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Ali took a single backward step that brought him nearer Ben Akbar. The move could have been interpreted as a wholly natural desire to find such comfort as he might in his camel, the one friend he had or was likely to have. But Ali's purpose was more practical.

Unless every imaginable advantage was on his side, the wielder of a dagger hadn't the faintest chance of overcoming anyone armed with a scimitar, but Ali intended to concede no point not already and unavoidably given by the difference in weapons. When The Jackal swung, which he would do when he considered the moment right, he would not miss. But if Ali was agile enough at ducking, and ducked in the right direction, it did not necessarily follow that he must be killed outright.

For a split second immediately following his blow, The Jackal would be off guard. Before he recovered, always supposing he was still able to move, Ali might go forward with his dagger and work some execution, or at least inflict some damage, of his own. All else failing, there was reason to hope that Ben Akbar would trample his foe after he went down. Ali studied The Jackal.

Of medium height and probably middle-aged, he was veiled in a certain mystic aura that defied penetration and prevented even a reasonably accurate guess as to how many years he had been on earth. He blended in a curious manner with the harsh and wild desert background, as though he had been a part of it from the beginning. His hair was concealed beneath a hood, but not even a thick beard succeeded in hiding a cruel mouth. His nose was thin and aquiline, with nostrils that seemed forever to be questing. His eyes were unreadable, but they possessed certain depths that combined with a broad sweep of forehead and a vast arrogance of manner to mark The Jackal as a man apart.

Ali remembered the first time he had run across him, or rather, evidence of his work.

It was Ali's third year with the caravans, and they were going from Mersin to Erzerum, with seven hundred camels and an assorted load, when they overtook all that remained of the caravan preceding them. It had been the entourage of some wealthy Amir, traveling north with his family and a powerful guard of soldiers. When Ali arrived, The Jackal had been there and gone, but he had left his trademark.

All human males, from babes in the arms of his wives to the gray-bearded Amir himself, lay where they had fallen. The older women and the girl children were massacred, too. Only the young girls had been carried away with the remainder of the legitimate booty.

Savagely cruel though it was, the raid was equally audacious. Of the many bandit leaders infesting the caravan routes, few had the imagination to plan a successful attack on a heavily-guarded Amir's caravan or the courage to proceed, once such an attack was planned.

Thereafter, at sporadic intervals, Ali found additional evidence that The Jackal was still at work, and there could be no mistake about his identity. His raids were noted for cruelty and for the fact that he never bothered with any except wealthy caravans. Three years later, Ali met The Jackal.

The caravan for which Ali was handling camels came to an oasis one day out of Ankara and found another caravan already encamped. However, there was ample room for both and no apparent reason for either to challenge the other. Ali took care of the camels for which he was responsible, then set about to do something he would have done before had an opportunity offered itself.

He had been in Antioch, temporarily idle, when he happened across a youngster mishandling some half-broken baggage camels. He had stepped in to bring the situation under control. On succeeding, he discovered that the young man had disappeared while he was occupied, and an older person was quietly watching him instead. The older man, whom Ali thought was the caravan master, invited him to come along as a camel driver.

Ali had accepted and discovered, too late, that the imperious youngster who'd been mishandling baggage camels was the real caravan master, which position he held solely by virtue of the fact that his father was Pasha of Damascus. He didn't like Ali and he missed no opportunity to demonstrate his disapproval. Ali had stayed with the caravan until reaching this oasis for the simple reason that there was no other choice. If he had left sooner, he would have been one lone man in a land noted for the brief span of life enjoyed by solitary travelers. But he felt that he could make it from here to Ankara without difficulty and he'd had more than his fill of the Pasha's son. He went to the caravan master's tent to demand his pay.

He found the youngster engaged in amiable conversation with the man who now stood before him, The Jackal, who said he was master of the other caravan. Ali also found that, in the eyes of the Pasha's son, his own state was less than exalted. He was ordered out of the tent.

When Ali refused to leave without first receiving his pay, the youngster unsheathed a dagger and advanced with the obvious intention of having him carried out feet first. Unluckily for the Pasha's son, Ali also had a dagger and his skill with the same exceeded by a comfortable margin any adroitness the other might claim. Ali got his due wages, which he took from a moneybag, and the Pasha's son had fainted from a series of dagger wounds in his right arm.

Ali was on the point of leaving when The Jackal, who had offered not the faintest interference, rose, complimented him on a superb bit of dagger work and thanked him for making it easier to sack the caravan. He intended to do this tomorrow, somewhere between the oasis and Ankara, but the Pasha's son had presented an awkward problem. The Jackal, who introduced himself as such, had no fear of soldiers in reasonable numbers but he was not prepared to cope with the armies that must inevitably take the field against whoever molested a son of the Pasha—this despite the fact that the Pasha had no fewer than twenty-nine known sons. The Jackal had been trying to persuade the young man to leave and go into Ankara when Ali's dagger had settled the matter in a most satisfactory fashion.

