Finding it hard to breathe, he opened his mouth wide, seeking more air. After years of waiting he could not die, for the young colt was on his way to greatness.

Shêtân swept by again, and tears came to the old man’s eyes as he watched him pass in the moonlight. He found himself on his hands and knees, crawling after the colt. He began breathing faster, taking huge gulps of icy air, hoping this would numb his pain. But it did not.

Feebly, he moved forward in the direction of the black colt, thinking he was traveling rapidly but barely moving. Finally he came to a stop, his head turning slowly in the direction from which he had come. It was more intuition than any sound that made him aware of the hooded figure behind him.

He raised one hand as if to ward off a blow. There stood a young Bedouin with a dagger; his other hand was raised in a warning gesture. Suddenly, fingers of pain seemed to be digging, tearing into the old man’s very eyeballs. He pulled away and recognized the Bedouin’s kufiyya as that of the hateful tribe of Ibn al Khaldun!

With great effort he rocked his body back and forth, knowing that Ibn al Khaldun’s horsemen would not be far behind the scout. His severe chest pains came again, but now he was too numbed by what he knew would happen to the black colt to feel anything. Where were his own tribesmen? Why didn’t they come?

With all his remaining strength, he screamed a fierce warning, hoping it would reach the encampment in the valley below. Frozen like a statue, he continued screaming, his cries a funnel of white in the cold air. But now they were feeble cries, the sound of his voice emerging croaked and horrible from his throat.

There were tears and dreadful pain in the old herder’s eyes, and he could not see the face that bent over him. He felt the Bedouin’s rough hand try to cover his mouth. In a last burst of strength, he twisted his body violently and flung himself at the scout. The pointed steel blade pressed against his chest but it was too late to stop. The herder struck a final blow against his enemy and fell heavily on the knife. His arms wrapped around the attacker in a deathly embrace. The knife slid deeper into his flesh. It touched a rib, hesitated, and then kept going. The old man crumpled and said “Ohhhhh” very gently.

Warm, wet blood spilt onto the scout’s hands. He disentangled himself from his victim and jumped back in horror. The herder collapsed to the ground. He lay there in silence, the muscles of his face twitching, his eyes already lifeless.

The Bedouin stood in shock over the old man who was half his size and a hundred times his age. He held back the vomit that threatened to come up from his stomach. Everything had gone wrong. He had never wanted to kill this ancient one, so much a legend among his own tribe as well as that of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. The scout attempted to wipe the sticky blood from his hands.

It’s not my fault! he wanted to cry out. He fell on my knife and killed himself! It was an accident! Yet the scout knew he had caused the herder’s death as surely as if he had stabbed him deliberately.