CHAPTER XIV.
THE BATTLE OF BEDR.
"A Prodigy of Fear, and a portent
Of broached mischief to the unborn times."
—Shakespeare.
The afternoon was intensely warm. Although the heat of the day was past, the houses of Mecca seemed to bake in the sun, the sand burned like a furnace, and a visible, shimmering heat seemed to fill the air. Nevertheless the ceremonies of Tawaf and the ablutions of Zem-Zem went on unceasingly, for it was the month of Ramadhan, and the half-naked pilgrims, with their scanty white garments, shaven heads, and bare feet, kept up the perpetual promenade about the temple, even when so hot as to be ready to drop of exhaustion. The courtyard was crowded with people, the carriers of Zem-Zem water were in constant demand, and, in the cooler recesses of the covered portico around the great yard, a humming trade went on, the venders' cries rising above the prayers of the pilgrims.
Such was the scene upon which Omair suddenly staggered, all breathless, with haggard face, turban awry, and thin wisps of hair streaming in wet hanks over his brow.
"Where is Abu Jahl?" he cried, gasping.
"Why, what is wrong? Tell us!" cried the curious crowd in some consternation. "Where is Abu Sofian? Where is the caravan? Why have you come alone?"
"Send me Abu Jahl!" was his only reply.