CHAPTER XXXIVBarakah had not made many steps outside the house before she was completely lost. Although for sixteen years her home had been in Cairo, she had never walked in the streets before. Which was the way? She could not tell, but went on bravely, hoping for some guide. At last she met a donkey-driver with a pleasant face. In answer to her timid hail, he smiled delighted and praised his Maker for the honour of her patronage. “To the railway station,” she enjoined at mounting, and he answered “Ready!”Away they went, arousing echoes in the stony alleys, the driver shouting as he ran beside the ambling beast. Barakah felt exhilarated by the change of motion, the little spice of danger when they dashed round corners, or charged some group of wayfarers with warning cries. The first stage of her flight would soon be over; and once on board the train, she thought, escape was sure.The streets were empty even for that hour. Scavenger dogs slept undisturbed in every spot of shade. The persons they encountered seemed to have no business, but stood about in groups conversing glumly. On the wide, dusty square before the railway station groups were many. A little crowd besetthe station doors. These were all closed, to Barakah’s amazement. The building looked deserted.“Ask when the next train starts for the sea-coast,” she ordered her attendant, who addressed a shout to persons standing near.“The sea-coast? Allah knows! It may be never!” The reply was shrugged. “A great fight has taken place. The end has come. The English fell upon the camp at daybreak—yesterday or this morning, Allah knows! The rebel army was dispersed like chaff. The leader—the arch-traitor—escaped hither on an engine, and is in the town now somewhere, herding with his kind. It is clearly seen how foully he deceived us, seducing us from our allegiance with the promise of success.”“Praise be to Allah that his reign is ended,” said another. “If the English were but true believers, one would bless them.”“Nay, the tidings are not certain,” cried a third with anguish.“As certain as the sun is hot upon my reins this minute. I have it from a man who saw Arâbi. The rascal’s face was yellow as a corpse.”Barakah’s mind received no more than the initial statement. The way that she had meant to take was closed against her.“Whither, my lady?” asked the donkey-boy, with willing smile.“Far, far away—towards the sea-coast. Anywhere!”“Ready!” he laughed. “It is for thee to order. By Allah, we will go to Gebel Câf if thou desire it.”He smote his donkey, and they jogged along once more, out through new suburbs to the open fields. The sun was an armed foe, the dust a persecutor; her habbarah and face-veil made a sheath of fire. The donkey-boy kept looking at her with compassion, smiling encouragement whenever he could meet her gaze. He thought her mad, and so indulged her fancy, assuring her that it would not take long to reach the sea. But when she murmured of the heat and wished to rest, he showed immense relief.“That is the best,” he cried. “Wait till I find some pleasant shade for thee. See, yonder is a tree. There thou shalt rest till the great heat is past, and then, at thy command, we can resume the journey.”Dismounting under leaves, she sank upon the ground and wept despairingly. The tears, which bitter grief had failed to wring from her, flowed freely for her impotence. Escape was hopeless. Her project now appeared the last absurdity. The change of clothes, the change of manners, now presented difficulties which she felt that she would never have the strength to overcome. The donkey-boy’s consoling words, his friendly grin, were teasing. She sent him to fetch water from a village near at hand. He came back with a pitcher and two slabs of bread; which so revivedher spirit that she once more saw beyond the moment and conceived a plan.She would wait till nightfall and then seek the city of the dead, to die on her son’s grave, if Allah willed it. At least she would spend all the night in prayer imploring Allah’s mercy for him in the name of Christ.She had sat a long while, cross-legged, gazing straight before her, her hands locked in her lap, when a soft voice disturbed her. The donkey-boy was plucking at her sleeve.“The heat is spent,” he told her. “Best be moving! It is back into the city,—not so?—thy command? Much better than to journey to the sea, like this, without provision. Say, which way?”Barakah pointed a direction listlessly. She had no wish to enter Cairo before dark, so chose a long way round, among the fields.Soon the sunset reddened all the plain, stretching their shadows far before them on the dyke. The citadel upon its height was hotly flushed one minute, the next ash-grey and lifeless like a skull. It lived in her imagination as a monstrous spider which held her with its web and drew her in.The donkey-boy beside her prattled ceaselessly.“O lady, I will not forsake thee—no, by the Prophet, never, till thy mind is healed. Do I know the cemetery El Afîfi? Wallahi! I can guide thee thither. Not a bad idea; for Allah comforts those who visit the deceased. By the SayyidAhmad, thou art as my mother. May God cut short my life if I desert thee in thy present state.”The lad’s support was of some comfort to her.In the first blue of night, when daylight lingers in the memory, they were following a sandy road towards the city, when a noise as of the sea arose behind them. The donkey-boy was first to hear it. He stood still and listened, holding up his hand. It seemed approaching on the road behind them. He looked puzzled; then suddenly let fall his hands, and made a bound.“It is the army! Come, O my lady! We must hide ourselves. Hold fast!” He made the donkey gallop for a hundred yards, then led it down into a patch of cane. Peeping out between the stems they saw vague forms in clouds of dust approaching on the dyke above. The roar became the jangle of accoutrements, the roll of heavy carriages upon the road and murmuring voices.Innumerable ranks of horsemen passed, dust-stained and weary, with faces resolutely strained towards Cairo. Barakah saw them as the figures of a dream. Their silhouette against the sky appeared familiar. The words with which they cheered their tired horses rang on memory.“It is the English,” whispered her companion hoarsely.“The English! Allah, help me!” murmured Barakah. Until that moment she had lost remembrance of the war.
Barakah had not made many steps outside the house before she was completely lost. Although for sixteen years her home had been in Cairo, she had never walked in the streets before. Which was the way? She could not tell, but went on bravely, hoping for some guide. At last she met a donkey-driver with a pleasant face. In answer to her timid hail, he smiled delighted and praised his Maker for the honour of her patronage. “To the railway station,” she enjoined at mounting, and he answered “Ready!”
Away they went, arousing echoes in the stony alleys, the driver shouting as he ran beside the ambling beast. Barakah felt exhilarated by the change of motion, the little spice of danger when they dashed round corners, or charged some group of wayfarers with warning cries. The first stage of her flight would soon be over; and once on board the train, she thought, escape was sure.
The streets were empty even for that hour. Scavenger dogs slept undisturbed in every spot of shade. The persons they encountered seemed to have no business, but stood about in groups conversing glumly. On the wide, dusty square before the railway station groups were many. A little crowd besetthe station doors. These were all closed, to Barakah’s amazement. The building looked deserted.
