Dirrag, wondering vaguely if his young master knew how to handle his
weapons, unsheathed his own blade and, squatting at the edge of the
pool, impaled the green twigs, one after another, upon its point and
drew them from the water. When all had been thus removed he buried the
deadly branches deep in the desert sands, and then reclined beside his
master. The horses sniffed eagerly at the pool, but would not drink
until they were given permission.

Silence fell upon the group. When three hours had passed Dirrag arose,
crept to the pool and dipped his finger in the water, tasting a drop
warily. Then he leaned over and drank, somewhat sparingly, and laid
himself down again, commending his soul to Allah.

In another hour he sprang up, alert and brisk, and touched Ahmed’s
shoulder.

“You may drink, master,” said he. “The pool is cleansed.”

Five minutes later, men and horses alike refreshed, they galloped away
through the moonlight.

The fifth day dawned--the fifth according to Dirrag’s calendar, which
dated from the moment he had left Mekran. Ahmed had been in the saddle
thirty-six hours, with brief periods of rest. Dirrag, man of iron though
he was, began to show signs of fatigue. He was used to long riding, but
now his eyelashes seemed lead and every stroke of his horse’s hoofs
sounded in his ears like the beat of a drum.

Soon after the sun arose they discovered a group of horsemen far across
the desert, who seemed to be riding in the same direction they were. The
horsemen were mere specks upon the sands, at first, but as the hours
passed they grew larger.

“Travellers to Mekran,” remarked Dirrag, calmly. “The sirdars have been
assembled. Doubtless it is the party of some dignitary journeying to the
death-bed of Burah Khan.”

“How far distant is Mekran?” asked Ahmed.

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