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howled, in terror.
    A strange, swift change came over the motionless figure. Glittering tracery of white was drawn over man and camel. In seconds, a frosty film covered both. The mounted man had become a statue in white, bright with an icy sparkle.
    Staring in dazed and unbelieving wonder, Price heard abrupt, crackling sounds from the figure. A breath of air cold as an arctic blizzard struck Price’s face, chilled the sweat on his forehead.
    Then he knew! Not, of course, how it had been done. But he knew that Mustafa had been frozen to death! By some strange agency, the temperature of his body had been suddenly lowered to a point far below zero. It was so cold that frost condensed upon it from the air.
    For a moment Price was dazed by the discovery, with all that it implied of the perils ahead. Then a mind and body trained to meet unexpected emergencies responded smoothly, almost automatically.
    “Quick,” he called to the men behind. “Get over by the cliff, out of sight.” He gestured.
    A score of the Bedouins and a few of the whites had been close enough to see the weird tragedy. As Price’s words broke their spell of terror, they wheeled with one accord in panic flight, goading weary camels to a run. In vain he shouted at them to halt, as they vanished down the canyon.
     
    Dismounting swiftly, he slipped to the edge of the sheltering boulder and cautiously surveyed the gorge ahead. He saw nothing moving; ominous silence hung expectant between the frowning walls. He studied the base of the sandstone monolith, where he had seen that fleeting, betraying gleam that had saved him from Mustafa’s fate, and quickly estimated the range.
    Then, hastening back, he found the whole caravan gathered in confusion about the tank, where Jacob Garth had succeeded in stopping the fleeing Arabs. The frightened clamor ceased as he rode up.
    “Refrigeration to the nth degree,” he explained tersely. “The man was frozen—instantly. The white is frost. I saw the glitter of the thing that did it, up the canyon.”
    The pale, fat face, the cold, deep-set eyes of Jacob Garth revealed neither wonder nor fear.
    “They saw us, last night,” he boomed. “In that—mirage. They are ready—as they were before.”
    “We’ll give them a run for the money,” announced Price. He turned to the men and began shouting brisk orders.
    “Müller, take your crews and mount the Krupps for action. Bear on the base of that sandstone cliff.” He pointed. “Range is about four thousand yards.”
    “Yes, sir!” The little Teuton, who had been a captain of artillery in the Austrian army, saluted briskly and ran toward the baggage-camels that carried the mountain guns.
    Rapidly Price gave commands to have the machine-guns unpacked and set up, to cover the ancient cannon. He had rifles and automatics served out, stationed snipers to pick off any of the unseen enemy that might appear.
    When the weapons were unpacked, he sent the camels back to the rear, with Arab herdsmen. The camels were to be guarded at all costs, for their loss would mean inevitable ruin.
    Jacob Garth watched silently as Price rapped out his orders, the bland white face showing neither satisfaction nor disapproval.
    “Watch Fouad,” Price told him, in a low voice. “If he runs out on us, with the camels, we’re ditched. I’m going up in the tank, where I can watch the results of our fire and signal corrections.”
    As the little mountain guns delivered their first bracketing shots, Price delivered final instructions, sprang upon the iron deck of the tank and climbed down through the manhole to the gunner’s seat. He spoke swiftly to Sam Sorrows, the lanky Kansan, who had been driving the machine, and it lurched into roaring motion.
    Up the defile it lumbered, past the clustered, frightened Arabs, still mounted, under Jacob Garth’s guard, past the thudding little mountain guns, past the Hotchkiss guns and snipers that protected them.
    Below the fallen megalith, beside which