“Ask when the next train starts for the sea-coast,” she ordered her attendant, who addressed a shout to persons standing near.
“The sea-coast? Allah knows! It may be never!” The reply was shrugged. “A great fight has taken place. The end has come. The English fell upon the camp at daybreak—yesterday or this morning, Allah knows! The rebel army was dispersed like chaff. The leader—the arch-traitor—escaped hither on an engine, and is in the town now somewhere, herding with his kind. It is clearly seen how foully he deceived us, seducing us from our allegiance with the promise of success.”
“Praise be to Allah that his reign is ended,” said another. “If the English were but true believers, one would bless them.”
“Nay, the tidings are not certain,” cried a third with anguish.
“As certain as the sun is hot upon my reins this minute. I have it from a man who saw Arâbi. The rascal’s face was yellow as a corpse.”
Barakah’s mind received no more than the initial statement. The way that she had meant to take was closed against her.
“Whither, my lady?” asked the donkey-boy, with willing smile.
“Far, far away—towards the sea-coast. Anywhere!”
“Ready!” he laughed. “It is for thee to order. By Allah, we will go to Gebel Câf if thou desire it.”
He smote his donkey, and they jogged along once more, out through new suburbs to the open fields. The sun was an armed foe, the dust a persecutor; her habbarah and face-veil made a sheath of fire. The donkey-boy kept looking at her with compassion, smiling encouragement whenever he could meet her gaze. He thought her mad, and so indulged her fancy, assuring her that it would not take long to reach the sea. But when she murmured of the heat and wished to rest, he showed immense relief.
“That is the best,” he cried. “Wait till I find some pleasant shade for thee. See, yonder is a tree. There thou shalt rest till the great heat is past, and then, at thy command, we can resume the journey.”
Dismounting under leaves, she sank upon the ground and wept despairingly. The tears, which bitter grief had failed to wring from her, flowed freely for her impotence. Escape was hopeless. Her project now appeared the last absurdity. The change of clothes, the change of manners, now presented difficulties which she felt that she would never have the strength to overcome. The donkey-boy’s consoling words, his friendly grin, were teasing. She sent him to fetch water from a village near at hand. He came back with a pitcher and two slabs of bread; which so revivedher spirit that she once more saw beyond the moment and conceived a plan.
She would wait till nightfall and then seek the city of the dead, to die on her son’s grave, if Allah willed it. At least she would spend all the night in prayer imploring Allah’s mercy for him in the name of Christ.
She had sat a long while, cross-legged, gazing straight before her, her hands locked in her lap, when a soft voice disturbed her. The donkey-boy was plucking at her sleeve.
“The heat is spent,” he told her. “Best be moving! It is back into the city,—not so?—thy command? Much better than to journey to the sea, like this, without provision. Say, which way?”
Barakah pointed a direction listlessly. She had no wish to enter Cairo before dark, so chose a long way round, among the fields.
Soon the sunset reddened all the plain, stretching their shadows far before them on the dyke. The citadel upon its height was hotly flushed one minute, the next ash-grey and lifeless like a skull. It lived in her imagination as a monstrous spider which held her with its web and drew her in.
The donkey-boy beside her prattled ceaselessly.
“O lady, I will not forsake thee—no, by the Prophet, never, till thy mind is healed. Do I know the cemetery El Afîfi? Wallahi! I can guide thee thither. Not a bad idea; for Allah comforts those who visit the deceased. By the SayyidAhmad, thou art as my mother. May God cut short my life if I desert thee in thy present state.”
The lad’s support was of some comfort to her.
In the first blue of night, when daylight lingers in the memory, they were following a sandy road towards the city, when a noise as of the sea arose behind them. The donkey-boy was first to hear it. He stood still and listened, holding up his hand. It seemed approaching on the road behind them. He looked puzzled; then suddenly let fall his hands, and made a bound.
“It is the army! Come, O my lady! We must hide ourselves. Hold fast!” He made the donkey gallop for a hundred yards, then led it down into a patch of cane. Peeping out between the stems they saw vague forms in clouds of dust approaching on the dyke above. The roar became the jangle of accoutrements, the roll of heavy carriages upon the road and murmuring voices.
Innumerable ranks of horsemen passed, dust-stained and weary, with faces resolutely strained towards Cairo. Barakah saw them as the figures of a dream. Their silhouette against the sky appeared familiar. The words with which they cheered their tired horses rang on memory.
“It is the English,” whispered her companion hoarsely.
“The English! Allah, help me!” murmured Barakah. Until that moment she had lost remembrance of the war.
CHAPTER XXXVThe 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, theyare 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 thebody, 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 ginn. 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 to-night, 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 goingto 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 haramlik. 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. To-night 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 swarming in the cup of a great purple flower. At moments, her head swimming, she mistook the earth for sky, and had the sense of moving upside down.“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 sheykh of all the thieves?” some unseen man amid the darkness was exclaiming angrily. “Was it not I alone whohad 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? Some one 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.
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, theyare 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 thebody, 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 ginn. 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 to-night, 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 goingto 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 haramlik. 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. To-night 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 swarming in the cup of a great purple flower. At moments, her head swimming, she mistook the earth for sky, and had the sense of moving upside down.
“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 sheykh of all the thieves?” some unseen man amid the darkness was exclaiming angrily. “Was it not I alone whohad 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? Some one 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.
CHAPTER XXXVIFrom 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 beg thee enter the muezzin’s house and rest till my return.... Ah, here he comes.”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 Islâm. 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.
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 beg thee enter the muezzin’s house and rest till my return.... Ah, here he comes.”
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 Islâm. 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.
