The streets were empty even for that hour. Scavenger dogs slept undisturbed in every spot of shade. The persons they encountered seemed to have no business, but stood about in groups conversing glumly. On the wide, dusty square before the railway station groups were many. A little crowd beset the station doors. These were all closed, to Barakah’s amazement. The building looked deserted.
“Ask when the next train starts for the sea-coast,” she ordered her attendant, who addressed a shout to persons standing near.
“The sea-coast? Allah knows! It may be never!” The reply was shrugged. “A great fight has taken place. The end has come. The English fell upon the camp at daybreak—yesterday or this morning, Allah knows! The rebel army was dispersed like chaff. The leader—the arch-traitor—escaped hither on an engine, and is in the town now somewhere, herding with his kind. It is clearly seen how foully he deceived us, seducing us from our allegiance with the promise of success.”
“Praise be to Allah that his reign is ended,” said another. “If the English were but true believers, one would bless them.”
“Nay, the tidings are not certain,” cried a third with anguish.
“As certain as the sun is hot upon my reins this minute. I have it from a man who saw Arâbi. The rascal’s face was yellow as a corpse.”
Barakah’s mind received no more than the initial statement. The way that she had meant to take was closed against her.
“Whither, my lady?” asked the donkey-boy, with willing smile.
“Far, far away—towards the sea-coast. Anywhere!”