The Jackal was not ungrateful, and, to prove his gratitude, he would arrange for Ali to ride into Ankara with a small group of his own men, who would leave shortly. After they had gone, The Jackal would see to it that a sufficient number of his own trusty brigands, under such oaths as might be appropriate, would swear that they had seen the Pasha's son struck down by an unknown assailant.

Ali had ridden and so had escaped the next morning's massacre, which several travelers had reported as taking place after the Pasha's son had been "killed by an assassin." Thereafter, he had waited for lightning to strike although he had only injured his attacker in self defense, but so far, it hadn't which meant that The Jackal had kept his lips sealed. Now it no longer mattered. The Jackal would cut his own mother down if by so doing he served his own ends.

Suddenly, "Why hesitate, Abdullah?" somebody growled.

Another man came from the brush to stand beside The Jackal. Then there was another...and more...until nineteen men were grouped about The Jackal and facing Ali. The Jackal stepped aside. Another took his place.

Ali glanced briefly at The Jackal. He looked at the others, all good Moslems and all wearing on their turbans the distinctive emblem that marked them as members of the Pasha's crack personal soldiery. The present "Abdullah," the former Jackal, wore the same emblem but, until now, it had escaped Ali's notice because, not in his wildest flight of imagination had he dreamed he'd ever see it on a Druse.

The soldier who'd spoken and for whom The Jackal had stepped aside, evidently the commander of this patrol, spoke again and directed his words to Ali, "Where found you the dalul, dog?"

Ali answered, "I stole him from some Druse."

The soldier drew his dagger and spoke again, "Die you will, but choose whether you die swiftly or slowly. Why are you found in possession of the finest dalul among two thousand such owned by the Pasha of Damascus?"

"I stole him—" Ali began.

At that moment, out in the thicket, one of the camels being led by the dismounted Druse as they made their way among the trees and brush, chose to grunt. The eyes of every man except the officer turned toward the sound.

Ali said, "The Druse from whom I stole the dalul are in close pursuit. They are twenty-three in all."

Except for the officer, who thoughtfully kept the point of his dagger pricking Ali's ribs, the Moslems scattered and, a few seconds later, it was as though they had never been.

The officer addressed Ali. "Bid the dalul lie down."

Ali gave the order and Ben Akbar obeyed. Unconcerned as though there were no Druse within forty miles, but not forgetting to prick Ali's ribs with his dagger, the officer scorned even to glance in the direction from which the Druse approached. Ali wondered. Some Moslems yearned so ardently for the life to come that they set not the least value on the one they already had, but the officer seemed more practical-minded.

"The Druse number a score and three," Ali ventured finally. "They come from the direction where the camel grunted and they cannot fail to see you should you neglect to hide."

"I did not ask your opinion," the officer growled. "Be silent!"

Since the order was emphasized with a sudden jab of the dagger, Ali remained silent. He composed himself. This, as well as everything else, was now in the hands of Allah and He alone would determine the outcome. But it never harmed anything to ponder.

The rest of the Moslems and The Jackal had disappeared as suddenly and completely as morning dew when the sun turns hot. Though they could not be very far away, neither was the end of the thicket. Once out of the brush, Ali could mount Ben Akbar and ride. If the pursuit were resumed, and, regardless of who won the forthcoming battle, it would be, it must still be delayed while the fight was in progress. If Allah would only see fit to make the officer take the point of his dagger out of Ali's ribs and go wherever his men had gone, it would be worth Ali's while to try to break away.

But the officer entertained no ideas about going anywhere or of using his dagger for any purpose except to remind Ali how swiftly a painful situation could become fatal. Ali looked at Ben Akbar, still lying where he had been ordered to lie, but not liking it. Though reclining, he was anything but relaxed. His head was up, his eyes missed nothing, his nostrils quested, and tense muscles indicated both a readiness and an ability to spring instantly to his feet.

Ali decided that Ben Akbar did not like these strange Moslems any better than he had the Druse who captured him, and that he tolerated them at all only because Ali commanded him to do so. It occurred to Ali that none of the Moslems had been eager to venture too near Ben Akbar, and, suddenly, he knew something he hadn't known before.

Certainly no killer, Ben Akbar was most discriminating when it came to a choice of human companions. Incapable as the Druse of handling him properly, the Moslems were wisely leaving him alone. The fierce little officer never would have told Ali to make Ben Akbar lie down if he thought the dalul would obey him instead.

That being so, and if Allah smiled and the Moslems won the forthcoming fight, Ali felt that he had some hope of staying alive, at least until the soldiers returned to whatever headquarters camp they had left to go out on patrol. It would reflect little credit on any emissary of the Pasha of Damascus to bring a favorite dalul before the eyes of his master as a raging brute at the end of ropes. If the Moslems could not take him in except by force, but Ali could, there were reasons to suppose that Ali would.

