Mustapha's hand was on her arm. The guardian, too, had risen from his
knees and drawn from his robe and lit a candle. She came to a tiny
doorway, passed through it and began to mount a winding stair. The sound
of prayer mounted with her from the mosque, and when she came out upon
the platform enclosed in the summit of the minaret she heard it still
and it was multiplied. For all the voices from the outside courts joined
it, and many voices from the roofs of the houses round about.
Men were praying there too, praying in the glare of the sun upon their
housetops. She saw them from the minaret, and she saw the town that had
sprung up round the tomb of the saint, and all the palms of the oasis,
and beyond them immeasurable spaces of desert.
"Allah-Akbar! Allah-Akbar!"
She was above the eternal cry now. She had mounted like a prayer towards
the sun, like a living, pulsing prayer, like the soul of prayer. She
gazed at the far-off desert and saw prayer travelling, the soul
of prayer travelling--whither? Where was the end? Where was the
halting-place, with at last the pitched tent, the camp fires, and the
long, the long repose?
* * * * *
When she came down and reached the court she found the old man still
striking at the mosque and shrieking out his trembling imprecation.
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