The eight or ten black tents were gathered round one, a little higher, a
little less ragged than the others--the tent of the Kebir, or headman;
but it was humble enough. There would have been room and to spare for a
dozen such under the _tente sultane_ of the Agha, at his douar south of
El Aghouat.
As Maieddine rode up, a buzz of excitement rose in the hive. Some one
ran to tell the Kebir that a great Sidi was arriving, and the headman
came out from his tent, where he had been meditating or dozing after the
chanting of the midday prayer--the prayer of noon.
He was a thin, elderly man, with an eagle eye to awe his women-folk, and
an old burnous of sheep's wool, which was of a deep cream colour because
it had not been washed for many years. Yet he smelt good, with a smell
that was like the desert, and there was no foul odour in the miniature
douar, as in European dwellings of the very poor. There is never a smell
of uncleanliness about Arabs, even those people who must perform most of
the ablutions prescribed by their religion with sand instead of water.
But the Saharian saying is that the desert purifies all things.
The Kebir was polite though not servile to Maieddine, and while the
horse borrowed from the Caid was having its face economically sprinkled
with water from a brown goat-skin, black coffee was being hospitably
prepared for the guest by the women of the household, unveiled of
course, as are all women of the nomad tribes, except those of highest
birth.
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