IN THE SHADOW OF THE TEMPLE
That day was the one Edith finished her sewing. The new garment was
complete. Alone in the stone room, safe behind the canopy, the girl
surveyed it with brightened eyes. She held in her hand a complete Sayak
dress, modeled after those brought by Aravang at her request.
This was the task that had kept her busy. Donovan, with a man's
ignorance of such matters, had not noticed the character of the
garment. Now, making sure that she was unwatched, Edith slipped out of
her old dress into the new.
Putting on a heavy _yashmak_ and placing another veil across her tawny
hair, the girl surveyed herself in the mirror. To all intents, except
for her gray eyes, she appeared one of the women of Yakka Arik. To add
to the effect, she touched eyebrows and eyelids with _kohl_, likewise
obtained from the obedient Aravang. She still wore the slippers
instead of her shoes. The long, black outer garment, which covered the
thin shirt and Oriental trousers, fell to her feet and concealed her
much-darned silk stockings.
Edith draped several pretty necklaces--gifts from Donovan--about her
throat and felt that her masquerade was complete. Then she tiptoed to
the door. The hall was silent, and she saw that the outer court with
its tiny garden was empty. The Sayaks were either in the mosque or on
the way there.
Seeing this, the girl slipped through a postern door in the wall into
the larger flower garden beside the house. Once there, she advanced
boldly into the path that ran through the village, her little slippers
patting the dust diligently until she remembered her new part and
endeavored to walk like one of the native women she had watched from
the balcony.
Perhaps the attempt was not altogether successful. Edith's young body
had never been obliged to bear such burdens as grain sacks, or her
head a water jar. But nearly all the women and children of the valley
were in the temple. It was the hour before noon and only a handful of
belated men were hurrying along the paths, responsive to the wailing
call of the _muezzin_.
Edith was going to the mosque. She would see the man Donovan called
the _hadji_ and appeal to him to keep her friend from danger. Now that
she knew Donovan had aided the Sayaks she felt sure that this priest,
whatever his nature, would listen to her.
The thought of Donovan removed from her and in danger was intolerable
to this girl who had never loved before, but who now loved Donovan with
an abiding strength that was part of herself.
Edith skipped along anxious only to be within the temple. Then, as a
bent Usbek peasant, withered and toil-worn, glanced at her in some
surprise, she moderated her steps to a more sober gait. She did not
fear being spoken to. Observation had shown her that the strict privacy
of women, a rule among all Mohammedan races, obtained in the valley.
Iskander's tale had aroused her sympathy. She had come to
understand--or thought she had--the harassing life of the mountain
dwellers of Central Asia, the raids upon settlements by men of other
religious faiths, the counter-raids, the fierce religious zeal which
led men to slay each other.
But she did not know that Yakka Arik had been inviolate from the surges
of intertribal warfare, and this because of one thing. Fear. Nor was
she aware of the deep spirit of protection for their womenfolk that
dwelt in the hearts of the Sayaks.
Edith, because she did not understand, did not make allowance for the
code of these men--an eye for an eye, a blow for a blow, a life for a
life.
Her heart was beating clamorously as she slipped past scattered groups
of turbaned, swarthy men who scarcely looked at her, owing to the
general reluctance to gaze even upon a veiled woman who belonged to
another man.
So she walked slowly across the dusty space in front of the mosque. The
stone arch rose before her. Armed men, standing beside the gigantic
trumpets that Donovan had called the "horns of Jericho," looked down at
her grimly from the balcony over the entrance. For a second the girl
hesitated, feeling the eyes of the guards upon her.
For the first time she experienced an acute foreboding. Had the
watching sentinels who scrutinized each newcomer, fingering their
weapons, succeeded in penetrating her disguise?
Then she heard quick footsteps in the sand, and a tiny figure drew
near her, running toward the mosque. A Sayak child, seven or eight
years of age, had fallen behind the groups of older worshipers.
Realizing that her hesitation was attracting the attention of the
watchers, Edith took the hand of the boy and advanced beside him toward
the arch. He looked up at her playfully and trotted on manfully,
perceiving no difference in this tall woman from other Sayaks--glad, in
fact, of the aid of her hand.
A moment the clear sunlight gleamed on the white embroidery of her
headdress; then she passed into the shadow of the arch--and repressed
an involuntary cry. Some steps led into the door of the building
itself, within the arch, and on the lowest step a hooded Arab was
sitting, scimitar across his knee.
"Peace be with you," the man murmured, not ceasing to look at her.
Edith had often heard Donovan employ this salutation and its reply, but
as she fumbled for the Turki words in quick alarm, she heard the shrill
voice of the child.
"And upon you, also, be peace!"
With that, woman and child passed by the sentry of the steps and
entered the outer court where Edith was surprised to see a multitude
of slippers of all sizes and colors. While she wondered at this she
saw the boy remove his small footgear and go forward barefoot. She did
likewise, trusting to the gloom of the inner chambers to conceal her
stockings.
The murmur of a sonorous voice reached her. Edith advanced timidly
between great pillars and stood within the mosque itself. She saw a
lofty space, half in darkness, into which light descended from a single
aperture in the roof at the end opposite her. Slender, ornamented
pillars supported a balcony with a carved wooden rail. Gold and silver
ornaments lined the walls. The light reflected dully from broad gold
plates inscribed in a manner strange to Edith.
