XXXV
The streets by night were full of people, in striking contrast with their emptiness at noon that day. The mosques were all alight inside, and from the glimpse which Barakah obtained through open doorways appeared crowded.
She saw men making towards them through the press, embracing precious bundles, with the look of fugitives.
“Their fear is of the English,” said the donkey-boy. “Who knows what they will do by way of punishment?”
But the look on all the faces when a ray of light revealed them, the note of the vast murmur lapping the whole city, was rather of relief and comfort than anxiety. To hide away their treasures was a mere precaution which only madmen would neglect in presence of a conquering host; but men were thankful for the coming of the English, which meant an end to anarchy and wild suspense.
“Wallahi, they are warriors,” one orator was declaiming at a street corner. “The fight was far away at daybreak, and now behold them here among us in the citadel. Wallahi, they are mighty! They smite hard—one blow and all is said. Wallahi, they are not of those who loiter. They appeared among us like a vision of the rising night; they demanded the keys of our strong places as of right divine. The people in the street stood still and gaped on them, rubbing their eyes to ascertain that they were not asleep. May Allah make them merciful. The praise to Allah!”
The donkey-boy, who had been looking at the lady’s eyes at frequent intervals as if in expectation of a change of purpose, asked at length:
“Whither shall I conduct thee, O my mistress? Is it not thy wish to return to the house?”
“I have no house,” was her reply. “Did I not tell thee? To the El Afîfi cemetery!”
“Not by night! Hear reason, O my lady!” he besought her. “Tell me where thou dwellest, that I may conduct thee thither!”
“I go to the cemetery, as I told thee. It is necessary. If thou art weary of my service, I will pay thee and go out alone.”
Barakah’s tone grew plaintive, almost tearful. The resolution in her words was mere bravado. She knew that she was utterly dependent on this friendly youth, whose company alone kept up her courage. From the moment of her turning back she had felt stupid, useless, relying on this boy to bring her to the cemetery, where she hoped to die. It seemed a certainty that if she prayed her utmost, full as her heart was, the vexed soul must leave the body, and the prayer by sheer brute force become acceptable. At thought of being baulked of her self-sacrifice, the boy’s help failing, she began to whimper.
“Nay, dearest lady, weep not!” he entreated. “By Allah, thou shalt neither walk nor go alone. I will conduct thee thither; but it may be necessary that we wait till morning, since the way is lonely and the haunt of jinn. See here, before us is my mother’s house. Deign to go in and rest awhile, and take refreshment, while I feed the donkey. I will make inquiries. If it is possible to go tonight, I swear to take thee. If not, thou canst rest here until the dawn.”
They had stopped before a doorway in a narrow alley. He went a little way into the gloom and whispered:
“O my mother!”
“Is it thou, Selîm?” came back the answer.
“O my mother, come at once! I have a lady, a great lady in disguise. She has run mad through grief in these bad times, and wants to go out to the cemetery. Receive her in thy house a minute, feed her, talk to calm her; while I discover if the way is safe.”
“The cemetery! Go not thither. Best come in and sleep.”
“The lady is distraught with grief. I reverence her like a parent. She is absent from the world; she does not hear us. I think that she is going to the tombs to pray. It were a good deed to conduct her thither.”
“True, wallahi! May Allah heal her soul, the poor one! These be dreadful times!”
A woman came out to the doorway, holding up an earthen lamp.
“Deign to enter, O my sweet,” she called seductively.
Selîm assisted his employer to dismount.
“Go in and rest,” he whispered. “My mother and my sister are alone in there. Thou canst unveil. The dwellings of the poor are all haremlik. In a little while I shall return and call thee from without. I go but to make sure the ways are safe.”
The room in which she found herself was small and stuffy. It was lighted only by the little lamp the woman carried. Barakah was glad to loose her veil awhile. She refused the food, but drank the water, which the women offered, and listened to their cordial blessings with a sense of dreaming. Her prayer was that the boy might not decide to wait till morning. Desire to reach the tomb at once absorbed her life. Deprived of it, she would have had no further being. Her prayer now took the Christian form, and now the Muslim; the two religions growing tangled in her tired mind. At length the boy’s voice sounded:
“Deign to come, O lady. The ways are thronged, they tell me, as in Ragab. Tonight is not as other nights, it is well seen.”
With praise to Allah she went out once more. But with its object now assured, her mind grew dull. It was as if suspense alone had held it wakeful. It lost the comprehension of its purpose, regained it with an effort, and then let it go.
They passed beneath an ancient gateway. The city was behind them. Still there was no solitude. Groups of people crossed the sand in all directions. It was a moonless night. The many lanterns moving in the darkness seemed reflections of the stars which shone like gems of many facets in the silky sky. Barakah saw them both alike as golden insects