When they appeared on foot, the Druse were led by a sinewy man who advanced at a trot, and who, in turn, led a dalul. Evidently the same talented tracker who'd followed Ali's trail while riding full speed, the man strained like a leashed gazelle hound that sights its quarry. The remaining Druse grouped behind him.

Ali glanced at the officer.

That fierce Moslem, who certainly knew the Druse were coming, contemptuously refused even to look around until the leader was within thirty yards of him. Then, maintaining enough pressure on the dagger to remind Ali that he was not forgotten, he swung and shouted insults.

"Dogs!" he spat. "Eaters of pork! Spawn of flies that infest camel dung! I have your prisoner and your dalul! Come take them if you're men!"

The leading Druse dropped the reins of his dalul, shouted fiercely, drew his sword and rushed. His followers did likewise, and, even though some were delayed by frightened camels that plunged to one side or the other, Ali counted nine sword-waving Druse hard on the heels of their leader and all too close for comfort. He stole another glance at the officer.

Neither taking the dagger from Ali's ribs nor making any move to draw his sword, he seemed to regard the attacking Druse as he might some particularly repulsive vermin that might soil his shoes if he stepped on them. Then it happened.

From both sides of the trail, where they had concealed themselves as soon as they knew the Druse were coming, Moslem swordsmen rose. So complete was the surprise and so overwhelming the shock, half the Druse were down before the rest even thought of rallying. Ali acknowledged his approval—and even some admiration—for an officer who could plan so well.

The ambushed Moslems must have seen Ali and Ben Akbar when they were at least as far off as the Druse had been when they were sighted. They had marked the exact route, which made it unnecessary to do any second-guessing about the Druse. If they were following Ali, they were tracking him. So an ambush on either side of the track, an officer to act as bait and convince the Druse that there was only one man and—

The last Druse went down. The Moslems ranged out to catch the scattered camels and bring in any loot that was worth bringing. Some wounded, but all on their feet, they arranged themselves and their booty before the officer.

"You fought like old women," he sneered. "It is well that there were no real warriors to oppose you. But now that we have the dalul we set out to find, we may return."

"The prisoner?" someone called.

"He stays." The officer pushed his dagger a quarter inch into Ali's ribs.

Because it was an ideal time to think of something else, Ali speculated about The Jackal. Whatever else he might be, The Jackal was a brave man. What would happen, if he were detected, to a Druse who not only joined the Hadj but the Pasha's personal soldiers too, and who was obviously representing himself as a Moslem, Ali couldn't even imagine.

He did know that one false step would be one too many for the deceiver. If The Jackal took that step, he would live a very long while in agony before voicing his final shriek. Of course, it was a true Moslem's duty to tell what he knew, but The Jackal had only to speak and Ali would face the torturers with him. Whatever purpose had brought The Jackal here, he must be playing for tremendous stakes.

Ali was considerably relieved, but not greatly astonished, when the officer withdrew his dagger and sheathed it. He addressed Ali as he might have spoken to a stray cur.

"On second thought, we will take you to Al Misri, The Egyptian, and let him kill you. Bring the dalul, dog, and, for your own sake, see that it does not stray."

As soon as possible, which was as soon as their own riding camels could be brought from wherever they had been hidden, the Moslem soldiers mounted and prepared to set out. On the point of mounting Ben Akbar, Ali was knocked to the ground by the flat of the fierce officer's sword and informed in terms that left no room for doubt that he was Ben Akbar's attendant. Nobody except the Pasha of Damascus was to be his rider.

Despite clear grounds for argument, Ali smothered his anger and comforted himself with logic. There are times to fight, but on this specific occasion logic indicated clearly that one man armed with a dagger can hope for nothing except a very certain demise by defying twenty men who are armed with everything. Ali walked beside the dalul, a rather simple process, since the speed of all must necessarily be regulated by the pace of the slow baggage camels, and Ben Akbar refused to leave his friend's side, anyhow.

With nightfall, they made camp at a water hole too small to be dignified by the title of oasis. After he had finished eating, the officer contemptuously tossed Ali the remains of his meal and a silken cord. He said nothing, apparently he had no desire to degrade himself by speaking unnecessarily to anyone who was so clearly and so greatly his inferior, but the implication was obvious. Ben Akbar must not stray.

Knowing the cord was unnecessary, Ali chose the diplomatic course. He tied one end of the cord to his wrist and the other around the young dalul's neck. While Ben Akbar grazed, Ali sat quietly and devoted a few fleeting thoughts to the various possibilities of a social position that is approximately on a level with the fleas that torment camels—and sometimes riders of camels.

While it was true that the soldiers, grouped about their evening fire, ignored him as completely as though he didn't even exist, Ali saw no good reason why he should ignore them in a similar fashion. He breathed a silent thanks to Allah for blessing him with sharp ears. What those ears heard as Ali sat pretending to doze, but alert as a desert fox, might have a powerful influence on his plans for the future.

