No followers of Mohammed, the Druse were devoted to heathen gods and rituals. It was not for that, or their hypocrisy—a Druse tribesman going among other peoples usually pretended to accept the religion of his hosts—or their thievery, or the fact that they seldom attacked anyone at all unless the odds were heavily in their favor, that Ali now hated them. He'd have hated anyone at all who mistreated such a dalul in such a fashion!
It occurred to Ali that he had neglected the prayer he should have offered immediately after the sun rose and probably would have to omit proper ceremonies at high noon, but it did not worry him. Allah, the Compassionate, would surely understand that there are certain inconveniences attached to the observance of prayers while in the full sight of hostile Druse. Nor would He frown upon Ali for refusing to let the dalul out of his sight. When Ali left the camp, the dalul was leaving with him.
Passing the noon mark and starting its swing to the west, the full glare of the sun no longer burned down on Ali's burnous, and the branches of the Aleppo pine offered some shade. But since the day became hotter as it grew longer, with the hottest hour of any being that one just preceding sunset, there was little relief from the heat.
Ali lay as still as possible, partly because the slightest motion would be sure to excite the curiosity of any Druse who happened to glance his way and partly because moving must inevitably make him hotter. Helping him to accept with grace what almost any other man of almost any other nation would have found an unendurable wait were certain talents and characteristics that had been his from birth.
Though he'd never even known his own father, Ali was of ancient blood. Few of his ancestors, throughout all the generations, had ever had the facilities, even though they might possess the best of reasons, for going anywhere in a hurry. Ali came of people who knew how to wait, and added to his inheritance was his experience with the caravans. Regardless of when a shipment had been promised for delivery in Baghdad or Aleppo, it lingered along the way, if the camels that carried it developed sore feet en route.
In some measure, Ali suffered from heat, and, to a far greater extent, he knew the tortures of thirst, but he accepted both with the inborn fatalism of one who knows he must accept what he can neither change nor prevent. Heat and thirst were passing factors. Unless he died first, in which event he'd join Allah's celestial family, sooner or later he'd be cool and he'd drink.
There'd been little action in the camp all day, but toward night the Druse stirred. They did so surlily, grudgingly, after the fashion of men who do not like what they've been doing in the recent past and have no reason to suppose they'll be doing anything more interesting in the near future. Rather than build cooking fires, they nibbled dates, meal and honey cakes, and drank from goatskin flasks. There was no singing, not even much shouting. The Druse, born raiders who could be happy only when in the saddle and riding to the attack, must now be unhappy and snarl at each other because their scouts, who were doubtless haunting every caravan trail, had brought no news of quarry sighted.
Night came, and with it a coolness so refreshing that it inspired Ali to thoughts of the heavenly bath that must be enjoyed by Allah's angels. The cool night air fell and enfolded him like a gentle flood, but with no hint of the earth's dross. After a blazing day, it was as welcome as the sight of green palms ringing an oasis.
Ali reveled in the coolness, but not nearly as much as he did in the fact that, with night, the Druse camp quieted. After waiting another hour, he drew his dagger and went forward.