“That is yet to be decided,” Youssef replied.

The old man had finished his recitation. Sheikh Zaid took out a pouch, rolled a cigarette and lit it. Then Bandar spoke.

“There is a kafir among us,” he said, his good eye glaring at Nick.

Sheikh Zaid exhaled a thin stream of smoke which curled in the air like strands of hair.

“The Messenger of Allah said: ‘When any man says to his brother “Thou infidel!” one of the two deserves the name.’ That is a true hadith of Bukhari from Abdullah ibn Umar,” Zaid replied mildly.

“The little dhimmi is not my brother,” Bandar retorted hotly.

“The child is an orphan. We saved him from the Saar dogs and the desert. Are we not bound?” Zaid asked, addressing himself to all of them.

Faraj, a thin man with a beard but no moustache, straightened his back and placed his hands on his knees.

“The boy is a Giaour. Better to remove the stone of offense, my brother,” Faraj said in a troubled voice. Perhaps he felt called upon to defend his son, Bandar.

“What says the Holy Koran?” Zaid appealed to Muhammed.

The old man closed his eyes and spoke in a clear voice:

They will question thee concerning the orphans.

Say: “To set their affairs aright is good.

And if you intermix with them, they are your

brothers.”

There were nods of agreement around the tent. Nick yawned. He was growing sleepy, but he tried to stay awake. They were talking about him. He looked at the bejeweled khanjar dagger in Sheikh Zaid’s belt. It was very pretty. He wondered if he could have a knife too.

“Then let him be returned to his own tribe. There are Americani at the oil rigs in Dharan,” someone said.

Faraj nodded his agreement and quoted the famous proverb of Father Noah: “‘The ploughman to the plough-woman, the retainer to the retainer-woman, and the slave to the slave-woman.’ To each according to his own.”

There were mutters around the tent. The shadows of the men danced against the tent walls in the firelight as though they were engaged in some ancient pagan rite.

“There has been heavy fighting in that area since the border dispute. The Ingilizi are so stupid they cannot tell a Rualla noble from a Hteym slave. They would think we were brigands and shoot at us,” said Safooq, a beardless man who was the husband of Faraj’s daughter. Although his words were cautious, Youssef whispered to Nick that Safooq was the best marksman among the Mutayr.

“King Abd al Aziz has forbidden any but the Solubba to visit the foreign kafirs. The Mutayr are loyal to the House of Saud,” said Faisal, a handsome youth who was Zaid’s oldest son.

“Even so,” Zaid murmured.