only
two who have done it--and lived."

"Thou meanest one named Burckhardt, and Sir Richard Burton?"

The Arab shuddered at sound of those names, and silently nodded. Then
he burst out:

"Those were their names, _M'almé!_ Those two, disguised as _Hujjaj_,
defiled the Black Stone, which was given by Allah to the first Arabs;
and they both escaped. But many others who have tried--"

"Have died at the hands of thy people?"

"_Bismillah_! Yea!" A flash of pride irradiated the dark face
of Rrisa. His figure drew itself erect. Beneath the veneer of
civilization with which life among the Feringi had overlaid him, the
Master sensed the wild, fierce, free soul of the desert man, to whom
the death of the unbelieving dog is sweet.