CHAPTER XXXVIIQuickly 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 Englishhost 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 passed the harîm screen. Her brief excursion in the world was ended. She was once more caged.Imagining her crime to be as great as that of Christian nun in breaking convent, and knowing that Murjânah Khânum could be ruthless, she expected torture; instead of which she was caressed and put to bed.She had her lodging in Murjânah’s rooms, was dosed by Fitnah, comforted by Leylah Khânum. The younger ladies came as visitors and talked to cheer her. Old Umm ed-Dahak, not to be excluded, crouched by her bed and crooned as to an infant.“Why are you all so kind to me?” she asked one day. “I tried to flee, I tell you, to escape to Europe—yet you pet me!”“All things are pardoned to great grief,” replied Murjânah. “It was not thy fault, O poor one! Would to Allah I could show thee what I see more clearly than I see thee in this room—the power of God, His mercy all around us. Fain would I hear thee give Him praise for thy misfortune. He sees and knows; we fancy; it is weak to strive. Think, O my fawn, my lily, thou hast still one child; thou hadst thy boy for thy delight for fifteen years. More fortunate than I who lost all mine in infancy! What peace can come to woman in thy case who does not offer up her will to God? The men have promise of a certain paradise; we have no certitude of what awaits us. Yet are we not dejected, for we know God’s mercy, and leave the futuregladly in His hands. We women are not bargainers, we serve for love; and the mercy of the Highest cannot fail. Thou hast been brought up otherwise to prouder thoughts. Humble thy soul if thou wouldst find relief.”“I proud?” cried Barakah. “Thou, the proudest woman I have ever known, canst call me so? I am not as thou art—strong and dauntless, cruel in thy resignation. I am feeble and afraid.”“May Allah strengthen thee and drive out fear!”Barakah had lost the vision which had come from Tâhir’s singing—a vision which ignored divergences of race and custom. Without her son the harîm life was senseless; she held the Muslim faith in secret dread; and longed for sentimental Christian people. Yûsuf, her husband, proved the soul of kindness, yet she had almost hated him in her revolt from all his race.One day he told the ladies in her presence:“The English are not bad. They take wise measures for the land’s redemption. They have asked me to take office, and I have a mind to do so.”It was the first time she had heard the English mentioned since her reimprisonment. In fact, the Turkish pride had suffered cruelly from this intrusion of a European power, the more so that the natives of the land acclaimed it. Though the English arms restored their party in the State,the Turks in Egypt gnawed their lips and could not speak of them.A new way of escape appeared to Barakah. She could obtain an audience of the English rulers and announce her longing to return to Christianity. She pined for the ideals of Christian lands, the independent life of women, and their varied interests. Here she had lost her value, having lost her son. She would soon be an old woman, a mere worn-out animal.Directly she conceived this plan, she grew more cheerful, and even felt some kindness for the harîm walls. While making her endeavour to find out from Yûsuf the names of Englishmen of influence, their character and reputation, she wanted to make certain he would be consoled.“Light of my eyes,” she whispered, nestling to him, “I have quite outgrown my foolish prejudice. I beg thee now to wed another wife. The son I bore to thee is dead, and I grow old.”“Wallahi, thou art still delicious,” he replied gallantly; but all the same he thanked her, seeming much relieved.Perceiving that the anguish of her grief was past, the ladies let her go to her own house.“Remember my advice,” said old Murjânah in farewell. “Behold, my eyes grow dim, my days are numbered. I speak not frivolously like the young. Give up thy will. That is to islam truly. May Allah grant thee resignation, which is strength.”
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 Englishhost 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 passed the harîm screen. Her brief excursion in the world was ended. She was once more caged.
Imagining her crime to be as great as that of Christian nun in breaking convent, and knowing that Murjânah Khânum could be ruthless, she expected torture; instead of which she was caressed and put to bed.
She had her lodging in Murjânah’s rooms, was dosed by Fitnah, comforted by Leylah Khânum. The younger ladies came as visitors and talked to cheer her. Old Umm ed-Dahak, not to be excluded, crouched by her bed and crooned as to an infant.
“Why are you all so kind to me?” she asked one day. “I tried to flee, I tell you, to escape to Europe—yet you pet me!”
“All things are pardoned to great grief,” replied Murjânah. “It was not thy fault, O poor one! Would to Allah I could show thee what I see more clearly than I see thee in this room—the power of God, His mercy all around us. Fain would I hear thee give Him praise for thy misfortune. He sees and knows; we fancy; it is weak to strive. Think, O my fawn, my lily, thou hast still one child; thou hadst thy boy for thy delight for fifteen years. More fortunate than I who lost all mine in infancy! What peace can come to woman in thy case who does not offer up her will to God? The men have promise of a certain paradise; we have no certitude of what awaits us. Yet are we not dejected, for we know God’s mercy, and leave the futuregladly in His hands. We women are not bargainers, we serve for love; and the mercy of the Highest cannot fail. Thou hast been brought up otherwise to prouder thoughts. Humble thy soul if thou wouldst find relief.”
“I proud?” cried Barakah. “Thou, the proudest woman I have ever known, canst call me so? I am not as thou art—strong and dauntless, cruel in thy resignation. I am feeble and afraid.”
“May Allah strengthen thee and drive out fear!”
Barakah had lost the vision which had come from Tâhir’s singing—a vision which ignored divergences of race and custom. Without her son the harîm life was senseless; she held the Muslim faith in secret dread; and longed for sentimental Christian people. Yûsuf, her husband, proved the soul of kindness, yet she had almost hated him in her revolt from all his race.
One day he told the ladies in her presence:
“The English are not bad. They take wise measures for the land’s redemption. They have asked me to take office, and I have a mind to do so.”
It was the first time she had heard the English mentioned since her reimprisonment. In fact, the Turkish pride had suffered cruelly from this intrusion of a European power, the more so that the natives of the land acclaimed it. Though the English arms restored their party in the State,the Turks in Egypt gnawed their lips and could not speak of them.
A new way of escape appeared to Barakah. She could obtain an audience of the English rulers and announce her longing to return to Christianity. She pined for the ideals of Christian lands, the independent life of women, and their varied interests. Here she had lost her value, having lost her son. She would soon be an old woman, a mere worn-out animal.
Directly she conceived this plan, she grew more cheerful, and even felt some kindness for the harîm walls. While making her endeavour to find out from Yûsuf the names of Englishmen of influence, their character and reputation, she wanted to make certain he would be consoled.
“Light of my eyes,” she whispered, nestling to him, “I have quite outgrown my foolish prejudice. I beg thee now to wed another wife. The son I bore to thee is dead, and I grow old.”
“Wallahi, thou art still delicious,” he replied gallantly; but all the same he thanked her, seeming much relieved.
Perceiving that the anguish of her grief was past, the ladies let her go to her own house.
“Remember my advice,” said old Murjânah in farewell. “Behold, my eyes grow dim, my days are numbered. I speak not frivolously like the young. Give up thy will. That is to islam truly. May Allah grant thee resignation, which is strength.”