There were diverse possibilities. One that had already been considered most thoroughly and at great length was rooted in the pleasing thought that Ben Akbar was no longer a tired, hungry and thirsty dalul. Given as much as a five-second start, there wasn't another camel on the desert that could even hope to catch him.

If this was to be Ali's choice, tonight was the time for action. But before committing himself to anything, he wanted to consider everything.

The patrol, as Ali had learned from the conversation at the campfire, was one of several dispatched from the great Hadj six days ago. Their only purpose was to find Ben Akbar; their orders were not to return without him.

Ben Akbar had been lost, so Ali learned, through the laxity of a seven-times-cursed camel driver from Smyrna. His only duty, a task to which he'd been assigned because he was one of the very few men Ben Akbar would obey, was to watch over the Pasha's most-prized dalul. Somehow or other—a soldier voiced the opinion that he'd been in collusion with the very Druse from whom Ali had taken him—he'd managed to lose his charge. All the soldiers gave fervent thanks to Allah because their mission was successfully completed. Hunting lost camels was not their idea of interesting diversion.

Ali digested the food for thought thus provided and decided, to his own satisfaction, that his previous deduction had been entirely correct. He had not been spared because the Moslem soldiers were compassionate, but because not one among them knew how to handle Ben Akbar without resorting to force. Furthermore, if Ben Akbar were not greatly esteemed, several patrols of soldiers who might at any time be needed for other duties never would have been charged with the exclusive task of recovering him.

While Ben Akbar moved so carefully that the silken cord was never even taut, Ali lay back to gaze at the sky and consider the most profitable use of the information at his disposal.

If he rode into the desert on Ben Akbar, a possibility that retained much appeal, he need have no fear of successful pursuit. However, the Pasha's soldiers would certainly continue their search. As long as Ben Akbar was with him—and Ali had already decided that that would be as long as he lived—he must inevitably be a marked man. Unless he rode into a country ruled by some sultan or Pasha who was hostile to the Pasha of Damascus—in which event there was a fine chance of having his throat cut by someone who wanted to steal Ben Akbar—he would lead a harassed and harried life.

On the other hand, if he stayed with the soldiers and went into camp, he'd be doing exactly what he'd set out to do in the first place—he'd join the great Hadj. As there seemed to be few camel drivers who knew how to handle Ben Akbar, there was more than a good chance that Ali would make the pilgrimage as his attendant. Since he'd already determined that Ben Akbar would be a part of his future, regardless of what that was or where it led him, this prospect was entrancing. In addition, once his holy pilgrimage was properly completed, he would be entitled to call himself Hadji Ali and to take advantage of the expanded horizon derived therefrom.

Only one small cloud of doubt prevented Ali from choosing this latter course without further hesitation or thought. The Moslem officer's voice had been laden with more than casual respect when he referred to Al Misri, or The Egyptian. The casual pronouncement that The Egyptian was to have the pleasure of executing Ali might be, and probably was, just another attempt to intimidate him. But this was the Syrian Hadj. As such, it differed distinctly from the Moslem pilgrimage that originated in and departed from Cairo, Egypt. Every Syrian knew that Egyptians are inferior. The very fact that a responsible and high-ranking officer of the Syrian Hadj possessed the sheer brazen effrontery to call himself The Egyptian, plus the strength and authority to command respect for such a title, was more than enough to mark him as a man apart. Doubtless he was a man of firm convictions that were translated into action without loss of time. If he had, or if he should develop, a firm conviction that Ali dead was more pleasing than Ali alive—

Ali finally decided to go in with the soldiers and trust Allah. His decision made, he lay down, arranged his burnous to suit him and went peacefully to sleep.

In the thin, cold light of very early morning, he came awake and, as usual, lay quietly before moving. The silken cord that was tied to his wrist and Ben Akbar's neck was both slack and motionless; the dalul must be resting. The dagger and pilgrim's robe were safe. Reassured concerning the state of his personal world and possessions of the moment, Ali sat up and looked toward Ben Akbar.

No more than a dozen feet away, the young dalul was standing quietly where he had finished grazing. An ecstatic glow lighted Ali's eyes. Ben Akbar's recuperative powers must be as marvelous as his speed and endurance. He scarcely seemed to be the same spent and reeling beast that Ali had led into ambush yesterday morning. After only one night's rest and grazing, even his hump was noticeably bigger.

Ali joined the other Moslems at morning prayer, stood humbly aside as they saddled and mounted and started the baggage camels moving and fell in behind with Ben Akbar. Nobody paid the least attention to him; if he planned to escape, he would not be fool enough to make the attempt by day.

Four hours later, the travelers looked from a hillock upon the great Hadj.

A sea of tents, like rippling waves, overflowed and seemed about to overwhelm a broad valley. There were no palms or any other indication of water. Obviously, this was a dry camp—one of many on the long, dangerous route—and dry camps were the primary reason why so many baggage camels were needed. But even with thousands of baggage camels burdened with food and water, often there was not enough. Falling in that order to thirst, bandits, disease or hunger—or succumbing to the desert itself—a full third of the pilgrims with any Hadj might die before reaching the Holy City.

