Marching Sands
claim. If you are the victor, the White Spirit shall be yours."
"It is well," assented Gray.
He spoke mechanically, feeling the phenomena known to men who are about to go into bodily danger—the acute interest in all about him, merged into indifference.
"We have sent for the White Spirit," added Timur. "Gela will bring her."
A fresh murmur caused Gray to raise his eyes. He searched the throng greedily. At the door behind the daïs Mary Hastings had appeared. The murmur changed into a loud exclamation of astonishment.
The girl had been forced to discard her own clothing for a loose garment of white silk, fitted with a wide girdle of the same material and a veil that covered her face below the eyes. Her hair hung over her slender shoulders in bronze coils on which the candlelight played fitfully.
Her arms were bare. Thrust into the glare, she shrank back. Then she caught sight of Gray and would have started forward, but the women around prevented her. For a moment her eyes sought his pleadingly.
"The Kha Rakcha," murmured those near him. "Aie—she is fair."
Gray's heart leaped at the sight Then Gela appeared at the girl's side, his tall bulk towering
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