CHAPTER XXXVIIIShe had not been in her own house a day, before she said to Umm ed-Dahak:“Wilt thou do me a great service?”“Wallahi, that will I! Even—saving thy presence—one most sinful!”“And canst thou keep a secret from the seed of Adam?”“Not only that, but from the walls and air.”“I want a letter carried to a great one of the English.”“I seek refuge in Allah!” gasped the old woman, grinning widely. “Knowest thou it is a crime unheard of that thou askest of me? Fie upon thee! Wallahi, if I did my duty I should leave thee straightway!”But far from flying from her mistress she came nearer. Her wrinkles ran to smiles; her old eyes twinkled.“Come, let us reason!” she remarked, as she sat down, and, fingering her lady’s hand, began the argument.“If thou desirest recreation of a shameful kind, let me discover some devout believer. Thus thesin is less. Or better still, approach thy husband, tell him thou art weary, implore him of his mercy to release thee, with a portion of thy dowry. No man would refuse the offer after years of marriage. Then I could find thee a good Muslim, for diversion. But a Frank—an unbeliever! Ask me not! It is too horrible!”“By Allah, my desire is not the thing thou thinkest!” Barakah made answer gaily. “This Englishman is one I knew in childhood. I would speak with him. The matter is no other than my lord’s advancement, though if he knew I meddled he would kill me!”“Swear to that! But swear to that!” cried Umm ed-Dahak, much excited, “and I can do thy errand without sin. But if thy mind is for a Frank, I could unearth thee Muslims of that race; though most of them are idiotic from hashîsh.”“My errand is to this one only!”“Good, I go.”The lady clapped her hands and called for writing things. The letter taxed her mind for hours; the fitting phrase, the correct tone, eluding one who for so many years had penned no word of English. At last it was completed. She implored the great official, of his mercy, his great kindness, to receive an English lady, long immured in the harîm, where she had suffered greatly. She wished to make a most important statement (this she underlined) and begged him to secure the utmostsecrecy. She would not write her name for fear the letter should be intercepted, but would reveal it to him with the other matter when they met. The document, enveloped and sealed down, was put into the hands of Umm ed-Dahak. After two hours, she brought back the answer, “Tomorrow at the fourth hour,” given her by word of mouth. She had not seen the Englishman himself.“Wallahi, we will make thee beautiful,” she chuckled.Then Barakah reviewed her prison with affection. She went from room to room, observing for remembrance. In one, the slave-girls crouched round an old hag who told a story. The light which fell like powder from the lattice singled out their teeth and eyeballs, and woke a blue sheen in the copper vessels round the wall. In another, the child Afîfah stood up on the seat beside the lattice, feeding pigeons; the wife of Ghandûr, standing by, supported her. A little wicket in the tracery was open.“H’m-h’m-h’m-h’m!” Afîfah gave the pigeon-call, and held out crumbs. A fluttering cloud of white and iridescent down, pink, shell-like claws, and avid beaks and eyes, beset the lattice from without, its shadow watering the child’s delighted face.Barakah retired without disturbing them. She had a hankering to take the little girl with her. But no, Afîfah was a child of El Islâm. Like all the rest, she would condemn and curse her mother.Then visitors arrived—Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr—and Barakah waxed sentimental in her talk with them, recalling all the pleasant hours which they had spent together. Both were now grown obese and double-chinned. Nothing remained of the resplendent beauty which had marked their girlhood save the eyes, which made them still attractive when they wore the face-veil. She pitied them, with anguish for herself; and kissed them fondly when they rose to go.Then Yûsuf came to spend an hour with her. She thanked him with sincere emotion for his never-failing kindness to her during all those years.“It is nothing but thy due,” he answered, greatly touched. “Thou art alone among us, and my cherished wife.”That night the very howling of the street-dogs sounded sweet; the starlight at her lattice seemed a humble friend. Her heart bled for the parting which was very near. For not a doubt existed in her mind but that the English, once informed of her desire for Christianity, would snatch her from the Muslims with a mighty hand. The power was theirs; they governed Egypt; and she knew from her remembrance that they were fanatical. They would welcome her conversion, and defend her.In the morning Umm ed-Dahak bubbled over with excitement. She accompanied her lady to the bath, and bade the bath attendant take all measures to enhance her beauty. She assured her mistress in an eager whisper:“Trust Umm ed-Dahak, I have managed everything.”She had given orders in her lady’s name that the harîm carriage and a eunuch should be ready at a certain hour. She and Barakah were driven to a shop of good repute, famed for its stock of Frankish boots and gloves, of which the harîm ladies were enamoured as showing off their pretty hands and feet.“Our business here may take some time—an hour, perhaps,” she told the eunuch, who took position sentry-wise beside the entrance. The shop possessed two doors. Making a trifling purchase, they went out unnoticed, and found themselves within a stone’s throw of the public office which the English ruler had appointed for the interview.The street in blazing sunlight was flowing with a many-coloured crowd, which kept up such a jabber that Barakah could not think clearly. The scene she had rehearsed appeared ridiculous. Seized with panic, she was anxious to turn back; but Umm ed-Dahak at her elbow whispered courage. In a minute she had entered a great doorway leading to a wide stone hall, where soldiers lounged. One of them came forward at a beck from Umm ed-Dahak. Then the old woman went and squatted on the doorstep, and Barakah, half dead with terror, was led on alone.
She had not been in her own house a day, before she said to Umm ed-Dahak:
“Wilt thou do me a great service?”
“Wallahi, that will I! Even—saving thy presence—one most sinful!”
“And canst thou keep a secret from the seed of Adam?”
“Not only that, but from the walls and air.”
“I want a letter carried to a great one of the English.”
“I seek refuge in Allah!” gasped the old woman, grinning widely. “Knowest thou it is a crime unheard of that thou askest of me? Fie upon thee! Wallahi, if I did my duty I should leave thee straightway!”
But far from flying from her mistress she came nearer. Her wrinkles ran to smiles; her old eyes twinkled.
“Come, let us reason!” she remarked, as she sat down, and, fingering her lady’s hand, began the argument.
“If thou desirest recreation of a shameful kind, let me discover some devout believer. Thus thesin is less. Or better still, approach thy husband, tell him thou art weary, implore him of his mercy to release thee, with a portion of thy dowry. No man would refuse the offer after years of marriage. Then I could find thee a good Muslim, for diversion. But a Frank—an unbeliever! Ask me not! It is too horrible!”
“By Allah, my desire is not the thing thou thinkest!” Barakah made answer gaily. “This Englishman is one I knew in childhood. I would speak with him. The matter is no other than my lord’s advancement, though if he knew I meddled he would kill me!”
