The thud as of a wooden bolt withdrawn, the creak of a door opening reached their ears. The singer ran in the direction of the sound. She heard him coaxing the muezzin, who replied upon a yawn:
“With honour and with reverence, O Tâhir! It is thine to order.”
They had both drawn near to Barakah, entreating her to go indoors and rest, when the donkey-boy, aroused at last, rushed on them with stick raised.
“Where is my lady?” he cried out dementedly. “For the love of Allah, harm her not; her mind is troubled!”
They had some ado to reassure the lad, who was but half awake. Tâhir renewed his prayer to Barakah to enter the muezzin’s house without delay. She cried to be allowed to wait and hear his singing.
“Well, stay with her, O Mustafa! Bring cushions out! And thou, O best of donkey-drivers, seek the house of Yûsuf Pasha, inquire for one Ghandûr, and bring him hither!”
The boy bestrode his ass and disappeared into the darkness; the singer strode off, eager to perform his vow. The muezzin fetched some cushions from his house, and led the lady through the gloom until the minaret of Sultan Hasan loomed before them, and Barakah could distinguish its projecting gallery. Then he spread the cushions as a couch, himself subsiding on the ground behind her.
Barakah waited for what seemed long hours, so great was her impatience, like the sharpest hunger. Then, suddenly, when she had almost ceased to hope, a high, sweet note, sustained most wonderfully, filled her ear. It caused a parting of the lips, a melting rapture. It broke in a cascade of melody. Then came the long sweet note again, not held this time, but uttered often with a sobbed insistence. And then the song soared up to heights of praise, or hovered over depths of sorrow; she was lost in it. Uprising from the fount of hope in sadness, it soared to certainty of endless joy. The sound was no made music, but a soul poured forth in glorious melody, as spontaneous and unerring as the song of birds. The greatest singer in the world stood there unseen in the suspended gallery, and sang his heart out to the praise of the Creator, watching the dawn’s first gleam above the eastern hill.
On Barakah the song fell like a voice from heaven. She beheld great light. Her grief, her terrors, became natural shadows. There was one God for Christian and for Muslim. Beyond the striving and the hatred waited peace and love.
The professional muezzin on the ground behind her was rocking with enjoyment, gasping, sobbing: “Enough, O Tâhir! Of thy kindness, stop! Wouldst kill me quite? I faint, expire! It is too much of rapture! See me die! Praise be to Allah for the faith of El Islam. Praise to the benign Creator who has vouchsafed a voice to creatures for His glory!”
Another whispered: “That is no man’s song, but the song of Israfîl. Surely the last day is dawning. Praise to Allah!” And yet another murmured: “Praise to Him who sleepeth not nor dieth, the Merciful, the Compassionate, the Light of Lights, the Living King!”
Selîm the donkey-boy had come up with Ghandûr. They spoke no word to Barakah until the last note died. By then the pallor of the dawn shone on them faintly, showing the look of sadness which succeeds enchantment. Ghandûr then came and kissed the hand of Barakah, begging her of her kindness to return with him.
He and Selîm together lifted her on to the donkey.
As they left the square the English bugles sounded on the height above.
XXXVII
Quickly the daylight spread and filled the streets; while overhead successive darts of light pierced the incumbent darkness and dispelled it, till the sun’s first ray reddened the minarets and plunged the streets in azure shade. Men came out from their doorways as from tombs, and went about their business listlessly. Among the lower classes it was quite expected that the English would take vengeance on the town that day. The people did not care; they were in Allah’s hands, and gave Him thanks because the war was ended.
For Barakah the city wore its usual air; the only wretched figure was her own. She was being led back to a life which had become intolerable. After her tragic flight of yesterday, how ignominious was this meek return! Ghandûr, beside her, talked of the extreme anxiety in which her flight had plunged the Pasha’s family.
“O my lady, how hadst thou the heart to cause us such despair? Think of it! One like thee, alone and in the streets at such a time, when all authority is in abeyance, and the English host may come at any moment with the lust of conquerors! A hundred men were searching for thee through the night. My lord the Pasha thought that grief might lead thee to the place of tombs, and he himself went thither with the slaves enjoined to hide our valuables. Praise be to Allah, thou art found at last! Take comfort, O my lady! Often and often have I grieved for thee, alone among us! And when our great calamity befell—alas, that son of mine should bear such evil tidings!—I prayed to Allah to reveal to thee His boundless mercy. For it has no limits. For all who suffer in this world He will redress the balance. Even the unhorned cattle, O my lady! It is written.”
Barakah heard these consolations as a dreary murmur.
“I am taking thee to the late Pasha’s house, to the great lady,” he informed her. “My lord considers it will be less sad for thee.”
The great lady meant no other than Murjânah Khânum. Recalling the authority Murjânah wielded, Barakah imagined she was being led to punishment.
Two eunuchs came forth, bowing, crying, “Praise to Allah!” They helped her to dismount, and both supported her. A minute later she had
