All at once, the silence of the night was broken by a distant fusillade of shots, and Azza halted suddenly.
They had reached one of the wider streets, which leads to the gate of Sokko.
Far along the street there was a glare of many torches, swaying, moving, advancing.
Frank wondered what it could mean, and questioned his guide.
“Look, and you shall see,” said Azza, drawing the boy still farther back, so that they might readily step into the shadow of a wall and let the torches pass.
Frank did look, and he saw a surging crowd of human beings, revealed by the flaring torchlight, which flickered over their dusky faces. They were dressed grotesquely in cloaks and robes and winding garments, and all seemed greatly excited. Now and then they fired into the air with muskets and pistols.
Dogs were barking, there were sounds of plaintive music, and the great throng kept up a droning and nasal chant, now and then broken by strident cries.
Near the van of the procession was a coal-black horse, fiery and headstrong, held in check by the powerful Arabs who walked on either side. On the back of the horse was something in the shape of an upright coffin.
Frank gazed at this strange procession with interest and wonder.
“What does it mean?” he asked. “Is it a funeral?”