“Swear to that! But swear to that!” cried Umm ed-Dahak, much excited, “and I can do thy errand without sin. But if thy mind is for a Frank, I could unearth thee Muslims of that race; though most of them are idiotic from hashîsh.”
“My errand is to this one only!”
“Good, I go.”
The lady clapped her hands and called for writing things. The letter taxed her mind for hours; the fitting phrase, the correct tone, eluding one who for so many years had penned no word of English. At last it was completed. She implored the great official, of his mercy, his great kindness, to receive an English lady, long immured in the harîm, where she had suffered greatly. She wished to make a most important statement (this she underlined) and begged him to secure the utmostsecrecy. She would not write her name for fear the letter should be intercepted, but would reveal it to him with the other matter when they met. The document, enveloped and sealed down, was put into the hands of Umm ed-Dahak. After two hours, she brought back the answer, “Tomorrow at the fourth hour,” given her by word of mouth. She had not seen the Englishman himself.
“Wallahi, we will make thee beautiful,” she chuckled.
Then Barakah reviewed her prison with affection. She went from room to room, observing for remembrance. In one, the slave-girls crouched round an old hag who told a story. The light which fell like powder from the lattice singled out their teeth and eyeballs, and woke a blue sheen in the copper vessels round the wall. In another, the child Afîfah stood up on the seat beside the lattice, feeding pigeons; the wife of Ghandûr, standing by, supported her. A little wicket in the tracery was open.
“H’m-h’m-h’m-h’m!” Afîfah gave the pigeon-call, and held out crumbs. A fluttering cloud of white and iridescent down, pink, shell-like claws, and avid beaks and eyes, beset the lattice from without, its shadow watering the child’s delighted face.
Barakah retired without disturbing them. She had a hankering to take the little girl with her. But no, Afîfah was a child of El Islâm. Like all the rest, she would condemn and curse her mother.
Then visitors arrived—Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr—and Barakah waxed sentimental in her talk with them, recalling all the pleasant hours which they had spent together. Both were now grown obese and double-chinned. Nothing remained of the resplendent beauty which had marked their girlhood save the eyes, which made them still attractive when they wore the face-veil. She pitied them, with anguish for herself; and kissed them fondly when they rose to go.
Then Yûsuf came to spend an hour with her. She thanked him with sincere emotion for his never-failing kindness to her during all those years.
“It is nothing but thy due,” he answered, greatly touched. “Thou art alone among us, and my cherished wife.”
That night the very howling of the street-dogs sounded sweet; the starlight at her lattice seemed a humble friend. Her heart bled for the parting which was very near. For not a doubt existed in her mind but that the English, once informed of her desire for Christianity, would snatch her from the Muslims with a mighty hand. The power was theirs; they governed Egypt; and she knew from her remembrance that they were fanatical. They would welcome her conversion, and defend her.
In the morning Umm ed-Dahak bubbled over with excitement. She accompanied her lady to the bath, and bade the bath attendant take all measures to enhance her beauty. She assured her mistress in an eager whisper:
“Trust Umm ed-Dahak, I have managed everything.”
She had given orders in her lady’s name that the harîm carriage and a eunuch should be ready at a certain hour. She and Barakah were driven to a shop of good repute, famed for its stock of Frankish boots and gloves, of which the harîm ladies were enamoured as showing off their pretty hands and feet.
“Our business here may take some time—an hour, perhaps,” she told the eunuch, who took position sentry-wise beside the entrance. The shop possessed two doors. Making a trifling purchase, they went out unnoticed, and found themselves within a stone’s throw of the public office which the English ruler had appointed for the interview.
The street in blazing sunlight was flowing with a many-coloured crowd, which kept up such a jabber that Barakah could not think clearly. The scene she had rehearsed appeared ridiculous. Seized with panic, she was anxious to turn back; but Umm ed-Dahak at her elbow whispered courage. In a minute she had entered a great doorway leading to a wide stone hall, where soldiers lounged. One of them came forward at a beck from Umm ed-Dahak. Then the old woman went and squatted on the doorstep, and Barakah, half dead with terror, was led on alone.
CHAPTER XXXIX“You asked for a private interview. It is a little unusual, I believe, in this country; but I granted your request upon the understanding that you have important secrets to communicate, as stated in your letter. Let me see—ah, here it is!”The English official—a broad-shouldered, fresh-complexioned man inclined to baldness—having studied her appearance through a monocle, let fall that weapon and, disturbing papers on his desk, produced the letter she had written to him, which looked somehow pitiful.“I am an English lady. My name is Mary Smith. I did a very wicked thing. I turned Mahometan, and married a Turkish gentleman, a Pasha, here in Cairo. I want to leave him and return to Christianity. I am an English lady, by name Mary Smith; not what they call me. I am prepared to take my oath that this is true, and Mrs. Cameron can tell you—I must get away!”“What is all this, and who is Mrs. Cameron? In what way does your private history concern me? I beg you to pass on to the important statement which you have to make.”“I ask your help to get away from the harîm.”At that the Englishman resumed his eyeglass and surveyed her with a slight gape of amazement.The scene of conversation was a large room, sparsely furnished with a desk, a table and a few plain chairs. The light from the high window shone on Barakah who, to prove that she was really English, had removed her face-veil. The critic’s wondering stare first made her conscious of the discrepancy with her request of highly raddled cheeks and lips, and kohled eyes—the touches Umm ed-Dahak had declared so beautiful. She was not a European any longer. Her very words resounded with a foreign accent. From the moment of her entering the presence of this hateful man, she had been persuaded of the folly of her errand, out of heart with it. Her speech, when uttered, carried no conviction.“Indeed, indeed, I am an Englishwoman,” she persisted, with a kind of whimper. “I want to get away from here and lead a Christian life.”But while she spoke the words her hands were busy readjusting the white muslin mouth-veil as a step towards going.The great official shrugged his shoulders “Is that all you have to say?”“Perhaps—I mean, I know that I did wrong to come here.” She was quivering from head to foot with shame. The act of sitting on a chair embarrassed her. She was completely out of touch with English ways.“Well, I don’t quite see what I can do for you,” said her appraiser, in a tone of bland reproach. “You see we are here as guardians of the laws and customs of the country. We could hardly, therefore, interfere in a case such as yours—a harîm quarrel. As for the religious controversy, I can tell you we avoid it like hot coals. Our one desire is to uphold the institutions of the country. Really, my dear lady, I think the only thing for you to do is to go straight home and make the best of it.”At that she rose. He passed before her to the door and held it open. She thought of offering her hand, but his grand bow forbade it; and she went out in profound humiliation.“Well, art thou happy?” chuckled Umm ed-Dahak, still believing that she was the servant of a criminal intrigue. She prattled merrily till they regained the carriage and were driving homeward, when she noticed that her lady trembled and looked sad.“Alas!” she cried. “My dove, my poor one, is it so? Woe, woe for womankind! There comes a time to all of us when love escapes.”But Barakah surveyed a wider disillusion.Until just now she had been strong in the conceit that she was different from Eastern women, recognizably of higher race. From her dreams with Umm ed-Dahak, built on memories of Mrs. Cameron’s entreaties and the Consul’s arguments, she had derived the notion that she was of valueto the English, who would fain reclaim her. Now that mirage, born of the sleepy harîm atmosphere, was swept away; and she was nothing. With English people, she would always long for Orientals; with Orientals, feel a yearning for the life of Europe.And in religion, likewise, she was nothing. A Christian by conviction after years of scoffing, she was doomed to play the part of a Mahometan, to lose her soul. And she was glad to be returning to the life so lately dreaded, the vision of herself in English eyes had so appalled her. Well, she was nothing, and her soul of small account. The harîm was her natural home; the teaching of the wise and kindly Prophet her protection. She now beheld the vanity of all her struggles, the vulgarity of much concern about the future. God was merciful! In self-annihilation there was peace. Thus through her striving after Christianity she reached at last the living heart of El Islâm.
