The Lance of Kanana: A Story of Arabia — John Shaqi
The Lance of Kanana: A Story of ArabiaFrench, Harry W. (Harry Willard)
History
The Lance of Kanana: A Story of Arabia
French, Harry W. (Harry Willard)
Arabian Peninsula -- History -- Juvenile fiction; Heroes -- Arab countries -- Juvenile fiction
He roused in a moment, however, for with many a grunt and groan the
great, ungainly, and yet very stately, ships of the desert came slowly
and drowsily to anchor in the court before the Caaba.
"_Haji_," a naked little urchin muttered, looking up from his play; but
he should have known better. _Haji_ means pilgrims, and these were no
pilgrims.
There are seasons when this city is one mass of humanity. Haji by
hundreds and thousands throng the narrow streets, but these are Bedouins
of the desert, bound upon some other mission than worshiping before the
Caaba, kissing the Black Stone, or drinking the holy water of Zemzem.
The leader of the white camel gave a peculiar pull to the rope hanging
over his shoulder, attached to the animal's bridle, and uttered a short,
sharp word of command.
Slowly, very slowly, the dignified, dingy creature, towering high above
him, acknowledged the receipt of the order, but he gave no evidence that
he was making any arrangements to obey.
His response was simply a deliberate grunt and a weird and melancholy
wail that came gurgling out of his long, twisting throat. He would not
have hurried himself one atom, even for the sheik upon his back.
A white camel is to the Arab what a white buffalo is to the Indian and a
white elephant to the Ceylonese, and he fully appreciates his
importance.
He deliberately turned his woolly head quite about till his great brown
eyes, with the drooping lids almost closed over them, could most
conveniently look back along the line of lank, inferior camels, and
gaunt and weather-beaten dromedaries, which had patiently followed him,
day after day, to the temple court of immortal Mecca.
He was so long about it that the leader repeated the command and very
slowly the camel brought his head back again, till his languid eyes
looked drowsily down, in a sort of scornful charity, upon the
insignificant mortal at the other end of his halter.
He had stood in the court of Mecca long before that man was born and
would doubtless guide caravans to the same spot long after he was
buried and forgotten.
"You may be in haste, but I am not," he seemed to say, and dreamily
turned his eyes toward the black-curtained Caaba, as if to see how it
had fared since his last visit.
That Caaba, the Holy of Holies of the Mussulman, is the most revered and
possibly the most venerable of all the sacred buildings on the earth;
but the gentle, wistful eyes of the white camel were more practically
drawn toward two or three date-palm-trees then growing beside it. When
he had satisfied himself that the only green thing in sight was quite
beyond his reach, he deliberately lowered his head, changed his position
a little, and with another grunt and another melancholy wail sank upon
his knees, then upon his haunches. With a deep sigh he lifted his head
again still high above the head of his driver, and his drowsy eyes
seemed saying to him:
"Poor man! I kept you waiting, didn't I?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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