Save for a few tethered camels and some horses, there were no animals in sight. Ali knew that the majority had been given over to herders and were in various pastures. The picketed camels and horses were for the convenience of those who might find it necessary to ride.

For the most part, the camp would rest all day. Only when late afternoon shadows tempered the glaring sun would it come awake. Then, guided by blazing torches on either flank, at the mile-or mile-and-a-half-an-hour which was the swiftest pace so many baggage animals could maintain, it would march toward Mecca all night long.

Impressive as the camp appeared, Ali knew also that it was just a small part—though one of the wealthier parts or there would not have been so many tents—of the great Hadj. There was not a single valley in the entire desert spacious enough to accommodate the five thousand humans, and the more than twenty thousand beasts, whose destination was the Holy City of Mecca.

After a brief halt, the officer led his men down into the camp. There were few humans stirring, and those who were regarded the returning patrol with complete indifference.

In the very center of the camp, before a huge and luxurious tent that, together with its furnishings, must require a whole herd of baggage camels just to transport it, the officer dismounted, handed the reins of his riding camel to a soldier and entered the tent. The remainder of the patrol formed an armed circle around Ali and Ben Akbar.

Wishing he could feel as unconcerned as he hoped he appeared, Ali sought to ease the tension by observing and speculating. This tent, he presently decided, was not headquarters for the Pasha himself. Though the Pasha's tent couldn't possibly be much more luxurious, it would be surrounded by the camps of other dignitaries, and the whole would be so well-guarded by soldiers that nobody could have come even near. Ali guessed that this was the headquarters of Al Misri, and that they were in a camp of officers and lesser notables.

Twenty minutes after he entered the tent—Ali guessed shrewdly that he had been allowed to cool his heels for a decorous interval—the officer backed out. He bowed, a curious and somehow a ludicrous gesture for anyone so fiery, and held the tent flaps open. When a second man emerged, the officer stepped humbly to one side and waited whatever action the other might consider.

Short and squat, at first glance Al Misri seemed a shapeless lump of human flesh that has somehow been given the breath of life. His silken robe hung loosely open. Uncovered, his massive head seemed to be supported directly on his shoulders, without benefit of or need for a neck. It was bald as an egg. He plopped a date into his mouth and chewed it as the soldiers moved respectfully back to give him room.

Yet Ali needed only one glance to tell him that Al Misri was far more than just a funny little fat man who chewed dates in a rather disgusting manner. His grotesque body was enveloped in an aura not unlike that which enfolded Ben Akbar. Al Misri commanded because it was his destiny to command.

He came near, spat the date pit into Ali's face and spoke to the officer. The latter conveyed the message to Ali.

"Even though Al Misri prefers to kill vermin, you are granted your life. You win this favor, not through compassion, but because you are able to ride a dalul that kills other men."

Ali remained silent, as was expected of him. Al Misri gave the officer another message for the captive camel driver.

"The other keeper of the dalul let it stray," the officer announced. "The keeper died in a fire, a very slow fire that was kindled at dawn, but the keeper still nodded his head at high noon. You are now keeper of the dalul. Take care that it strays not."

Without another word or a backward glance, Al Misri turned and waddled back to his tent. The officer disbanded his men.

Ali led Ben Akbar to pasture at the edge of camp.

The travelers came to Tanim, far enough outside Holy Territory so that there was no possibility of desecrating it, but near enough to furnish a convenient stopping place for donning the ihram, in the cool of early morning. Not all who had been with the Hadj when Ali finally joined it—and not all who had since come from one place or another—were still present. Many good Moslems who would never see the Holy City had died trying to reach it.

Ali reflected curiously that some of the more devout were dead, while some who seemed to regard this holy journey in anything except a pious light were very much alive. A merchant who had come all the way from Damascus, and who was about to don the ihram, deferred the ceremony so that he might bargain about something or other with another merchant from Smyrna. Though they were all Moslems—except for The Jackal, Ali thought quickly—obviously the true light burned brightly for some and dimly for others.

Ali wondered uneasily about the category in which he belonged. He worried about the fact that he did not feel greatly different from the way he had felt while out on the caravan routes or in the bazaar of The Street Called Straight. He thought he should feel something else.

Though many had died, his pilgrimage had been almost luxurious. He had nothing at all to do except watch over Ben Akbar, which was simplicity itself because the powerful young dalul wanted nothing except to be where Ali was. Though Ali was forbidden to ride, the Pasha of Damascus, the only human worthy of riding Ben Akbar, had allowed himself to be carried all the way to Mecca in a sedan chair. Seeing the Pasha once, and from a distance, Ali decided, to his own satisfaction, at least, that he had not asked to ride Ben Akbar for the simple reason that he couldn't. Judging by the Pasha's looks, he'd have trouble riding an age-broken baggage camel.