“You asked for a private interview. It is a little unusual, I believe, in this country; but I granted your request upon the understanding that you have important secrets to communicate, as stated in your letter. Let me see—ah, here it is!”
The English official—a broad-shouldered, fresh-complexioned man inclined to baldness—having studied her appearance through a monocle, let fall that weapon and, disturbing papers on his desk, produced the letter she had written to him, which looked somehow pitiful.
“I am an English lady. My name is Mary Smith. I did a very wicked thing. I turned Mahometan, and married a Turkish gentleman, a Pasha, here in Cairo. I want to leave him and return to Christianity. I am an English lady, by name Mary Smith; not what they call me. I am prepared to take my oath that this is true, and Mrs. Cameron can tell you—I must get away!”
“What is all this, and who is Mrs. Cameron? In what way does your private history concern me? I beg you to pass on to the important statement which you have to make.”
“I ask your help to get away from the harîm.”
At that the Englishman resumed his eyeglass and surveyed her with a slight gape of amazement.
The scene of conversation was a large room, sparsely furnished with a desk, a table and a few plain chairs. The light from the high window shone on Barakah who, to prove that she was really English, had removed her face-veil. The critic’s wondering stare first made her conscious of the discrepancy with her request of highly raddled cheeks and lips, and kohled eyes—the touches Umm ed-Dahak had declared so beautiful. She was not a European any longer. Her very words resounded with a foreign accent. From the moment of her entering the presence of this hateful man, she had been persuaded of the folly of her errand, out of heart with it. Her speech, when uttered, carried no conviction.
“Indeed, indeed, I am an Englishwoman,” she persisted, with a kind of whimper. “I want to get away from here and lead a Christian life.”
But while she spoke the words her hands were busy readjusting the white muslin mouth-veil as a step towards going.
The great official shrugged his shoulders “Is that all you have to say?”
“Perhaps—I mean, I know that I did wrong to come here.” She was quivering from head to foot with shame. The act of sitting on a chair embarrassed her. She was completely out of touch with English ways.
“Well, I don’t quite see what I can do for you,” said her appraiser, in a tone of bland reproach. “You see we are here as guardians of the laws and customs of the country. We could hardly, therefore, interfere in a case such as yours—a harîm quarrel. As for the religious controversy, I can tell you we avoid it like hot coals. Our one desire is to uphold the institutions of the country. Really, my dear lady, I think the only thing for you to do is to go straight home and make the best of it.”
At that she rose. He passed before her to the door and held it open. She thought of offering her hand, but his grand bow forbade it; and she went out in profound humiliation.
“Well, art thou happy?” chuckled Umm ed-Dahak, still believing that she was the servant of a criminal intrigue. She prattled merrily till they regained the carriage and were driving homeward, when she noticed that her lady trembled and looked sad.
“Alas!” she cried. “My dove, my poor one, is it so? Woe, woe for womankind! There comes a time to all of us when love escapes.”
But Barakah surveyed a wider disillusion.
Until just now she had been strong in the conceit that she was different from Eastern women, recognizably of higher race. From her dreams with Umm ed-Dahak, built on memories of Mrs. Cameron’s entreaties and the Consul’s arguments, she had derived the notion that she was of valueto the English, who would fain reclaim her. Now that mirage, born of the sleepy harîm atmosphere, was swept away; and she was nothing. With English people, she would always long for Orientals; with Orientals, feel a yearning for the life of Europe.
And in religion, likewise, she was nothing. A Christian by conviction after years of scoffing, she was doomed to play the part of a Mahometan, to lose her soul. And she was glad to be returning to the life so lately dreaded, the vision of herself in English eyes had so appalled her. Well, she was nothing, and her soul of small account. The harîm was her natural home; the teaching of the wise and kindly Prophet her protection. She now beheld the vanity of all her struggles, the vulgarity of much concern about the future. God was merciful! In self-annihilation there was peace. Thus through her striving after Christianity she reached at last the living heart of El Islâm.
