“There is the cemetery,” said her guide. His whisper seemed to her a long way off. Nor did she see the city of the dead till they were in its streets, which loomed mysterious. The very stars looked sinister above the frowning domes, from which a blacker darkness seemed to emanate. The many crescents looked like horns against the sky. Bats flitted past her; from the distance came a jackal’s howl. What had she come to do there? She could not remember. “To pray,” she told herself, but that meant nothing. She strove with all her might to recollect. Then in a flash remembrance came to her; it bore her on, excited, to the mausoleum. She dismounted, and then, upon the threshold, she forgot once more. She entered, shuddering, too dazed to question why the gate was left ajar, and turned instinctively towards the women’s quarters. A step or two and she stood still in deadly terror, hardly venturing to breathe. There was a light upon the men’s side; beasts were tethered in the court; she heard a sound of digging and men’s voices. Her thought was, “They expect me, and have dug a grave.” As soon as fear would let her, she fled back to where the guide was waiting.
“There are people. We must fly! Make haste!” she whispered.
He helped her to remount, and they retraced their steps. The solemn thoughts which had possessed her mind gave place to rattle of dry bones and impish laughter. A merry dance was going on within her brain, as mad as could be, though her senses were quite clear—clearer than ever they had been before, she knew exultantly. She rode out from the place of tombs across the sandhills towards the city.
“Hist!” said her companion suddenly, and stopped the donkey, hanging on to its tail to prevent braying. “There are men without a lantern—robbers! I hear voices.”
She strained her ears in the direction pointed.
“Am I not acknowledged sheik of all the thieves?” some unseen man amid the darkness was exclaiming angrily. “Was it not I alone who had the wisdom to foresee that every man would seek to hide his wealth this night? It is light work for you; they fly like conies at a shout, leaving their treasure, and the light for you to count it. Why then grumble that I sit here and receive the gold? Someone must hold it for fair distribution. Say, have I ever wronged a man among you of one small piaster? See, yonder comes another lantern. Go, do your work, and say no more to me.”
“Stay, O my lady! For the love of Allah,” moaned Selîm. “They are robbers, murderers, the worst of ruffians.”
But Barakah had urged the donkey forward; the laughter in her brain deriding fear. She headed straight towards the voices, waving her left arm and shouting madly. She heard a shriek of “The afrîtah! Help, O Allah!” and saw men running as if fiends pursued them. Her next sensation was a dive into the sand. The ass had stumbled. Selîm assisted her to rise, and murmured reassuring words which made her cry.
Remembrance of her little daughter overcame her. She had prayed to Christ to guard her child before she recollected that the prayer was useless. There was no mercy for disciples of the Arab prophet. She reeled and would have fallen had not Selîm caught her. As it was, she sank upon the ground, refusing to remount or take another step.
The boy, resigned, sat down beside her, holding his donkey by the halter-rope. They were upon the trodden plain below the citadel. Lying upon her back, she saw a blackness rising till it took the shape of bastions, walls, towers, surmounted by a dome and needle-pointed minarets. Gazing at this and at the stars she fell asleep.
When she awoke it was still night. The donkey-boy was snoring on the ground hard by. A chill and a strange silence hung about her. The stars above were throbbing violently as if about to burst in showers of light. Her grief returned upon her like an ague. “O Lord, have mercy on me!” she exclaimed, and groaned aloud.
“What ails thee, O my sister?” said a voice so sweet, so unexpected in its nearness, that it stopped her heart.
XXXVI
From the shadow of a mass of houses close at hand emerged the figure of a man in flowing robes, and glided towards her. For the moment she supposed it was an angel. Again the sweet voice thrilled her, asking:
“What ails thee, O my sister? Art thou wounded? May Allah heal and comfort thee in thy distress!”
She knew him then and felt a sudden craving.
“O Tâhir, sing to me!” she moaned. “Thy voice is healing. Canst thou still sing when thy delight is dead?”
“Who art thou, lady?” He peered hard at her.
“I am the English wife of Yûsuf Pasha.”
“True; it is true,” he murmured, recollecting. “I heard that she had fled the house distraught with grief. … Hearken, O my lady, I am waiting here for the muezzin of the Sultan Hasan mosque, to ask his leave to call the Dawn instead of him. Victorious infidels are on the height above us; and no man can predict the future of this land. It is a black day for the Faith, may Allah help us! Our souls are humbled, weeping tears of blood. I lay upon my bed, but could not sleep for thinking on this grief. My heart and brain were full of singing, sad and noble. I felt the need to sing to God alone. And I vowed within my soul that none but Tâhir should call to prayer this dawn at yonder mosque within the shadow of the citadel which holds our shame. Now till my vow is paid I cannot guide thee. I
