“He swims in a span of water.”—Arabic Proverb.
At that very hour Al-Asad, disguised as a holy man, sat in the camp of the Bedouins who had befriended Ralph Trenchard.
True, the holy man’s body was somewhat well covered, as though he had not unduly deprived himself of food in the ecstasy of his religion, and his feet in fairly good trim, considering the length of the pilgrimage he was making on foot to Mecca; also, upon close inspection, might the rents in his one garment be attributed to a blunt knife rather than to time.
But there are many kinds of holy men criss-crossing desert places, depending entirely upon the charity of chance-met Arabs for sustenance and the will of Allah for a safe arrival at their journey’s end. The tattered handkerchief fluttering from the end of the staff can be traced by the keen-eyed, approaching or retreating, for miles in the desert’s clear atmosphere, and heartbeats never fail to quicken at the chance encounter with the solitary human who wends his way across the burning sands, alone with his God.
As to others, so to Ralph Trenchard, sitting outside his tent, came that feeling of great respect which the sudden appearance of these mystics arouses in those who have the wherewithal to allay their hunger, and a place upon which to lay their heads at night; and with the respect, a great curiosity to read the secrets of a mind which allows so emaciated a body to endure and survive days of endless wandering and starvation and nights under heaven’s starlit roof. Al-Asad sat motionless, his eyes fixed upon space, whilst his stomach rebelled against the rice in the wooden bowl at his feet, and his whole being longed to get back to the spot, in the far distance, where he had hobbled his well-laden camel.
Fearful of news of his search being transmitted through space to the ears of those he sought, he had been forced to act up to his disguise and to travel many weary, sandy miles on foot to various Bedouin camps, and to eat many bowls of insipid rice, washed down his gasping throat with muddy coffee, whilst abstracting the news he wanted from his unsuspicious host by subtle questioning.
He had rejoiced to the innermost part of his being when, whilst humbly asking alms from the Bedouin chief, he had seen Ralph Trenchard out of the corner of his eye.
His quest was at an end. He had but to get into communication in some way with the white man and arouse his interest, then leave the rest to the foolishness of a race which, as his mistress had told him, taught its men to look upon women as an almost sacred charge. He rose, and with hands uplifted turned to the four quarters of the globe, his keen eyes sweeping the camp for sign of the lynx-eyed Abdul, whilst the Bedouins drew back out of respect for his holiness.
On catching sight of the servant at the back of his master’s tent, Al-Asad squatted upon his haunches and muttered to himself, letting the beads of Mecca run swiftly through his fingers whilst his crafty mind searched for the best way to start the business without arousing the servant’s suspicions.
He scraped up the last handful of rice, being careful not to leave one single grain, and forced it down his rebelling throat, then rose and crossed slowly to a black patch of shadow, in which he sat himself, well aware that the eyes of the whole camp, especially those of the white man, were upon him. He sat motionless for awhile as though in thanksgiving for the nauseating meal, then made a gesture, upon which, with little cries and great jostling, the whole camp, men, women and many children, crowded about him, then, with the chief in the centre, sat themselves down in a semicircle at the respectful distance demanded by the holy one’s piety.