He Respects a Flag of Truce
"Not that, ye damn fool!" he cried. "D'ye want to ruin us all?"
The man squirmed, spluttering with surprise, choking with explanations. Lemercier arrived just in time to place a staying hand upon the infuriated Irishman's arm, and to secure the release of the hapless sentry.
"What are you about, monsieur?" he demanded angrily.
"About?" roared the Irishman. "Look ye there! And this fool would have killed him had I not happened to see him raise his gun!"
His majesty glanced in the direction the Irishman had indicated; he noticed that the searchlight was holding steady, unswerving; and there, upon the beach, in the center of the disk of illumination, was the figure of a Tawarek, standing, alone, erect, motionless, wrapped about with a burnoose of crimson and gold, masked in black to his eyes, disdainful and dignified despite the nature of his errand.
In one hand, outstretched, he bore a long lance; a cloth of white dangled from its tip.
"A flag of truce!" cried O'Rourke. "He has come as art envoy to make peace with ye, Monsieur l'Empereur! And this—this blockhead would have spoiled it all!"
"I will have, no dealings with him," announced le petit Lemercier, haughtily turning his shoulder to O'Rourke, "Let the man fire."
"Your majesty," protested O'Rourke, "that is madness—"
"They attacked us," persisted the emperor coldly.
"They rule the desert," expostulated the Irishman. "Ye were speaking of opening a port for the caravan trade. Without the cooperation of these desert pirates ye will gain nothing; if they oppose ye they will never permit one caravan to pass into your territories!"
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