Always together, Ali and Ben Akbar had walked all the way. It had still been the easiest of walks since, as long as he took care of Ben Akbar and kept himself in the background, Ali was assured ample food and water. With the finest of care and nothing to do, Ben Akbar was at the very peak of perfection.

With appropriate ceremony, Ali donned the ihram and ran a mental tally of the things he must not do until the Hadj came to an end. He must wear neither head nor foot covering. He must not shave, trim his nails—But there was nothing in the entire list that forbade taking Ben Akbar with him. Ali remained troubled, nevertheless because, try as he would, he was unable to achieve what he considered a necessary level of piety.

Rather than feeling spiritually uplifted by what had been and what was to be, he could think only that, very shortly, he would have the right to call himself Hadji Ali.

Mecca, Holy City of the Moslems, spoke in a strangely subdued whisper when this particular night finally enfolded it. The great Hadj was ended—the official termination announced when the wealthier pilgrims sought barbers to shave them and those without money shaved each other.

The unofficial, but more realistic, termination came about in a different manner.

Whatever their motives, or degree of zeal, an inspired army had gone to Mecca. With the Hadj ended, suddenly weary human beings thought with wistful longing of the homes they'd left and the beloved faces that became doubly precious because they were absent. Thus the sudden silence in Mecca, where—every night until this one—lone pilgrims and bands of pilgrims had gone noisily about various errands. However, not all pilgrims had chosen to spend this night in their beds.

Ali, now Hadji Ali, stood very quietly in the darkest niche he'd been able to find of The Masa, The Sacred Course between Mounts Safa and Marwa. Ben Akbar, never far from Ali's side, stood just as quietly beside him and Ali wanted no other companion. Hoping to ease a troubled conscience, he had sought this lonely and deserted spot to try to find the true significance, which he was sure must exist but had so far escaped him, of the ceremonies in which he had just participated.

Perhaps, he thought seriously, he was now confused because he had had no real understanding of any part of anything from the very beginning. Nobody had told him why the ihram must be donned and adjusted in a certain way, with certain prescribed motions, and in no other fashion.

With Ben Akbar, who followed like a faithful dog but aroused little comment in this city where camels were the commonest means of transportation, Ali had entered Mecca in the prescribed fashion, though he hadn't the faintest idea as to who had prescribed it or why. At intervals, and solely because all his companions were doing likewise, he had shouted "Labbaika," a word whose meaning he had not known and still did not know.

At this point, Ali became so hopelessly entangled in matters he did not understand that it was necessary to start all over again. However, he decided not to begin with the ihram this time. The Sacred Course was also a part of the ceremony, and, being near at hand, it might yield clues that could not be discerned in that which was far away.

The Sacred Course, connecting the eminences of Safa and Marwa and locale of the liveliest and most unmanageable bazaar in Mecca, was four hundred and ninety three paces in length. It was the Trail of Torment imposed on Hagar, who ran it seven times in a desperate effort to find water for her infant son. Pilgrims arriving in Mecca accepted as part of their own ceremony a seven times running of The Sacred Course. This, as Ali had seen with his own eyes, was subject to various interpretations. Some pilgrims ran the prescribed seven times but some would have difficulty walking it once, for despite the hardships of the journey, some of the afflicted, aged and the simply lazy arrived with every Hadj. Then there were always the eccentrics. Ali himself had been an astounded witness when one fat Amir reclined in a cushioned sedan chair which six sweating slaves carried over The Sacred Course the requisite number of times.

Ali tilted his head and stared miserably into the darkness as the utter hopelessness of his quest for understanding became increasingly apparent. It had been important that he earn the right to call himself Hadji Ali, but, in his heart of hearts, he knew that he'd wanted far more than that from his holy pilgrimage and he had not received it. Since millions of Moslems who found all they hoped for in Mecca could not be wrong, it followed that the fault was personal. So—

Ali's meditations were interrupted by that which he understood perfectly.

Ben Akbar, swinging his head in the darkness as he turned to look toward something that had attracted him, gave the first sign that they were no longer alone. Ali had not seen the move, but he knew Ben Akbar had moved because he always knew everything the dalul did.

Presently, he knew that a man, or men, were approaching because Ben Akbar always breathed in a certain cadence whenever men came near. Ali held very still, hoping the strangers would pass without noticing him. He knew by their footsteps that there were two of them.

Ali sighed in disappointment when the pair halted only a few feet away. He was about to call out and make his presence known, for those who have reason for silence in the darkness also have reason to expect violence, when someone spoke.

"All know of the plan then, Ahmet?" It was the voice of The Jackal!

"All know," a second man replied.

Ali stood very still, holding his breath. The fact that The Jackal, whose intentions were anything except holy, was with the Hadj, had caused Ali some uneasy moments. But, he reminded himself once more, if it was the obvious duty of a good Moslem to reveal a Druse or anyone else traveling with the Hadj and pretending to be a Moslem, it was equally true that The Jackal was in an excellent position to do some revealing of his own. Ali had decided he would not be the first to speak. Evidently The Jackal was not talking either.

