“Listen,” she said, lifting her hand.
The voice of another mueddin now rang out across the city. Marguerite rose.
“This lighted square just above our heads, Paul, is just beneath his feet. Let us give him no cause to wonder.”
She put out the candles and returned to Paul Ravenel’s side. They sat together in the darkness, huddled against one another, whilst the companions of the sick followed one another upon the high minaret of the Karouein mosque.
Once, twice when some stray cries broke the silence Paul whispered eagerly.
“It is beginning,” and as silence followed upon the cries. “No! No!” he added in a dull voice, a voice of disappointment.
“Paul, you wish it to begin!” said Marguerite in wonder, and she tried to distinguish the expression of his face, even though the darkness showed her nothing but the silhouette of his head.
“It will be the sooner over,” said Paul quickly. “The revolt can’t last long in any case. There’s a strong column in the field just south of Meknes. A call from the wireless and four days will bring them here.”
But there was another reason why with all his soul he prayed to hear the still night break up in a clatter of firing and fierce cries. If the revolt began to-night, why then he himself had been caught in it, had been forced to seek a refuge, had been unable to regain his post. Who could gainsay him? All was saved—Marguerite and honour too. Whereas if the morning came and Fez was still at peace and his appointed place empty—then some other man must fill it. But the voices on the minaret rang out in music above their heads, until Marguerite said: “This is the last. It is he who raises the flag over the mosque. In half an hour we shall have the dawn.”