By moving a little he could see the gate at the far
end of the main street. A number of men, women and children were
running toward it. It swung open, revealing the head of a caravan
upon the opposite side. In trooped the motley organization--black
slaves and dark hued Arabs of the northern deserts; cursing camel
drivers urging on their vicious charges; overburdened donkeys,
waving sadly pendulous ears while they endured with stoic patience
the brutalities of their masters; goats, sheep and horses. Into
the village they all trooped behind a tall, sour, old man, who rode
without greetings to those who shrunk from his path directly to a
large goatskin tent in the center of the village. Here he spoke
to a wrinkled hag.
Korak, from his vantage spot, could see it all. He saw the old
man asking questions of the black woman, and then he saw the latter
point toward a secluded corner of the village which was hidden
from the main street by the tents of the Arabs and the huts of the
natives in the direction of the tree beneath which the little girl
played. This was doubtless her father, thought Korak.
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