And
Yar Ali had heard hints before of a silent city of the sands; tales
had followed the eastbound caravans over the high Persian uplands
and across the sands of Turkistan, into the mountain country and
beyond--vague tales, whispers of a black city of the djinn, deep in the
hazes of a haunted desert.So, following the trail of the legend, the companions had come from
Shiraz to a village on the Arabian shore of the Persian Gulf, and there
had heard more from an old man who had been a pearl-diver in his
youth. The loquacity of age was on him and he told tales repeated to
him by wandering tribesmen who had them in turn from the wild nomads of
the deep interior; and again Steve and Yar Ali heard of the still black
city with giant beasts carved of stone, and the skeleton sultan who
held the blazing gem.And so, mentally swearing at himself for a fool, Steve had made the plunge, and Yar Ali, secure in the knowledge that all things lay on the lap of Allah, had come with him. Their scanty supply of money had been just sufficient to provide riding-camels and provisions for a bold flying invasion of the unknown. Their only chart had been the vague rumors that placed the supposed location of Kara-Shehr. 

There had been days of hard travel, pushing the beasts and conserving water and food. Then, deep in the desert they invaded, they had encountered a blinding sand-wind in which they had lost the camels. After that came long miles of staggering through the sands, battered by a flaming sun, subsisting on rapidly dwindling water from their canteens, and food Yar Ali had in a pouch. No thought of finding the mythical city now. They pushed on blindly, in hope of stumbling upon a spring; they knew that behind them no oases lay within a distance they could hope to cover on foot. It was a desperate chance, but their only one. 

Then white-clad hawks had swooped down on them, out of the haze of the skyline, and from a shallow and hastily scooped trench the adventurers had exchanged shots with the wild riders who circled them at top speed. The bullets of the Bedouins had skipped through their makeshift fortifications, knocking dust into their eyes and flicking bits of cloth from their garments, but by good chance neither had been hit. 

Their one bit of luck, reflected Clarney, as he cursed himself for a fool. What a mad venture it had been, anyway! To think that two men could so dare the desert and live, much less wrest from its abysmal bosom the secrets of the ages! And that crazy tale of a skeleton hand gripping a flaming jewel in a dead city—bosh! What utter rot! He must have 

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