THE NIGHT OF PRAYER.
As the night came on and the glorious moon rose high into the heavens,
bathing all in its silvery rays, the very beauty of the scene made our
friends forget the horrors of the night before. They had assembled in
the garden, and the swinging chairs, as they were moved slowly backward
and forward by the attendants, were conducive to rest and comfort. They
were far enough removed from the lake to be entirely free from any
suggestions which its busy scenes might make.
Near Enola stood the great white elephant, which she rode on all
journeys, its huge body towering into the air and nearly touching the
lower boughs of the trees. This elephant had become so attached to Enola
that it seemed happy only when with her, and she had requested of Onrai
that he allow “Gip,” as she had named it, to come into the garden while
they were there. He had now taken hold of the rope with his trunk and
was swinging the chair as carefully as could be done by the attendants.
Occasionally he would let out that peculiar cry so much like an
infant’s, when Enola would hand him one of the sweets which she always
had about her when he was near.
Several of the zebras were also grazing in the garden and the deer,
which were numerous, would come up now and then, and with their great
liquid eyes, gaze into the faces of our friends. There was no timidity
in these animals, for they were all treated so kindly, and had so long
been made pets of, that all fear of the human form had left them.
The lofty trees, the flower-bedecked garden with the animals wandering
through it, the perfumed air, the pink onyx villa in the background, the
silk-robed party swinging lazily to and fro, the attendants standing
near, and above all, the glorious moon, made an enchanting scene.
Suddenly, as if in a dream, too faint almost to be heard, was wafted on
the evening breeze a strain as sweet and indistinct as the low melody of
an Æolian harp. Onrai half rose and as the music grew stronger he became
erect, and bowing his head, almost whispered, “’Tis the night of
prayer.”
The attendants discontinued the swinging of the chairs and also bowed
their heads. Our friends, half aroused from the sweet languor into which
they had fallen, looked with wondering eyes at Onrai. The exquisite
music was coming nearer and nearer, and now could be discerned
harmonious voices mingling with the strains of the harp. On and on they
came, the music growing louder and stronger, but losing none of its
sweetness. Onrai and the attendants still stood with bowed heads, and in
a subdued voice, Onrai was evidently repeating a prayer. So impressive
was the beautiful music and the devout attitude of those about them, our
friends were deeply moved, and had now also arisen and were standing
with bent heads and clasped hands, breathing a prayer.
Now those who were making such sweet music had reached the villa, and
our friends raising their eyes, looked upon a picture. Standing in the
foreground, with his arm thrown over the neck of the zebra, from which
he had dismounted, and holding in one hand a shepherd’s hook, was a
white-robed priest. Grouped in a semicircle about him, were a number of
maidens all carrying tiny torches. Back of them was a body of men, and
still further in the background were the elephants and zebras which had
brought the party from the city.
As they stood there, Onrai approached and spoke to the priest in the
native tongue. Then, with the King leading, they went direct to the
villa and entered.
“How strange,” said Enola, when Onrai with his visitors had left them
alone.
“Strange indeed,” said Mr. Graham. “Can it be that they bring unexpected
news from the city?”
“It is hard to tell,” said Mr. Bruce. “But I think not. It is evidently
a celebration of one of their religious rites. From the solemn
proceedings I should say that this was so.”
Just then Onrai was seen approaching them and when he was directly
opposite, he said:
“’Tis the night of prayer, come;” and turning, he retraced his steps
with our friends following.
They were led through the wide hall to a spacious apartment in the rear.
This apartment was the exact counterpart of the large devotional chamber
in the Temple, but somewhat smaller. Subdued lights were placed at
frequent intervals about the sides of the apartment, and others hung
from the lofty ceiling. In the centre was a wide, crescent-shaped
platform, and standing about its base were those who had so recently
come from the city.
As the King entered with our party the natives commenced playing on
their native harps, and the low, sweet music penetrated to the very
souls of our friends. Onrai led them to the platform on which seats had
been placed; then the priest also mounted the platform, and facing the
King, commenced reading in the native tongue from one of the polished
tablets of wood. He then passed this to the King and he, arising, read
from it the same inscription. Then the priest raised his hand, and all
joined in a chant, the maidens accompanying the voices on the harps. It
was solemn but grand and very impressive. The chant ended, the priest
again turned toward the King and began speaking, the maidens in the
meanwhile playing a sweet refrain on the harps. The priest having
finished speaking, the King arose, turned his face heavenward and
prayed:
“God our Father, God of the Heavens and earth, God of On, God of all, as
the flowers turn their faces to the great orb of day, so we on this
night of prayer, turn our faces to Thee. O God, we know that all
blessings come from Thee and we thank Thee. We thank Thee for the
fertile fields, the green pastures, the silvery waters, the shady
forest, the life-giving sun of day, the soft-lighted moon and cool
breezes of the night. We feel Thy presence O God, we know that Thou art
near us. Still be with us and when our time has come take us home to
Thee, our God, our Father.”
Onrai ceased praying and the sweet voices and the music of the harps
again broke forth. Now the voices grew fainter, the music more subdued,
the lights growing dimmer and dimmer. Now the voices were almost
whispering, the strains of music are dying, dying, the lights are
flickering. At last all is hushed and dark. Suddenly the Temple was
flooded with brilliant light, a glorious grand flood of song and music
burst forth. More brilliant becomes the light, louder and grander grows
the music, as if from a thousand voices, as if from a thousand harps.
Now comes a troop of maidens robed in shimmering white, singing and
playing. Lightly they trip over the polished floor, their forms swaying
and their limbs bending gracefully as they dance.
Our friends hold their breath for fear of losing one strain of the sweet
music; they lean forward eagerly to catch every movement of the willowy
figures. All is grand beyond conception. The music becomes more
soul-stirring, the dance grows quicker, the lights blinding in their
brilliancy. Our friends arise in their eagerness to see and hear. ’Tis
glorious!
Suddenly the maidens leave the room, the song and music cease, the
lights are darkened. ’Tis over.
The night of prayer with its grand and imposing ceremonies had passed,
and now the party had again assembled and were partaking of the morning
meal preparatory to starting on the day’s journey. It was yet very
early, for in this equatorial climate the journeys had to be taken in
the cool of the mornings and evenings. The sun’s rays in the middle of
the day were too hot to withstand. Through the open door could be seen
the elephants and zebras trapped and waiting for the start. Nearby
stood, not only the attendants, but also the party which had arrived the
night before. Turning to Onrai, Enola asked:
“Are those who came from the city also to accompany us, Onrai?”
“Yes,” answered Onrai, “it is essential that they should go with us, for
we shall not have returned to the city before the night of prayer shall
have again come, and on this night we must have a priest and
attendants.”