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The thud as of a wooden bolt withdrawn, the creak of a door opening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.