Sands of Destiny Read Online Free

merchant, who, up till now had ridden in a covered palaquin, stepped forward, his thin beard almost touching the desert as he bowed, his fat hands washing themselves in invisible soap and water. “It is I whom you wish to see, mighty Sheik. I....”
    “You have too much tongue,” interrupted the Toureg. “Have you that which we seek?”’
    “Aye, lord.”
    “It is well.” The Toureg gestured with the short whip he carried in his hand. “Proceed. By nightfall you should be at the oasis of Haroom. Camp there and, in the morning, we shall conduct our business. Follow!”
    As he finished speaking he turned his horse’s head and, without a backward glance, rode on into the desert, his men falling in line behind him. Immediately the air resounded with the shrill orders from the merchant, the camel drivers goaded their ungainly steeds into motion, and, before the Touregs had reached the horizon, the camel caravan was plodding at increased speed after them,
    Corville was thoughtful as the day dragged on. The Touregs had acted totally out of character in not attacking the caravan. The fat merchant had expected attack, else why the heavily armed escort? But he had also seemed to be expecting the visitors. Corville shrugged, making a note to keep alert that night, and, reaching for his goat skin of water, allowed a little to trickle into his mouth. He would have preferred wine, or, as no Moslem was supposed to touch wine or strong waters, cooled sherbert, but to a thirsty man water, even tepid and stale, is the most welcome drink of all.
    Night fell before they reached the oasis. The sun sank with the abrupt suddenness of the tropic regions, the clear azure of the sky changed to a bowl of blackness glittering with stars, almost as if some careless jeweller had tossed a double handful of diamonds against the soft black velvet of space. Low on the horizon a swollen moon floated like a full-sailed ship over the gleaming sands and silence, the incredible silence of the desert, folded the caravan as if in a wor1d of its own.
    Corville was nodding with fatigue when they arrived. He jerked awake to shouted commands and slipped, stiff-legged from his mount, First came the necessity of feeding and unloading the camel, watering it at the muddy pool which supported scant life for a dozen palm trees and a scattering of sparse vegetation. His duties over, he joined the rest of the camel drivers around a small fire and dipped his hands into the communal dish of cous-cous and boiled and spiced mutton. Dried dates followed the meal and long, cooling drinks of sherbert, an unaccustomed luxury for the humble drivers. Lying on his side Corville listened to the idle gossip of the chattering men.
    “By Allah I swear it,” said one, and the young officer recognised the man who had stood beside him while waiting for the Tauregs. “Even as I waited for the angel to sweep down to carry me to Paradise my prayers were answered and the Scourge of Allah halted in their tracks.” He gulped at the sickly sweet sherbert. “This tastes the pleasanter because of it. Never did I think to drink again.”
    “If your throat had been cut from ear to ear, still would you drink,” laughed a man, a squat, scarred-faced man whose dingy turban showed the green thread of a Hadji. “But this I will say, our leader, may dogs defile his grave, has never thought to give such as we sherbert before. Rather rotten meat and sour water, not cous-cous and sherbert. Allah must have moved his bowels for compassion for him to do this thing.”
    “So you say!” Corville set down his untouched bowl of sherbert. “I am new among you,” he explained. “I know not the ways of your master. Is this indeed a rare treat he has given us?”
    “Rare?” The Hadji spat into the sand. “I have slaved for the spawn of Shaitan for twenty moons now and this is the first time he has cast more than a curse my way. And yet,” he added reflectively, “he did push us hard.”
    “Hard? My