From time to time the waiting scouts joined them, solitary horsemen riding with reckless speed over the broken ground or slipping silently from the shadow of a side track to make a brief report and then take their place among the ranks of tribesmen. So far they told no more than was already known. The wind blew keener as the dawn approached. Far in the east the first faint pinky streaks were spreading across the sky, overhead the twinkling stars paled one by one and vanished. The atmosphere grew suddenly chill. The surrounding desert had before been strangely silent, not so much as the wailing cry of a jackal had broken the intense stillness, but now an even deeper hush, mysterious and pregnant, closed down over the land. For the time all nature seemed to hang in suspense, waiting, watching. To Craven the wonder of the dawn was not new, he had seen if often in many countries, but it was a marvel of which he never tired. And there was about this sunrise a significance that had been attached to no other he had ever witnessed. Eagerly he watched the faint flush brighten and intensify, the pale streaks spread and widen into far flung bars of flaming gold and crimson. Daylight came with startling suddenness and as the glowing disc of the sun rose red above the horizon a horseman broke from the galloping ranks, and spurring in advance of the troop, wheeled his horse and dragged him to an abrupt standstill. Rising in his stirrups he flung his arms in fervid ecstasy toward the heavens. Craven recognised in him a young Mullah of fanatical tendencies who had been particularly active in the camp during the preceding week. That the opposing tribe was of a different sect, abhorred by the followers of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, had been an original cause of dissent between them, and the priests had made good use of the opportunity of fanning religious zeal.
The cavalcade came to a sudden halt, and as Craven with difficulty reined in his own horse the sustained and penetrating cry of the muezzin rose weirdly high and clear on the morning air, “al-ilah-ilah.” The arresting and solemn invocation had always had for Craven a peculiar fascination, and as the last lingering notes died away it was not purely from a motive of expediency that he followed the common impulse and knelt among the prostrate Arabs. His creed differed from theirs but he worshipped the same God as they, and in his heart he respected their overt profession of faith.
As he rose from his knees he caught Saïd’s eyes bent on him with a curious look in them of interrogation that was at once faintly mocking and yet sad. But the expression passed quickly into a boyish grin as he waved an unlit cigarette toward the fiery young priest who had seized the chance to embark on a passionate harangue.
“When prayer is ended disperse yourselves through the land as ye list,” he murmured, with a flippant laugh at the perverted quotation. “The holy man will preach till our tongues blacken with thirst.” And he turned to his brother to urge him to give the order to remount. Omar was leaning against his horse, his tall figure sagging with fatigue. He started violently as Saïd spoke to him, and, staggering, would have fallen but for the strong arm slipped round him. And, watching Craven saw with dismay a dark stain mar the whiteness of his robes where a wound had broken out afresh, and he wondered whether the weakened body would be able to respond to the urging of the resolute will that drove it mercilessly, or, when almost within view, the fiercely longed for revenge would yet be snatched from him.
But with an effort the Arab pulled himself together and, mounting, painfully cut short the Mullah’s eloquence and gave in a firm tone the desired order.
The swift gallop southward was resumed.
The breeze dropped gradually and finally died away, but for an hour or more the refreshing coolness lingered. Then as the sun rose higher and gained in strength the air grew steadily warmer until the heat became intense and Craven began to look eagerly for the oasis that was to be their first halting place. In full daylight the landscape that by night had seemed to possess an eerie charm developed a dull monotony. The successive rise and fall of the land, always with its limited outlook, became tedious, and the labyrinthine hillocks with their intricate windings seemed to enclose them inextricably. But on reaching the summit of a longer steeper incline that had perceptibly slowed the galloping horses, he saw spread out before him a level tract of country stretching far into the distance, with a faint blue smudge beyond of the chain of hills that Saïd told him marked the boundary of the territory that Mukair Ibn Zarrarah regarded as his own, the boundary, too, of French jurisdiction. Through a defile in the hills lay the enemy country.
The change was welcome to men and horses alike, the latter—aware with unerring instinct of the nearness of water—of their own accord increased their pace and thundering down the last long shifting slope pressed forward eagerly toward the oasis that Craven judged to be between two and three miles away. In the clear deceptive atmosphere it appeared much nearer, and yet as they raced onward it seemed to come no closer but rather to recede as though some malevolent demon of the desert in wanton sport was conjuring it tantalizingly further and further from them. The tall feathery palms, seen through the shimmering heat haze, took an exaggerated height towering fantastically above the scrub of bushy thorn trees.
Craven had even a moment’s doubt whether the mirage-like oasis actually existed or was merely a delusion bred of fancy and desire. But the absurdity of the doubt came home to him as he looked again at the outline of the distant hills—too conspicuous a landmark to allow of any error on the part of his companions to whom the country was familiar.
The prospect of the welcome shade made him more sensitive to the scorching strength of the sun that up till now he had endured without more than a passing sensation of discomfort. He was inured to heat, but to-day’s heat was extraordinary, and even the Arabs were beginning to show signs of distress. It was many hours since they started and the pace had been killing. His mouth was parched and his eyeballs smarted with the blinding glare. With the thirst that increased each moment the last half mile seemed longer than all the preceding ride, and when the oasis was at length reached he slipped from his sweating horse with an exclamation of relief.
The Arabs crowded round the well and in a moment the little peaceful spot was the scene of noisy confusion; men shouting, scrambling and gesticulating, horses squealing, and above all the creaking whine of the tackling over the well droning mournfully as the bucket rose and fell. Saïd swung himself easily to the ground and held his brother’s plunging horse while he dismounted. For a few moments they conversed together in a rapid undertone, and then the younger man turned to Craven, a cloud on his handsome face. “Our communication has broken down. Two scouts should have met us here,” he said, with a hint of anxiety in his voice. “It disconcerts our scheme for we counted on their report. They may be late—it is hardly likely. They had ample time. More probably they have been ambushed—the country is filled with spies—in which event the advantage lies with the other side. They will know that we have started, while we shall have no further information. The two men who are missing were the only ones operating beyond the border. The last scout who reported himself was in touch with them last night. From them he learned that two days ago the enemy were forty miles south of the hills yonder. We had hoped to catch them unawares, but they may have got wind of our intentions and be nearer than we expect. The curse of Allah on them!” he added impatiently.