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Hamoud's look of sadness gave place to a look of peace. At daybreak the safari entered the forest. Two askaris went first, guarding the albino. Next, since the forest trail was too narrow for hammock travel, Lilla came afoot with Hamoud, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling no physical weariness or pain. Behind her the rest of the askaris herded along the porters.
Yes, the Omân stock, cruel and remorseless in its pristine state, had deteriorated in the lax paradise of Zanzibar; the old impulses were there, but in abortive form; and the deed that Hamoud's forefathers would have done less indirectly, and without a twinge, aroused in Hamoud that pity which an ironist has called "the mask of weakness."
She stood motionless, aghast at her inability to remember why she was here. Hamoud's voice came to her from beyond the curtain: "There is going to be a shauri, a talk with these porters of yours." "Ah, my God! What is it now?" Hamoud cast back at her through the curtain, in a tone of bitterness: "Rebellion." She wrapped herself in her robe and cowered on the bed. Half an hour passed.
Hamoud's voice was heard again: "Madam, all is ready." She emerged victorious once more, her face stony, her lips compressed, her eyes as cold as ice. On each side of her tent a clump of askaris stood leaning on their rifles. Over against her chair the porters were aligned in a great semicircle, tribe by tribe.
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