"When is the exact appointed time?" the man named Ahmet asked.

"In another hour, when the followers of Mohammed and the worshipers of Allah will be enjoying their deepest dreams."

The Jackal voiced a low laugh, and, despite his anxiety, Ali had to wonder. In the heart of Mecca, surrounded by thousands of Moslems and certainly with no hope of fighting his way clear, The Jackal could laugh as easily as though he were in a Druse stronghold. His companion was less assured.

"Speak gently," he cautioned. "Someone may hear!"

"Pouf!" The Jackal scoffed. "The Moslems hear nothing tonight save the hot wind that shall sing about their ears until they are once again safe in their homes. The city sleeps, Ahmet."

Ahmet said uneasily, "Some are always awake."

"Have you turned lily-livered?" The Jackal asked sardonically.

Ahmet answered, "I do not think so, but better a lily than a sword-pierced liver."

"Have I not planned well?" The Jackal demanded.

"One who can select thirty-four men, scatter them throughout a Moslem Hadj and bring all safely to Mecca, has planned as wisely as he chose men," Ahmet commented. "Just let there be no mistake at this late hour."

The Jackal said, "The only mistake of which we can be guilty now is in leaving this place without The Black Stone."

Ali clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. The Jackal was indeed playing for big stakes, one of the most colossal prizes in the history of brigandage, and he seemed in a fair position to get it. Fixed in the wall of The Kaaba, an edifice so ancient that some claimed it was here even before Mohammed, The Black Stone was possibly the holiest of Moslem shrines. In common with all other pilgrims, Ali had dutifully kissed it. As far as its physical aspects were concerned, it was a small, dark mass that at one time might have been part of a meteor. Should anyone ever succeed in stealing it, the Moslem world would pay a fantastic ransom for its safe return. If nobody stopped The Jackal and his accomplices, each of them could be so wealthy that the Pasha of Damascus would seem a beggar by comparison.

Ben Akbar swung his head to nudge Ali's shoulder with an inquiring nose, and Ali stroked the dalul's soft cheek. Accustomed to spending his nights in some peaceful pasture, Ben Akbar had no liking for this confined place, and he was telling his friend so.

Ali tried to conjure up a mental image of The Sacred Course, but he couldn't do it, in spite of the fact that he had run its length the stipulated seven times. Because he had hoped to find that in their faces which would tell him just why they had come to Mecca, and thus furnish some sure basis upon which he could build his own right motivation for coming, Ali had studied his fellow pilgrims and ignored the street. Who could imagine that he or anyone else might have to leave The Masa by the nearest and quietest path?

There had to be a way because there was always a way, but Ali was still seeking it when Ben Akbar, increasingly eager to be out of the city that he did not like and into the desert he did, expressed his impatience in a racking grunt.

Then there was just one way. Ali drew his dagger and waited.

Out in the night, there was sudden silence, but the very lack of noise was as lethal as and somehow remarkably similar to the desert adder that awaits its prey in complete silence and, in striking, makes no noise that is ever heard by the victim. Ali considered the situation.

Since it was most improbable that there'd be a camel at this place and hour without a camel driver, the conspirators knew they had been overheard. In addition, since every camel has its own distinctive voice, The Jackal had probably recognized Ben Akbar. Therefore, he knew that Ali had overheard him.

Swiftly, Ali weighed the advantages and disadvantages and considered possible ways to make the best use of the former, while yielding as little as possible to the latter.

Beyond any doubt, The Jackal knew that Ben Akbar accepted certain favored human beings and rejected all others, unless they foolishly tried to interfere with him. Then he showed his resentment, often violently. So only a fool would rush in, and The Jackal was no fool. Neither, Ali told himself, was he a coward who'd be swerved from his determined purpose by a threatening incident. He'd face a dozen Ben Akbars before he'd abandon his plan to steal The Black Stone and seek refuge in flight, but he'd face them in his own way. Ali took a calculated risk.

"Kneel," he whispered in the dalul's ear.

Ben Akbar obeyed. Stifling a sigh of relief, Ali slipped five paces to one side and turned so that he was again facing the dalul. There had been a certain unavoidable rattling of pebbles and other small noises when Ben Akbar knelt, but no sound of a camel leaving the scene. If Allah were kind, The Jackal would know that Ben Akbar remained where he had been and would expect to find Ali with him. Rushing in from an unexpected quarter at the right moment, Ali would have the advantage of surprise and some hope of victory, in spite of two to one odds.

Ali thought, but very fleetingly, of calling out an offer to negotiate. He'd go his way and maintain his silence, if the pair would promise no interference. But The Jackal had come too far and risked too much to incur the further risk of a knowing head and a possibly loose tongue; he'd never accept the offer. Nor could Ali really have brought himself to make it.

Even though he had failed to find the assured spiritual awakening he'd earnestly hoped to discover in Mecca, he could not be disloyal to a Faith he'd voluntarily accepted. Even though he himself failed to appreciate the significance of The Black Stone, as a good Moslem, he could not see it defiled.

