Kit Musgrave's Luck by Harold Bindloss — Read

In the morning before the sun was high, a Berber took Kit and his party to the headman's tent and signed them to sit in the sand. Their clothes were smeared by dust to which the dew had stuck, and Kit's boots were broken. His fatigue had not worn off much, he felt horribly dirty and dull, but he knew he must brace up. The headman and two or three others occupied the open front of the tent. In the background a row of camels, making strange noises, knelt beside a broken wall, and behind the uncouth animals stones and clumps of tamarisk melted into the widening bottom of the wady. The wind had dropped, it was not yet hot, and thin smoke with a pungent smell floated about the camp.

Kit studied the headman with some curiosity, since he did not know if the fellow was his host or captor, but got no hint from his inscrutable face. He understood the people were Berbers, but at Las Palmas he had borrowed a book that stated the Berbers were short and light-skinned. The tribesmen Kit had met were big and dark, but the chief was lighter in build and colours than the rest. He was obviously not a savage; somehow Kit thought him well-bred.