“Tyrannical, cheating, of ill omen.”—Arabic Proverb.
The overpowering heat of the day had given place to the lesser heat of early evening as the sun sank behind the western edge of the mountain ring. The interior of the ring looked like the inside of some rough-edged, painted flower-pot, with grey, purple, blue-black foundation and sides of green and richest reds and browns, melting to saffron, topaz, amethyst and rose, crowned by great peaks which seemed to flicker in the terrific heat radiated by the sun-scorched rock. Little golden, pink and crimson clouds, faintly stirred by the blessed evening breeze, sailed serenely across a sky of deepest blue which stretched, a gorgeous canopy, above the heads of the men seated on the ground or up the gentle incline rising from the plateau.
Those opposite the steps down which Zarah would have to pass sat with knees to chin, placidly chewing kaat or smoking red or black sebel and longer pipes with big, open bowl.
Those to the north and south of the steps sat sidewise, also contentedly chewing or smoking, with eyes fixed upon the steep path.
There was no laughing, no gambling, no betting upon the outcome of the different sporting items in the tournament for which they had foregathered. They were strangely quiet, with a certain expectancy in their eyes and a vast amount of meaning in their expressive gestures as they commented upon and argued about the tales the Nubian had spread anent their mistress’s strange behaviour of the night before.
“Bism ’allah! upon the very edge, with one eye upon the running water into which the Lion thought she desired to throw herself, and one eye upon the white man, who, by the wool! is a man of strong heart, even if he be an infidel.”
Bowlegs laughed as he stretched his circular limbs and pressed himself against his neighbour so as to make room for Yussuf as he came towards them, led by “His Eyes,” down the path made for him through the serried ranks.
“Welcome, brother, thou true believer in the shaven crown,” cried the handsome youth who had been swung like a club, and who had not followed the precepts of the Prophet to the extent of shaving his head. “Hast heard that the white woman, who holdeth the heart of the man who loveth her and who is loved of the beautiful Zarah, and may Allah guide their footsteps in the crookedness of their paths——” As he spoke he pushed his way between Bowlegs and Yussuf, and as he looked up into the mutilated face, touched the blind man gently. “Hast heard that the tiger-cat, in her rage, has caused the head of the white woman to be shaven so that, if she were lost in the Robaa-el-Khali, the ostrich might even wish to brood upon it as her egg?”
The men shouted in ribald mirth as they bandied jokes, mostly unprintable in their Oriental flavour.
“Yea, and shaven after the setting of the sun,” said the Patriarch bitterly, whilst every man in earshot touched his favourite lucky amulet or made the finger gesture against ill-luck. “Behold, will Zarah’s mocking of Fate surely bring catastrophe upon the camp, for what but misfortune can follow the shaving of a crown after the setting of the sun?”