Dagger in hand, Ali stood very quietly in the darkness. Though he was looking toward Ben Akbar and the dalul was only a few paces away, the darkness was so intense that he could barely discern the camel's outline. He neither saw nor heard anything else. It was as though Ali and Ben Akbar were the only inhabitants of a world suddenly turned black.

Ali battled the illusion, for the very silence and the feeling that he was alone were sufficient evidence that he faced deadly danger. The Jackal was no amateur who would seek to cow his enemy by hissed threats, mislead him by thrown stones or other ruses, or indulge in any other melodrama. He compared favorably with the tawny-maned lion who lays his ambush at a water hole where gazelles drink. Having decided that killing was in order, The Jackal would kill with a maximum of speed and efficiency, brought about by a lifetime of experience.

Ben Akbar did not even move. He would remain exactly as he was and where he was until Ali himself gave permission to get up or until circumstances beyond his friend's control forced him to arise. A lump rose in Ali's throat. Ben Akbar was far more than just a magnificent dalul. He was Ali's other self, a true brother and to be loved as such. Ali renewed his vow that, so long as Allah saw fit to spare him, just so long would he and Ben Akbar face the same winds, traveling side by side.

Suddenly, seeing his pilgrimage in an entirely new light, it was no longer a disappointment but more than rewarding. Perhaps, in His infinite wisdom, Allah bestowed different gifts upon different pilgrims, according to their true intentions. Ali knew that he was contented now, for, because of his pilgrimage, he had Ben Akbar. He would no longer stand alone against the world.

Presently, Ali became aware of great and immediate danger.

It was no sudden perception accompanied by sudden shock, but a complete and whole revelation, the ripening of each separate incident since The Jackal and Ahmet had appeared. Unless he did something about it, Ali's senses told him, he would be dead very shortly. At the same time, so clear was the light that bathed his mind, he was instantly able to understand exactly how this had come about.

He had underestimated The Jackal. Hearing Ben Akbar grunt, the man had identified him instantly. But he had also identified the tiny sounds made by a camel kneeling and he'd known why Ben Akbar was made to kneel. The Jackal, had decided, not only that Ali would not await directly beside Ben Akbar, but also exactly where he would be found. It was what The Jackal himself might have done under similar circumstances. Now, dagger poised, he stood directly behind Ali and needed only one more silent step to carry him into a striking position.

When Ali moved, he did so swiftly, bending at the knees even while he swiveled the upper portion of his body forward to make a smaller target. At the same time, he pivoted on the balls of his feet, so that he made a complete turn and faced his enemy. He thrust with all his strength.

The dagger's point found resistance, but not unyielding resistance. It bit hungrily into something that was both soft and warm. There was a gasp, a strangled grunt, then an almost gentle rustle as The Jackal wilted backwards and his own burnous enfolded him.

A shout cracked the darkness as a hammer blow might crack a pane of glass. "Now then! Close in!"

Bloody dagger still in his extended hand, Ali only half heard either the shout or the patter of running feet that immediately followed. Aghast at what he'd done but never intended to do, he remained rooted in his tracks. This was Mecca, The Holy City, and shedding blood within its borders was one of the very few sins for which there was no pardon. Mohammed himself, when making prisoners of some enemies who sought to hide in Mecca, could carry out his own death sentence only by locking them in a building and letting them starve. No Moslem was wealthy or influential enough to attain forgiveness for shedding blood in Mecca.

So complete was his horror and so shocking, for a short space Ali was only vaguely aware of rough hands that gripped him. Then someone spoke. Ali recognized the voice of the fierce officer who had ambushed the Druse.

"It is the camel rider who was made keeper of the dalul, and he too has let his charge stray."

A groan sounded in the darkness.

"He has done more than that," someone whom Ali could barely see said in an awed whisper. "He has shed blood in the Holy City."

"Fool!" the officer said to Ali contemptuously. "We knew who they were and were ready to take them! I would not care to wear your burnous at this moment!"

The single reason why he was not already lying beside the wounded man, Ali told himself, could be ascribed to the fact that the fierce officer dared not shed blood in Mecca. Certainly his execution would not be delayed when they no longer stood on Holy Ground.

Then the fog that had dulled Ali's brain when he stabbed The Jackal faded away. He thought of words voiced by the officer, 'the camel rider who was made keeper of the dalul, and he too has let his charge stray.' Obviously, the soldiers were unaware of Ben Akbar's nearness. Ali saw his one hope of escape.

"Ho!" he called loudly and clearly. "Ben Akbar! Come to me! Run!"

There was a rattling of pebbles as Ben Akbar hastened to obey. Astonished soldiers, who hadn't even suspected this and needed a moment to decide what it might be, dodged out of the dalul's path or were knocked out of it.

Side by side, Ali and Ben Akbar ran on until the friendly mantle of night hid both.