“We have tracked the wild sheep of our mountains to their cool dark caves in the summits with only the pin-scrape of an odd hoof-slip on the hard rocks to guide us, and our fathers have followed the ill-fated caravans of our tribe when lost in the sandstorms of the desert until they have found the bleached bones and the resting-place of those who had perished. May the eyes of the vulture be given us, and the cunning of the jackal, so that we, in our great need, shall not fail.”
Thus spoke Rali, when they commenced to follow the trail of the robbers at the place where he had marked it months before, while it was yet fresh.
Slowly they tracked the trail onward, day after day, ever heading northward along the margins of wastes of sand that lay spell-bound in the grip of limitless silence.
One night they passed close under the great, darkly frowning mass of Baguezan, a prominent range in Aïr; and two days later found them east of the mountains, seeking the tracks in the sand while the sun went down in golden splendour behind the rugged peaks of Timia.
Later on, vague signs in the sand told them that the robbers had altered their course, and they swung westward into the mountain-land through the wide plain that trends toward the great Agoras river-bed.
Near its source they turned again northward.
They were now in a forsaken land that had once been the stronghold of their race throughout the hey-day of their power—stricken, deserted, northern Aïr, no longer harbouring living soul, no longer prospering in any way whatever.
Village after village they passed of tiny huts built from the stones of the mountains, and all stood grave and silent as tombs of the dead.
“The legends our mothers have taught us tell that we come of a great race,” said Rali. “And truly it was so. But a curse has fallen upon us with such merciless weight that, in our depression, we have come to believe that our race shall die until none remain.”
“Yes, brother,” answered Yofa. “I fear thou speakest truth. There are many kinds of misfortune, as there are many kinds of peoples on the earth; little peoples and great peoples. The incomprehensible purpose of destiny may single out any one of them, or any group of them, at any time if they trend toward ill-advised and unhealthy disguise of the soul, which has been bequeathed to them, and, mayhap, they shall fade like the leaves of the forest, until they die. Thus, sometimes, to halt an evil that has escaped beyond the shores of restraint, a great blight doth fall, that spreadeth broadcast in the land, since the victims, in their self-confident security, do not see that it is among them, nor seek a remedy, nor hear the words of wisdom of the far-seeing wizards. Allah is strong, and we but as pebbles on the sand. They are there for a purpose, as we are here; when the purpose is past, or unduly transgressed, we shall be overcome and laid low, as drifting sand doth smother those stones.