The peasant on the bluff, prostrated toward Mecca with his forehead in
the dust, was startled out of his prayer by a roar in the basin below
him. There where the trimwhite jinn-boat of the _Firengi_ had been was
now a blazing mass of wreckage, out of which burst fierce cracklings,
hissings, cries, sounds not to be named.
As he stared at it the wreckage fell apart, began to disappear in a
cloud of smoke and steam that lengthened toward the southern gateway of
the basin. And in the turbid water, cut by swift sharks’ fins, he saw a
sudden streak of scarlet, vivider than any fire or sunrise. The sounds
ceased, the dyed waters paled, the smoke melted after the steam, the
current caught the last charred fragments of wreckage and drew them out
of sight.
The peasant watched it all in silence, as if waiting for some new
sorcery of the _Firengi_, from his high bank of the Karun--that
snow-born river bound for distant palms, that had seen so many
generations of the faces of men, so many of the barks to which men
trust their hearts, their hopes, their treasures, as it wound, century
after century, from the mountains to the sea.
Then, at last, the peasant folded his hands anew and bowed his head
toward Mecca.
[Illustration]
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.