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 any land. Draped in robes of many colors, an elaborate and graceful turban, he stood with arms folded in repose, as if his superior soul scarcely noted the kaleidoscopic follies of humankind. Six gleaming spears formed a hedge behind him, in the hands of six rigid tribesmen. It was as if some desert sultan with his bodyguard had stepped out from the Arabian Nights. No wonder the Colonel whispered, "Who is that?"

Lyttleton glanced around; his face grew serious as he bent nearer Colonel Spottiswoode, and whispered, "Some day we may hear too much of that man—perhaps as a more dangerous Mahdi. Even now his name is on the lips of all the Faithful—Mahomet ben Muza Gazan, a sheikh from the North Sahara. See that green in his turban? He's a descendant of the Prophet, and gives the French no end of trouble. He dreams of uniting all Northern Africa into a Moslem Empire, Morocco, Algiers, Tunis—Egypt, perhaps. This is the month of the pilgrimage; he journeys to Mecca with a retinue of holy men and warriors—they are camped outside the city. Then he will be a 'Hadji,' enormously increasing his prestige. His next step, possibly, is to preach a 'jehad' or holy war."

"There's fighting already amongst the Riffs," added McDonald.

Lyttleton Bey spoke in the most guarded tones;