Abdullah walked at the left, abreast of the dun. At intervals he rode the black racer.
The pace of a caravan is two miles an hour, but Abdullah's, the two cripples included, could make two miles and a quarter. The black racer could make sixty miles a day for five days, without drinking, but at the end of such a journey his hump would be no larger than a pincushion, and his temper—?
For centuries it has been the custom of Sahara caravans to travel not more than five miles the first day. Abdullah, the iconoclast, made thirty-three. Ali came to him at two o'clock.
"Shall we camp, master?" he asked.
"When I give the word," replied Abdullah. "You forget that the wells at
Okba are choked. We shall camp at El Zarb."
"El Zarb," exclaimed Ali. "We should camp there to-morrow."
"Must I continually remind you," said Abdullah, "that to-morrow may never dawn? We camp at El Zarb to-night."
At nine o'clock they marched under the palms of El Zarb. Abdullah held up his hands; Ali ran to the head of the dun leader; the caravan halted, groaned, and knelt. The first day's journey was over.
III
The moment that the halt was accomplished, Abdullah went about, loosing the surcingles of his camels. Then he began to pitch his tent. It was of camel-skins, stretched over eight sticks, and fastened at the edges with spikes of locust wood. It was entirely open at the front, and when he had the flaps pinned, he gathered a little pile of camels' dung, struck a match, and began to make his tea. He had no thought for his passengers. His thoughts were with his heart, and that was back at the house beyond the bazaar—the house with the green lattices. Before the water boiled, Ali came up, eager, breathless.