Suddenly he was roused from his lethargy. There were shadows just ahead. He paused, shaded his eyes from the sky and looked forward, long and earnestly.
"It is not sand-shrubs," he muttered. "It is too high. It is not Bashra. It is too low. It is not a caravan. It does not move. It has no beginning and no end," he added, as he looked to right and left.
"It is tents," he said a moment later, and a frown of anxiety gathered over his forehead. "Have I missed the way? No tribe so large as that would be tented near Bashra. If I turn back I shall die. If I go on—La Illaha il Allah!" he murmured, and resolutely advanced.
As he drew nearer, the indistinguishable noises of the night in a vast encampment became plainly audible, but he did not hesitate.
Following the Arab custom for every stranger in approaching a Bedouin camp, he paused at the first tent he reached, and standing before the open front repeated the Mussulman salutation.
Some one within roused quickly, and out of the darkness a deep voice sounded in reply.
Then Kanana repeated:
"I am a wanderer upon the desert. I am far from my people." And the voice replied:
"If you can lift the lance for Allah and Arabia, you are welcome in the camp of Kahled the Invincible."
"La Illaha il Allah!" cried Kanana. "Guide me quickly to the tent of Kahled. I am a messenger to him from the great Caliph Omar."