CHAPTER XLIt was strange how, with her broken spirit, she regained a kindly interest in all around her. She had found the keynote of harîm existence—resignation; not merely passive, but exultant as an act of worship. The gross, full-blooded speech, the something cruel in these women, which in the day of sentimental pride had seemed intolerable, was but the natural outcome of relentless vision. In the first fervour of her self-abasement she stood beside the deathbed of Murjânah Khânum, watched her last struggle, and endured the death-room orgies without flinching. Thenceforth she took up the old Muslim standpoint, denouncing all the fallacies of Europe. Having won from Yûsuf the confession that he kept three other women, she had them brought to the old Pasha’s palace, where she lived thenceforward, to rid his dealings of the surreptitiousness which smacks of vice. She received them sometimes in her rooms, and took benignant notice of their children, but remained aloof. They called her “the great lady,” and deferred to her.When the festivals of visitation of the deadcame round, she would withdraw into the tomb for days together, but showed no mournfulness at other seasons. When Englishwomen called on her (as sometimes happened, for Yûsuf held a high position in the Government), she spoke in stilted French, and never hinted that she knew their language, or was other than the thing she seemed—a Turkish lady. She felt assured that, had she carried out her plan and fled to Europe after her son’s death, she would have gone mad in that sentimental atmosphere with all her memories. More than the English, she disliked some French and German ladies who, without renouncing their religion or their nationality, had married Muslims. These, in their visits, showed a curiosity, and used a tone of patronage, which was offensive. Of races less exclusive than the English, they kept their European friends, maintained their liberty. They had no real conception of the harîm life.She was angry with her daughter when the latter told her:“At marriage I shall make my husband promise to have me alone before I yield to him. It is become the fashion in the noblest houses. Of course, if I should fail to bear a son, I should release him.”“Endeavour to retain him by thy charms,” the mother scolded. “O foolish one, to make him promise is to make him sin. In following the madness of the Frankish women, thou dost butcourt deception in the Frankish manner. It all comes of the reading of French stories without knowledge or intelligence.”It vexed her soul to see young girls forsaking the old stately way to hanker for the trash of Europe, which they misconceived. Afîfah had no notion of that mutual love and comradeship which is the sole excuse for monogamic marriage; she merely thought it fine to be an only wife. When harîm ladies talked of feminine emancipation, they understood it to involve licentiousness. Their genius was at once too indolent and too direct ever to harbour European vapours.But these vagaries were restricted to a score of wealthy houses, and even there the harîm life went on the same. There were the lattices, the veils, the eunuchs, and some few slaves in spite of many edicts; the ladies still had their old interests and rules and customs; the same old women hawked the news and bawdy tales from house to house; and superstition flourished more than ever. Young wives who had been bred up in the Frankish culture, and insisted on the husband talking French in private, consulted witches when the baby ailed, or sent a portion of his clothing to be blood-stained at a zâr.Afîfah married in due course a high official, and Barakah spent half the year with her. The mother had her little circle of old friends, and many protégés—in particular the house of Ghandûr, whosefirst-born, Ali, she regarded always as her son. Her age seemed not unhappy.On a summer evening, she was sitting on the roof of the old Pasha’s palace, watching the sunset with Gulbeyzah, Na´imah, and two of Yûsuf’s sisters who had come to visit her. Red light as of a conflagration shone around them. The shadow cast towards them by the parapet was vastly elongated and as black as ink. A tray with fruit and sherbet rested on the ground, and a slave-girl, squatting on her heels before them, awaiting their good pleasure to remove it, followed their conversation with an eager smile.The English had been five-and-twenty years in Cairo, and mighty changes had distressed the world of men, but the harîm seemed changeless in its calm seclusion. Beliefs as old as Egypt lingered there, and new things introduced were made to serve old customs. Yet the ladies had been sighing at the growth of innovations.“Dost thou remember, O my sweet one, the little window in the servants’ passage where I used to sit and dream as a young maiden?” sighed Gulbeyzah. “Is it still there? I must go down and see it! And the little lover on the roof who waved his arms so wildly? I wonder did he die of me, the poor young man! Thou didst blame me for that small amusement; but, by Allah, girls in these days are less innocent. My granddaughters read French books till their brains are addled.They had better sit alone and dream as I did.”“The best of life is thinking with hands idle,” answered Na’imah. “All women do it, and so form their minds. But the girls to-day have no resources. They despise embroidery. They needs must be amused by some strange sight, excited by unhealthy reading, or they die of ennui.”“Look, look!” exclaimed Gulbeyzah suddenly.They all stared in the direction which her finger pointed.The slave, who had been waiting their good pleasure to remove the tray, had started up and stood against the parapet, looking out towards the sunset, with her back towards them. Both her arms were raised as for an incantation. The rosy light enveloped her as with a halo. Her shadow, grown enormous, covered half the roof.“I seek refuge in Allah. Is she worshipping the sun?” gasped Na’imah. “She should be punished for such gross impiety.”“She is going to give that crow his salutation,” said Gulbeyzah.The bird had wheeled away, but now drew near again.“If good the news, O bird, alight and welcome;If bad, draw up thy claws and hie away!”The slave-girl having chanted the time-honoured formula, turned to resume her attitude of patientwaiting. She grinned to find herself the object of all eyes.“I shamed him,” she remarked, with a wide flash of teeth, as she sat down once more.“Thou knowest the history—not so, O my flower?” said Na’imah.“Umm ed-Dahak has related it a thousand times—the Lord have mercy on her!” Barakah made answer in a tone of fond remembrance.“O light of my eyes, surely every woman here in Egypt knows it!” giggled Yûsuf’s youngest sister. “They say it has been handed down among us from the days of our lord Noah, when we sent up the petition.”“That every girl might be allowed four husbands?” asked Gulbeyzah.“More! more!—or so old Umm ed-Dahak used to tell me—as many as she could endure, my sweet!” laughed Barakah.“May Allah destroy the house of that most wicked crow, who has kept us waiting all these thousands of long years till now!” groaned Na’imah.“How long! How long, O Lord!” sighed out Gulbeyzah in a comic ecstasy.“Never in my time, that is certain, under Allah,” answered Barakah. “But perhaps you young ones....”“Young ones! O Allah, listen to her! Ah, alas for us!” cried Yûsuf’s youngest sister, with a sobbing laugh. Whereat the ladies looked intoeach other’s faces, illumined by the greenish light which follows sunset. A silence and a shudder fell upon them.“Allah have mercy on us!” Gulbeyzah broke the stillness with a shrug. “Behold us finished for the joys of this low world.”“The praise to Allah!” answered Na’imah devoutly.They were all old withered bodies, for the grave.Printed byMorrison & Gibb Limited,Edinburgh
It was strange how, with her broken spirit, she regained a kindly interest in all around her. She had found the keynote of harîm existence—resignation; not merely passive, but exultant as an act of worship. The gross, full-blooded speech, the something cruel in these women, which in the day of sentimental pride had seemed intolerable, was but the natural outcome of relentless vision. In the first fervour of her self-abasement she stood beside the deathbed of Murjânah Khânum, watched her last struggle, and endured the death-room orgies without flinching. Thenceforth she took up the old Muslim standpoint, denouncing all the fallacies of Europe. Having won from Yûsuf the confession that he kept three other women, she had them brought to the old Pasha’s palace, where she lived thenceforward, to rid his dealings of the surreptitiousness which smacks of vice. She received them sometimes in her rooms, and took benignant notice of their children, but remained aloof. They called her “the great lady,” and deferred to her.