She had not known that the mosque, which must have been built actually
into a cleft in the face of the cliff, was so huge.
Directly in front of the ray of light that fell from the round opening
in the dome a turbaned priest in clean robes was reading from a heavy
volume, bound in iridescent silk, a gold chain running from the clasp
of the book to the neck of the reader. It was the voice of the priest
she had heard.
Facing the reader was a silent multitude. Each Sayak, man and woman
and child, knelt upon a small prayer rug. Edith had seen them carrying
these rolled strips of carpet to the mosque and wondered what they
might be. For a moment she feared they might notice that she carried no
rug.
But the eyes of the worshipers were fixed on the _hadji_. The girl drew
aside softly, walking forward along the side of the nave. Here she was
behind the Sayak ranks, and sheltered somewhat by the row of pillars
that supported the round balcony. The gloom was deeper in this spot. No
one saw the standing girl. While she listened to the sonorous voice,
quavering a trifle with age, she had the sensation of being present in
one of the old cathedrals of Europe.
Then she noticed for the first time the vapor. So lofty was the opening
in the dome and of such small extent that the ray of sunlight moved
steadily. When she entered, it had rested on the pages of the book;
then it passed over the priest. Now, while still resting upon him, it
touched a rising cloud that Edith had supposed to be incense.
Where the altar of a cathedral would have been placed there was a
raised latticework of metal--bronze, brightly polished, or gold. It
resembled the delicate marble kiosk of the garden of the stone house.
Through the apertures of the fretwork a cloud of heavy vapor swirled up.
So heavy was the vapor, it might have been steam. The mosque, in
fact, was warmed by it. Edith had fancied for a brief moment that it
was incense, rising from a gigantic censer. Then she recalled the hot
springs of the lower lake.
Evidently the mosque itself had been erected over one of the sources,
and the vapor welled from the hot depths of the water.
The sunlight had just reached the vapor when the priest ceased his
reading and lifted both lean arms. A high chant rose from his lips, and
he turned to face what Edith still fancied the white incense. And this
man, she felt, was the _hadji_ of whom Donovan had spoken.
"_Nuri Muhammed s'all Allah!_"
And the multitude responded:
"_La il' oha ill Allah!_"
As one, the heads bent downward toward the breasts of the worshipers.
Long folds of the white turbans were detached and laid over the left
shoulder. As if performing a well-learned ritual, certain lines of
Sayaks rose, with extended arms. Others remained kneeling.
The sight of the concentric rings of multicolored garments, the
intent faces, and the lifted hands made Edith draw back, fearful of
observation. Utter silence had fallen on the mosque.
In the silence, the worshipers appeared to be awaiting something. She
saw that they were gazing at the vapor. By now Edith realized that this
was no ordinary Mohammedan mosque.
And then she saw John Donovan.
In the intervals between the Sayak lines he was walking, looking
closely at the figures of the kneeling women.
No one molested Donovan. Apparently he was entitled to enter the
mosque. Edith felt that he had missed her, and had come to seek her.
Then the lines of standing men began to move from side to side. One
voice, then another, took up a refrain:
"_Hai--hai! Allah, hai!_"
They placed their lifted hands on the shoulders of their comrades and
swayed their bodies in cadence.
They seemed to be moving toward her.
"_Hai--hai! Allah, hai!_"
It was a low chant that rose and echoed against the lofty dome. It grew
into a rush of sound, in which the echoes were lost. Edith felt the
beat of the passionate cry grip her senses.
Donovan did not halt. He pushed through the moving men toward her
position. The chant changed, as the men formed into long, sinuous lines
that circled before the priest and the ray of sunlight.
"_Yah hai yah Allah. Allah Akbar!_"
At this the white man quickened his steps. He almost ran down the side
of the nave, looking sharply into the shadows. Edith wanted to call to
him, but did not dare. A few moments before she would have wished to
keep her disguise a secret. Clothed as she was, how was Donovan to know
her?
Yet she wanted him to recognize her. She felt the need of his
protection, understanding how reckless she had been in coming. And when
he halted to peer at her, she drew a deep breath.
For a long moment John Donovan was a man of stone, so keenly he
scrutinized every detail of her clothing and figure. The girl trembled
in the effort to keep from speaking. Then he stepped casually nearer to
one of the pillars and leaned against it with folded arms.
"Edith, why in the world did you come here?"
"I came--to see the priest, to try to end this war with the Vulture,"
she whispered.
At that Donovan turned away, so that she could not make out whether he
was angered or not.
"Wait," she caught his answering whisper, "until the Sayaks have passed
out. The women would see through you."
His face was expressionless as he watched the actions of the priest.
Edith saw that the sun's ray had fallen full on the swirling vapor.
Color, limitless, impalpable, iridescent, flooded the vapor. A haze of
shimmering green and purple and red hung from dome to well. It was as
if a veil of supernatural softness and beauty had been dropped from the
sky.
And in the heart of the steaming vapor the _hadji_ had taken his
stand. He had ascended the gold fretwork by some hidden steps and now
stood on the top of the grille, with clouds of steam rising on all
sides of him.