The cavalcade rode on by rough and stony ways, while the sun on their backs shone hot and hotter. Wild flowers grew in beds between the rocks. Now and then a bird cried. The hues of earth in contrast with the deep blue sky were pale and dead, as sands beside the sea. A train of camels, pursuing some other road, appeared and disappeared, mere dots upon the sky line.
Coming in sight of another village, hardly separate from its surrounding rocks, Hassan called the Thief to his side and gave some orders, heard of Shibli, who rode near. “Take one other with thee,” were the concluding words.
“Let me be that one,” pleaded Shibli eagerly.
“Thou, the scholar, the disciple of the Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn. Allah forbid!”
“Nay, let me. I would show you all that I am not a coward. And in truth, since the girl Alia is in the way of recovery, I care not what becomes of me.”
“Go, then,” said Hassan, between a grin and a sneer. “And see that thou support our Thief properly, else Ali, his friend, will surely beat thee.”
Shibli dropped behind with Nesìb, while Hassan and the rest of the party rode on in earnest conference.
At entering the village, Ali, the only Arab left to them, cried aloud by Hassan’s orders, so that all who rested from the heat looked forth at their doors:
“O good people, O pious Muslimûn, come out and see. Lo! here be pilgrims of distinction—holy men, none like them—men of renown. They come from Jebel Câf, that mountain reaching into heaven, which is the boundary of the whole earth. From Jebel Câf, I say, to visit your Neby Samwìl, the illustrious, the blessed. It is an honor done to all your land. Come forth and behold that which no poor man ever yet was privileged to see—princes from Jebel Câf, which is under heaven.”