When the festivals of visitation of the deadcame round, she would withdraw into the tomb for days together, but showed no mournfulness at other seasons. When Englishwomen called on her (as sometimes happened, for Yûsuf held a high position in the Government), she spoke in stilted French, and never hinted that she knew their language, or was other than the thing she seemed—a Turkish lady. She felt assured that, had she carried out her plan and fled to Europe after her son’s death, she would have gone mad in that sentimental atmosphere with all her memories. More than the English, she disliked some French and German ladies who, without renouncing their religion or their nationality, had married Muslims. These, in their visits, showed a curiosity, and used a tone of patronage, which was offensive. Of races less exclusive than the English, they kept their European friends, maintained their liberty. They had no real conception of the harîm life.
She was angry with her daughter when the latter told her:
“At marriage I shall make my husband promise to have me alone before I yield to him. It is become the fashion in the noblest houses. Of course, if I should fail to bear a son, I should release him.”
“Endeavour to retain him by thy charms,” the mother scolded. “O foolish one, to make him promise is to make him sin. In following the madness of the Frankish women, thou dost butcourt deception in the Frankish manner. It all comes of the reading of French stories without knowledge or intelligence.”
It vexed her soul to see young girls forsaking the old stately way to hanker for the trash of Europe, which they misconceived. Afîfah had no notion of that mutual love and comradeship which is the sole excuse for monogamic marriage; she merely thought it fine to be an only wife. When harîm ladies talked of feminine emancipation, they understood it to involve licentiousness. Their genius was at once too indolent and too direct ever to harbour European vapours.
But these vagaries were restricted to a score of wealthy houses, and even there the harîm life went on the same. There were the lattices, the veils, the eunuchs, and some few slaves in spite of many edicts; the ladies still had their old interests and rules and customs; the same old women hawked the news and bawdy tales from house to house; and superstition flourished more than ever. Young wives who had been bred up in the Frankish culture, and insisted on the husband talking French in private, consulted witches when the baby ailed, or sent a portion of his clothing to be blood-stained at a zâr.
Afîfah married in due course a high official, and Barakah spent half the year with her. The mother had her little circle of old friends, and many protégés—in particular the house of Ghandûr, whosefirst-born, Ali, she regarded always as her son. Her age seemed not unhappy.
On a summer evening, she was sitting on the roof of the old Pasha’s palace, watching the sunset with Gulbeyzah, Na´imah, and two of Yûsuf’s sisters who had come to visit her. Red light as of a conflagration shone around them. The shadow cast towards them by the parapet was vastly elongated and as black as ink. A tray with fruit and sherbet rested on the ground, and a slave-girl, squatting on her heels before them, awaiting their good pleasure to remove it, followed their conversation with an eager smile.
The English had been five-and-twenty years in Cairo, and mighty changes had distressed the world of men, but the harîm seemed changeless in its calm seclusion. Beliefs as old as Egypt lingered there, and new things introduced were made to serve old customs. Yet the ladies had been sighing at the growth of innovations.
“Dost thou remember, O my sweet one, the little window in the servants’ passage where I used to sit and dream as a young maiden?” sighed Gulbeyzah. “Is it still there? I must go down and see it! And the little lover on the roof who waved his arms so wildly? I wonder did he die of me, the poor young man! Thou didst blame me for that small amusement; but, by Allah, girls in these days are less innocent. My granddaughters read French books till their brains are addled.They had better sit alone and dream as I did.”
“The best of life is thinking with hands idle,” answered Na’imah. “All women do it, and so form their minds. But the girls to-day have no resources. They despise embroidery. They needs must be amused by some strange sight, excited by unhealthy reading, or they die of ennui.”
“Look, look!” exclaimed Gulbeyzah suddenly.
They all stared in the direction which her finger pointed.
The slave, who had been waiting their good pleasure to remove the tray, had started up and stood against the parapet, looking out towards the sunset, with her back towards them. Both her arms were raised as for an incantation. The rosy light enveloped her as with a halo. Her shadow, grown enormous, covered half the roof.
“I seek refuge in Allah. Is she worshipping the sun?” gasped Na’imah. “She should be punished for such gross impiety.”
“She is going to give that crow his salutation,” said Gulbeyzah.
The bird had wheeled away, but now drew near again.
“If good the news, O bird, alight and welcome;If bad, draw up thy claws and hie away!”
“If good the news, O bird, alight and welcome;If bad, draw up thy claws and hie away!”
“If good the news, O bird, alight and welcome;If bad, draw up thy claws and hie away!”
“If good the news, O bird, alight and welcome;
If bad, draw up thy claws and hie away!”
The slave-girl having chanted the time-honoured formula, turned to resume her attitude of patientwaiting. She grinned to find herself the object of all eyes.
“I shamed him,” she remarked, with a wide flash of teeth, as she sat down once more.
“Thou knowest the history—not so, O my flower?” said Na’imah.
“Umm ed-Dahak has related it a thousand times—the Lord have mercy on her!” Barakah made answer in a tone of fond remembrance.
“O light of my eyes, surely every woman here in Egypt knows it!” giggled Yûsuf’s youngest sister. “They say it has been handed down among us from the days of our lord Noah, when we sent up the petition.”
“That every girl might be allowed four husbands?” asked Gulbeyzah.
“More! more!—or so old Umm ed-Dahak used to tell me—as many as she could endure, my sweet!” laughed Barakah.
“May Allah destroy the house of that most wicked crow, who has kept us waiting all these thousands of long years till now!” groaned Na’imah.
“How long! How long, O Lord!” sighed out Gulbeyzah in a comic ecstasy.
“Never in my time, that is certain, under Allah,” answered Barakah. “But perhaps you young ones....”
“Young ones! O Allah, listen to her! Ah, alas for us!” cried Yûsuf’s youngest sister, with a sobbing laugh. Whereat the ladies looked intoeach other’s faces, illumined by the greenish light which follows sunset. A silence and a shudder fell upon them.
“Allah have mercy on us!” Gulbeyzah broke the stillness with a shrug. “Behold us finished for the joys of this low world.”
“The praise to Allah!” answered Na’imah devoutly.
They were all old withered bodies, for the grave.
Printed byMorrison & Gibb Limited,Edinburgh